Does this count as another stab at science-fiction? Not sure. The concepts are certainly in there. It’s something, none the less.
By Nick Bryan
Professor Sharp took a few steps back, sweating in the heat, and looked at his creation. It had taken him seven years, a number of false starts and a missing leg, not to mention a finger, but he had finally created the genuine ray gun.
Modelled after all the science fiction books and drawings of his youth, it had a sharp muzzle, in fact the whole theme was unmistakably triangular. He’d polished the metal until it gleamed, to make sure the air of science fiction beauty was unmistakable.
Admittedly, the shinier his new creation became, the more it stood out against the rest of his laboratory space. He’d poured most of his funds into keeping the weapon beautiful, purchasing enough laser components to give it a real kick., and meanwhile the workbenches were rotting in summer damp.
It had taken a lot of hard work to forge all the necessary paperwork to register himself as six different fake laser eye surgeons, but now he had all the zap crap he could ever need. And at last, he had done it. His very own high-powered laser death ray.
Not that he knew what to do with it. That was the really stupid thing. Sharp wouldn’t hurt a fly. He didn’t want a death ray so he could kill things. He just thought they looked cool.
He picked his creation up and hefted it at a workbench. But no, he couldn’t even bring himself to annihilate a wooden item of furniture that was already rotting. Pathetic.
But it was still hot in here. Very deliberately not thinking about it too hard, Sharp turned to face the tiny window and pulled the trigger. Not being used to firing weapons, he flew off his feet, as the massive unprecedented blast ripped out of one spindly hand.
He kept hold of the gun, but ended up smashing his body straight through that damp-ridden workbench. Thankfully all the sharp tools had been put away, Sharp was very safety conscious.
However, he had also successfully created a huge hole at one end of his dingy warehouse, around three times the size of the original window. As he felt the cool breeze begin to roll over his face, he mentally marked this experiment off as a success.
Written by me, no stealing, y’know, that sort of thing.