Fizzbarren nodded at the simmer of the gears, tapping in a few granules of pearlized newt saliva. Only a few. One. Two. There. The solution didn’t look any different, but it was. It was enough. He carefully attached the electrodes to the plating solution. It was his last set of gears.
“You must admit that this is a very drastic reaction,” the mirror attempted to speak rationally to Master Fizzbarren. “Every writer has writer’s block once in a while.”
Fizzbarren grunted, but otherwise ignored the mirror. One last try to make the final module. If this didn’t work, he’d be hocking his chemistry equipment for a new typewriter. He hated the thought of having to resort to another trite tale just to keep the lights on. If he read one more review, he’d lose his mind. He wasn’t quite as crazy as his animations thought he was.
“I’ve explored some other writer’s abodes,” the mirror continued, his surface displaying den after den like a PowerPoint display. “I believe that they have several methods of relieving the malady that might be less… extreme.”
