The jagged geometric lines crossed and layered and met. Each time one was drawn, another section of the screen fell away, another space filled, another colour flickering in the dark room. At an even pace, within a few minutes, the area would be a palette of violently bright pixels. The process was being recorded. It would be transposed onto a film of the latest models in production and shown at the next conference.
BBC Computers – National Museum of Computing
Patrick gingerly ventured into the empty building. The door hadn’t been too difficult to budge. His hands felt grubby from the layered cobwebs and dust. Up the stairs and to the left. No clocking in this time. His old desk still sat in the small dank office, the door was ajar, his name etched on a bronze plaque. Patrick Flint, Manager. He hadn’t worked since.
TEXT: It reminded her of the anderson shelter that used to be at the bottom of the garden. The shelter was her den when she was little. The family moved away from the house when she was 7, and for the first time, she wondered if the den was still there. They had chopped down the silver birch that her sister had planted as soon as they settled in, so it wasn’t very likely.
TEXT: The carpark hadn’t been used for a long time. Anyone that drove in, drove out. No one wanted to leave their valuable car in the vacuous space. There were a few cameras, but Giles knew where they were placed, and knew how to avoid them. He had lived there for 2 years now. The 4th floor was his rooftop terrace. If the weather was nice, he would make a hot cup of coffee on his camping stove, take it to the top of the building and survey the city. It was a concrete castle, and he was king.
Frank feverishly counted the missing tiles. Starting with the first row, he knelt on the urine steeped pavement, and traced the walls with his fingertips. He would write to the council, and tell them exactly how many pieces were missing.