andyroozle
The dinosaur's jaws opened wide, teeth glaring in the dawn glow, and froze. It was a mirthful morning at the Bentley Museum. People bustled about, chatting and recollecting fond memories from days past.
The red clover swayed in the breeze. Small enough to avoid the leaping legs of Timothy and Magdaline, but large enough for Aunt Jenna to snap a a quick photo to admire in later years.
Iron mask cloak the hatred and spite engulfing the lives of the workers. They are not free men, as was promised, but instead are slaves to the Abundance's wim. They can do nothing but what they are asked to. They are The Workers.
Little circles of joy, wrapped in themselves, without thoughts, without tastes, likes and dislikes, without its favorite sandwich or a Twitter account or the greatest pair of sandals in the world or an iPhone 4.
The robot fell on top of her, a it a lifeless chunk of steel and brass, her a energetic, albeit terrified teenager. She shoved it off of her and got up, brushing off her shoulder.