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Michael Scott Bricker
He dreamed of the robot again. It was a god of gears, a noble destroyer, a square-jawed Art Deco aluminum-skinned engine birthed from an age of industry. It stared coldly through the quarries of its toaster face as it clanked along, and then it stopped, turned, and pushed through the hungering flames. Towers of paper and glue burned from the top down like cigarettes, and the electric dusk, warmed by swaying bulbs suspended from the impossibly high ceiling, sizzled and dimmed as the power began to fail. High roads on pillars, high-ways, carried dozens of toy streamlined automobiles, entirely white like the sterile landscape that they invaded.
|What I Write||
Excerpt from the novel that I recently finished.
I’ve sold stories to professionally to several anthologies and am working on a new novel.
Write at least three pages per day on the new novel that I am working on.
Graduate of both Clarion and Clarion West. Please support our writers.