Ray Bradbury had two fascinations: machinery, and flight. He has always adored the flying machines of old but alas, no stitchpunk has ever unravelled the secret to it. The only machine that seemed to know the secrets of flying in these dark times was the B.R.A.I.N. and it wasn't going to share anytime soon. Even now he could see those floating spotlights hovering around the factory. He shivered, trying to get one of those just to find the secret of flight was suicide. But there was something else, something down on the street just around the corner. His curiosity kicked in; whatever it was, it wasn't walking, its movements were too fluid.
"Well, what do we have here?" He said as he pulled out his spyglass.
He looked down in the direction to see if the creature would come back
.and it did.
." Ray said in awe, for the creature was a mechanical fly, and it was flying.
Ray could hardly contain himself. It was a flying machine, and it was so close to home.