Prompt 136
There is a small child floating in the Watchtower.
They’re visibly not human, a too-big cloak of purple (what shade no one knows, all they can describe about the cloak is purple, nothing else) hanging from them as big Lazarus-green eyes glare down in something of a pout. The child huffs, blowing white hair out of their face despite it shimmering and shifting on its own already.
How the child, inhuman or not, found their way into the Watchtower- without setting off an alarm no less- is a concern. A very large concern, but it can wait because there is a four-year old (if the child is the equivalent of a human child that is) at oldest staring down at them.
“Do you know where the speedsters are?” the child piped up after an awkward stare-down, none of the league members present quite sure what to do in this situation. It was probably around time to call Batman… or they could call Flash instead.
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To Him.
i hated that i was always the poet and never the poem.
but whenever i hear your name from across the room,
my gut wrenches with emotions I've never known.
i tell myself you don't feel that way, but oh that look in your eyes..
tired of being the poet, but you make my heart fill with melodies, imprinting
like ink on paper, your gaze on me,
my heart, oh painted with a color redder than art.
oh dear dear lord, if this is love, then in it im lost all apart.
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Yet more flintlock-powered weirdness...
...to accompany the flintlock tinderboxes and gun-lamps shown here.
@man-and-atom added this reply:
In the field of "bedside flintlock mechanisms", either the British Museum or the V&A has an alarm clock where the alarm was the explosion of a charge of gunpowder.
First thought: "Whaaat?"
Second thought: "But of course..."
Third thought: "PICTURES!"
*****
This one seems fairly simple:
As far as I can make out there'd be just (!) the snap of the lock, a cloud of impossible-to-ignore-the-smell smoke, and the lid popping up to reveal the clock-face.
Later designs seem to have become standardised as a light-up alarm.
The flintlock action not only produces that snap and cloud of smoke, it also ignites a candle which then pops up.
At a guess, the inside of the lid would be kept brightly polished as a reflector.
Engraved or plain, the mechanism alone meant these were elaborate, expensive contraptions, so not for everyone - and anyway, I'm sure an elderly retired officer just LOVED being woken by a scent with such delightful associations.
I love the smell of black powder in the morning.
It's the smell of...
*****
Ending on a lighter (hah!) note, @dduane looked at this and asked, "Did they have flintlock tea-makers?"
It turns out that no, they didn't; but it can't have been for want of trying because well over 100 years ago (1902) an inventor came up with this:
Once again, as far as I can make out it worked like this: the alarm-clock worked a spring, which struck a match, which lit a spirit-burner under the kettle, which started to heat the water.
A few minutes later the alarm-clock rang its bell, waking the sleeper who, when the kettle was properly boiling, tilted it so the water went into the teapot.
About 30 years later the first electrical Teasmade was invented:
Here we go: alarm clock turns kettle on, water boils, pressure forces water into teapot, kettle on a rocker plate gets lighter so loss of weight switches it off, now-heavy teapot on other side of rocker plate starts a pre-set brewing timer which when done switches on the light and an alarm sound.
Simple.
Later models were much less fussy in appearance, but worked in exactly the same way:
My parents, of course, never bothered with a gadget to make their early morning tea.
All they needed was a regular alarm-clock...
...and me.
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