Burning fat greases the air around the factory. Black pillars of smoke chug into the sky. Thousands of people stand in long queues before the gaping entrance.
'What does it make?' says the boy.
The man nods to the glimmer in the grey distance. 'Time,' he says. 'It makes time. Belt feeds it from the back there and across that plain where it is devoured. We're fast running out and this is the only factory that can make more.'
The boy frowns. 'How do they make time?'
The man points at the crowds before the entrance. 'They're not workers lad.' The man sniffs the sour air. 'They're what goes in. Time is what comes out.'
Paddy Dobson
16th October 2021