Gemotions

The workshop felt oppressively small, the air thick with the scent of soldering flux and unrealized dreams. Arthur slammed his fist onto the workbench, scattering a carefully arranged collection of gears. His own "self-adjusting spanner," designed to fit any bolt, sat discarded in a corner, gathering dust. Across town, Harold's "universal wrench," a near carbon copy, was selling like hotcakes. He’d seen the television commercials, the smiling Harold touting its genius. Arthur gnawed on his lip, the metallic taste a familiar companion to his frustration.

His hands fidgeted, picking up a discarded spring and twisting it obsessively. He'd poured his heart, his savings, his very sanity into that spanner. Now, it was just another would-be-invention lost to the patent wars. He grabbed a rag, scrubbing furiously at his workbench, as if trying to erase the very memory of his creation.