When her finger left, it was no longer just a plastic, black ashtray. It was a golden ashtray.

The midas touch.
The midas touch.

“Listen, Odys, if I say you don’t need something, you don’t. I can’t lie to you. Let me show you why you don’t need a job.”

She retracted her hand and raised an inveigling forefinger. Her eyes searched around the room, pinpointing his hallowed ashtray. “Observe, please.” She gestured to the somewhat-filthy thing. She placed her finger on the dimpled rim and traced it. When her finger left, it was no longer just a plastic, black ashtray. It was a golden ashtray.

“Solid as can be,” she added, handing it to him for corroboration. He took it, his hand falling from the unexpected weight. His jaw dropped. He didn’t even care about the butts falling to his lap.

She shrugged it off as if to say, Meh, it pays the bills. “Every atom—molecule—whatever-the-hell—equivalently changed. Don’t ask me how it works. Moreover, don’t expect me to always be able to do it. I have to use energy for this sort of thing—like forming clothes. Just look at me, panting. Also, when we pawn it they’ll ask where you got it. If they don’t the first time, they will the second. I can turn things into any metal you like, but selling the stuff can get tricky. But don’t worry, we’ll find ways. Welders love my work.” She watched Odys place the tray back on the coffee table, as if it was an explosive device. “Just be thankful I didn’t turn the couch solid gold, Odys. Would’ve fallen through the floor.”

From THE AUTOMATION

[“BLA and GB Gabbler” (really just a pen name) are the Editor and Narrator behind THE AUTOMATION, vol. 1 of the Circo del Herrero series. They are on facebook, twitter, tumblr, and goodreads.]

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We’ve quoted this before, but…

“It is significant that in Homer the smith of the gods is lame, and the poet among men is blind. That may be how the thing began. The defectives, who are no use as hunters or warriors, may be set aside to provide both necessaries and recreation for those who are.”

– C.S. Lewis, “Good Work and Good Works.”

Chekov, on why over half our novel takes place in an apartment:

In real life people don’t spend every minute shooting each other, hanging themselves and making confessions of love. They don’t spend all the time saying clever things. They’re more occupied with eating, drinking, flirting and talking stupidities – and these are the things which ought to be shown on the stage. A play should be written in which people arrive, go away, have dinner, talk about the weather and play cards. Life must be exactly as it is, and people as they are – not on stilts… Let everything on the stage be just as complicated, and at the same time just as simple, as it is in life. People eat their dinner, just eat their dinner, and all the time their happiness is being established or their lives are being broken up.

Granted, there is a shooting, hanging, and confession of love in THE AUTOMATION. But it’s not every minute.

BLA wanted me to point out that you can be just as stranded in an apartment as you can at sea. Hashtag, Odysseus.