Flash Fiction

The museum exhibit moved very, very slowly. It seemed it was, as was often the case, trapped in time. If you stood directly in front of it for the whole of a full days opening hours without even a natural break it would not be possible to detect it’s movement. But it was definitely moving, because if you had been present at the museum as long as the pale grey curator you would know that the exhibit, referred to by the staff as Dead Adam, had moved at least four feet from the place where it had been originally located.

By chance, the brittle, pale grey curator happened upon an undercover team of investigative journalists and encouraged them to secretly film Dead Adam.

They applied all their skills and time-lapse photography to the absorbing problem. After what appeared to be several months of inactivity or at least only moving film cases back and forth the team of least while detectives whose number had wildly increased called on the careful, brittle, pale grey curator in his private chambers at the museum.

As he opened the door to them, they all became animated at once, like bees of a hive, with a single purpose. They wanted him to come with them. In the museums Art Deco cafeteria now an impromptu film house they sat him eagerly in the front row. As the film ran it became clear that Dead Adam was moving. But not only was it obvious that there was movement, it was also plain that there were clearly associated sounds. After a further week of careful dedicated work the team had the disparate sounds coalesced into a single voice and the voice said. “Where the fuck is Eve?” In a quiet corner of the museum the curator giggled.