Writing Prompt: A man has managed to created a time machine, and now he will undergoing a mission where the future of humanity hangs on: to copy the entire Library of Alexandria and bring it to the present
“Thank God for men,” she said, to the last of the sunset.
Her eyes closed to the cool breeze. Men like him. Smart men. Men proud in their countenance in good white coats. The well-presented man. Dreaming men. Men for whom a whole world would beckon. First steps, of The First Man. The genius man, maestro, the physicist. The inventor.
Of the time machine. Thank God for Beasley. Thank God for the fixing of a broken world, her eyes now open to lightning on black hills to the East, dark clouds, steaming acidic rain. How to recompense, to repay beyond glory? To serve him. Thank deeply from the bottom the gift of his saviour.
An arrowhead of birds shot overhead. It was rain on the way. Alexandria opened her umbrella, stepped up the old concrete to the shelter of the town hall’s portico.
How did he know?
And then, he was there. Specs and lapels and shining shoes that were dry in the rain. Time enough for a nod: thunder to a moment, gone in the bright of the strike.
She sighed, looked away, thought longing of sucking his dick. The great dick of a Great Man. See his eyes, down, on her; her swallow’s gratitude, for the thankful reward of his smile’s grace.
Empty streets a blur to the cobblestone up from her door. Past dead grass, charred garden, through once-blue paint a peeling grey.
“I’m home,” to the acrylic of her grandmother on the wall, the first of them, her recent concern now a wide satisfaction. “He did it, grandma.”
The books he’d left a disorder in the back room. A man whose feats had no creed for the tidy. Her chance, then. An opportunity for bare a gesture to show him her love. Serve her hero by the cleaning of this, but one ring of his manacle. A women’s job, after all.
The Book, returned, already open to the right page, there on the podium; her melody soon heard through open windows down far the inclement of night; beastly shadows above the clouds then coiling, blow of her imprecation upon them sharp, and precise.
Breathless seconds. And their monstrous screams descended fast from the heavens, a lone jettison of flame one last relent before their giant bodies crashed to the earth.
The time witch, she knew, would be found. Beasley would find her, cast of her spell no match for the hand of a remarkable Him.
The kettle bubbled to a boil, and Alexandria smiled. Beasley, inventor, time traveller… her infinite superior. That he did what she, nor any woman, could ever do.