A New Beginning

What the Future Might Hold

The quotidian eventide wash-and-rinse now includes an intramuscular injection, which you prepare by reassembling the syringe, hollow needle to chamber, hub to nozzle. Complementary beakers help you measure the correct volumes of remedy, salt, and boiled water. You dissolve the two former in the latter and fill up the chamber. The procedure is concluded by a gentle tap-tap of your fingernail, followed by a light push on the piston flange to remove trapped air. Thereupon you, basins, supplies, concoctions, and the ready-to-use syringe find their way to the enfeebled patient.

The prick of the needle, third one today, rouses naught a response, however, the moment you begin to inject the remedy you hear the faintest a grunt telltale of displeasure. With a motion as intrinsic as the perpetual gnaw of dread you rid a washcloth of excess water and dab the moist textile against Arthur's clammy skin, to which he lets out a hushed groan that sounds almost like a purr, reminiscent of the night you'd shared his tent. The night you gave him comfort and warmth, to which he-

Your eyes burn and you choke down a sob. You swipe the full length of the back of your hand along the rim of your eyes, sick of the ambush of flowing tears! A loud sniffle and another swipe ensues, this time with your palm, then you take a deep breath. Crying your eyes out – again, won't do any good, least of all Arthur. Nothing can, aside from perchance this alleged medicine of tomorrow, or rather, the century. You hope – you fear – no! Churning the same noxious concoction of sanguinity and dread in your head for the six hundredth time will do naught but bring forth anxiety and hurt anew, of which you've had your share aplenty.

Speaking of innovations of the century, uncle Bry had mentioned the world fair, or funfair for book-folk, a colloquial yet oddly apt appellation. The Exposition Universelle, opened but a few days ago.

"Imagine being there," you start with a lilt of exhilaration. Then you pause, promptly and impromptu revamping the ensuing narrative to mock-mimic a bona fide announcer to your grand audience of one insentient soul, biting your lip as a sweetly-tickling surge of impish mischief rush through your skin like tidal waves in shallow water. To an affected, overly-extravagant presenter's voice you fan out your arm as to engage an imaginary crowd. "At the world fair in Paris, celebrating last century's advancements in technology, innovations, and other triumphs, in accordance with accelerating twentieth century's advancement of new and exciting hoobajoob-thingamabobs."

A grand audience of one, excluding, of course, an undisclosed number of spiders in an equally undisclosed number of crinkles, hollows, and corners not caring an iota about you, your antics, Arthur, his affliction nor its conclusion, or anything that is not food or a threat. You kind of wish you were a spider... Then again, they eat flies for dinner and kill their mate so maybe not.

The overt, melodramatic theatrical prompts forth a chortle. Concomitantly, the recollection of the last time spiders-in-a-corner had crossed your mind has heat rising your cheeks. You wet and twist the cloth anew and dab the moist fabric along Arthur's face, temple to temple, your head spinning with all you've heard of the newly opened Expo, talk, announcements, and rumors.

"This century will be the century of locomotion, mark my words. Why? I hear you ask." You straighten and, grinning to yourself ear-to-ear, flex your index in the air. "I've heard talk of moving sidewalks, labor-saving devices moving by themselves, moving pictures, with synchronized sound no less, even moving stairs. Escalators, I think they're called. A blend of the words stair and elevator, if I'm to hazard a guess. Can you imagine, taking the stairs from first to top floor without using your legs! Just you wait, the twentieth century will see automobile buckboards and stagecoaches that move by themselves. In not too long, we won't be needing horses no more."