Robert Whiting In search of awesome

Dr. Moreau


Dr. Moreau erased the blackboard vigorously. His mind cascaded emotions in waves of frustration, anticipation, annoyance, eagerness, and pride. He was a professor, but unlike the white haired, dried up, coots, he was still in his prime–or nearly anyway.

He knew that they laughed at him behind his back, and it was all because he had dreams and ambitions beyond tenure and the occasional bonus for letting some brat graduate for no reason except his rich parents couldn’t stand the idea of their precious little mutton failing out in their senior year. They were jealous because he had a real project that would make him famous, and they would be exposed for the meaningless husks that they were. Which was probably why they so conveniently forgot to get him an aid to erase his stupid boards.

But none of that mattered, everything was in place, and by this afternoon, he’d in another place and in another time.

He slammed down the eraser and a chalk cloud billowed up behind him as he grabbed his leather satchel and slid a pile of papers off his desk and into the bag. He walked quickly down the hallways, his mind retraced the five year project that sat in his apartment. Calculation was everything.

Part way down the street he, couldn’t stand his own stride–and he broke into a run. A few blocks later, he slowed back to a jog. It would be ok, he would have all the time in the world.

He walked up the stairs to his second story apartment above a bakery. Hardly the kind of place a professor should live, but he had to divert most of his meager income to his project.

Bursting through the door, he locked the door’s 4 deadbolts. Then, stepping to the living room, he pulled the sheet from his project.

His time machine.

Death of Maurice => Upon arrival