| 1 2 3 4 |
"The Clock" (the thirty-eighth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
5 6 7 8 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Clock" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), November 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Clock by mrwrleft@yahoo.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Objects and events... Reality's denizens Loom into consciousness. Pressed by their gravity My pen swings heavy Across the page Relentless. Indifferent. Like the pendulum of time. And a thought Engages me. Whirls through my apathy A gyroscope in the mist Spinning Counter-clockwise. Unexpected Like a churchbell At midnight. A short, sharp breath Between the ticking seconds A realizing whelms And swells Gargantuous A monolith of fact That all ambitions, Visions of success Desire to impact Indent infinity Are void. The memory of me Will perish with my sons And nothing waits But the dark And the vast And the absolute cold Of the rest of my days And their hours And their seconds Ticking slowly, Quietly Down. |
| The Clock by trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com (Entry #1) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Antiques are my life. My passion for
old things started when I was a child but it wasn't until my unemployed drunken
husband drove his car off a bridge three years ago that I had the time and
freedom to go looking for bargains as well as some nice things for my cluttered
little house. Seacaucus, New Jersey is my home but I spend a lot of time
scouring flea markets, thrift shops, auctions, and garage sales for anything
undervalued I can resell at a profit. The best thing I ever found, so far, was
a Ming vase I bought for twenty dollars. It was chipped a little but I still
got $7,000 for it. That was my biggest score until I found the clock. It was a crisp but sunny day in mid-autumn when I pulled up in my old Nova to Fairly Honest Joe's Auction Barn on the outskirts of Mystic, Connecticut. It seemed that it might be a wasted trip as I listlessly pawed through the standard fare of old china, Colonial furniture, braided rugs and what not, when I came across a William IV carved rosewood bracket clock. It was probably worth at least $800 or more so I picked it up for a better look. Scrunched underneath it was a piece of paper that I unfolded for a look. It said the clock had been the property of someone whose masochistic parents had named Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald. A little flash of adrenaline coursed through me as I replaced the paper and clock and took a seat in front of the auctioneer. F. Scott Fitzgerald! That had been his clock and it came with the provenance to prove it. This could be a huge profit if I could get it and I was determined to get it. You don't know me when I'm determined. A half hour later the bidding started on the clock. I helped keep it moving steadily upward. You don't want to jump in with a big bid too early to tip people off that it's more valuable than they think. At $250 there was just one man left bidding with me. He was an aisle down and dressed very nicely so he probably had the money to beat me if he decided to. I jumped to $400 to try and shut him out. He looked over at me and I flashed him my sweetest smile. $500. That was all I had brought with me though I could hit the ATM and clean the last $300 out my savings account. $550 - $600 - $650 - $700 - $750. He looked over at me and gave me his little smile with a shrug of the shoulders. "I have $750 from the little lady over there. Going once, going twice..." It was mine! The clock was carefully wrapped up in a box and after I paid my money and turned to leave, there was the man who had been bidding against me. He looked even more handsome up close and had a twinkle in his eye. "Since you outbid me on that clock that would have looked perfect on my dresser, you should at least agree to have lunch with me." I admit I was a little stunned. The jeans and snowflake sweater I was wearing were clean and nice and my curly red hair looked like a clown wig as usual. At least it distracted from the freckles. It had been a long time since anyone took a personal interest in me but maybe he just liked freckles. The three dates that I had been previously fixed up with I would have traded in for a bowl of popcorn and a rented movie. "I suppose that would be alright," I stammered. "Good. there's a wonderful restaurant by the ocean. It's a little touristy, but the crabcakes are unbelievable." We sat on the deck and exchanged life stories for two hours until the fading sunlight cast a soft glow over the rippling waves. He ran a successful business, lived in nearby Newport, Rhode Island in one of the smaller houses, which still had to be large, and was temporarily single. I finally said my goodbyes and headed back home with my precious clock locked in the trunk. The next day found me across the river in New York in the lavish office of one of the big antique dealers. We negotiated to a reasonable price of $62,500. It probably would have brought more at somewhere like Sotheby's but I was too impatient. On the slow traffic home I was as giddy as a schoolgirl, thinking of what I could do with all that money. One thing I wanted to do was get out of the dreary suburb of Seacaucus and a lot farther away from New York City. The next three days were spent looking at real estate listings upstate, which seemed surprisingly expensive, and selling some of the antique junk that was clogging up my place. In the process I came across an clock in a store that looked very similar to the Fitzgerald one and on an impulse, bought it for only $150. I don't know if you believe in fate, but the next day the man from the auction who had taken me to lunch called. "I'm going to be in the city today and thought you might like to take a walk around Central Park or something." I was hoping he'd call. "Yes, that would be nice. About what time?" "How about 3:00, Eastside entrance on 79th by the Met." "I'll be there." After a stroll though the beautiful Shakespeare Garden and past the old castle, we ended up at the art museum. I thought I knew a lot about art but he was right there up with me and then some. We were competitive but comfortable. Before we parted it seemed natural to offer him a kiss. The word fireworks came to my mind as I left a little dazed. I was trying to move and change my life and the last thing I needed was a man complicating things. The next few days were spent organizing and packing and putting my house up for sale though I hadn't found a new one yet. I talked to Mr. fancy Newport on the phone a couple of times and decided I'd better have it out with him to see if this little affairette was going to go anywhere. Saturday afternoon I packed up the other clock and took a pleasant drive up to Rhode Island (which really isn't an island, of course). Calling from a roadside Ho-Jo's, I found him at home. "Hi, it's me. I was in the area at a sale," I little-white-lied, "and found a similar clock you might be interested in." "Great, I'd like to see it. I'm expecting a couple of business calls so why don't you come by my house?" He gave me directions and ten minutes later I parked my dusty old Chevy in front of a house that had to have at least fifteen rooms. He was right. Even the substitute clock was perfect for the George III oak dresser. I accepted his invitation to stay for dinner and then did something I didn't think I'd do, I spent the night. As we woke up the next morning to the soft ticking of the clock he said: "You know there are a few good storefronts in Providence where you could open that antique shop you've always wanted. They come with living quarters or you could split your time between there and here." "What makes you think I can afford to buy a store?" I asked him suspiciously. "I figured with the $62,500 you got for the Fitzgerald clock, you might be able to swing it." "So you knew all along! Why did you let me have it?" "You needed it more than me and besides, I wanted to be able to see you again." I smiled and snuggled into his arms. "Your clock is on the house." |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #6 Second place: #5 Others receiving votes: #1, #2, #3, #7, #8 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Clock trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#1 of 8 Runner-up |
| 1346 | |
| Antiques are my life. My passion for old things started
when I was a child but it wasn't until my unemployed drunken husband drove his
car off a bridge three years ago that I had the time and freedom to go looking
for bargains as well as some nice things for my cluttered little house.
Seacaucus, New Jersey is my home but I spend a lot of time scouring flea
markets, thrift shops, auctions, and garage sales for anything undervalued I
can resell at a profit. The best thing I ever found, so far, was a Ming vase I
bought for twenty dollars. It was chipped a little but I still got $7,000 for
it. That was my biggest score until I found the clock. It was a crisp but sunny day in mid-autumn when I pulled up in my old Nova to Fairly Honest Joe's Auction Barn on the outskirts of Mystic, Connecticut. It seemed that it might be a wasted trip as I listlessly pawed through the standard fare of old china, Colonial furniture, braided rugs and what not, when I came across a William IV carved rosewood bracket clock. It was probably worth at least $800 or more so I picked it up for a better look. Scrunched underneath it was a piece of paper that I unfolded for a look. It said the clock had been the property of someone whose masochistic parents had named Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald. A little flash of adrenaline coursed through me as I replaced the paper and clock and took a seat in front of the auctioneer. F. Scott Fitzgerald! That had been his clock and it came with the provenance to prove it. This could be a huge profit if I could get it and I was determined to get it. You don't know me when I'm determined. A half hour later the bidding started on the clock. I helped keep it moving steadily upward. You don't want to jump in with a big bid too early to tip people off that it's more valuable than they think. At $250 there was just one man left bidding with me. He was an aisle down and dressed very nicely so he probably had the money to beat me if he decided to. I jumped to $400 to try and shut him out. He looked over at me and I flashed him my sweetest smile. $500. That was all I had brought with me though I could hit the ATM and clean the last $300 out my savings account. $550 - $600 - $650 - $700 - $750. He looked over at me and gave me his little smile with a shrug of the shoulders. "I have $750 from the little lady over there. Going once, going twice..." It was mine! The clock was carefully wrapped up in a box and after I paid my money and turned to leave, there was the man who had been bidding against me. He looked even more handsome up close and had a twinkle in his eye. "Since you outbid me on that clock that would have looked perfect on my dresser, you should at least agree to have lunch with me." I admit I was a little stunned. The jeans and snowflake sweater I was wearing were clean and nice and my curly red hair looked like a clown wig as usual. At least it distracted from the freckles. It had been a long time since anyone took a personal interest in me but maybe he just liked freckles. The three dates that I had been previously fixed up with I would have traded in for a bowl of popcorn and a rented movie. "I suppose that would be alright," I stammered. "Good. there's a wonderful restaurant by the ocean. It's a little touristy, but the crabcakes are unbelievable." We sat on the deck and exchanged life stories for two hours until the fading sunlight cast a soft glow over the rippling waves. He ran a successful business, lived in nearby Newport, Rhode Island in one of the smaller houses, which still had to be large, and was temporarily single. I finally said my goodbyes and headed back home with my precious clock locked in the trunk. The next day found me across the river in New York in the lavish office of one of the big antique dealers. We negotiated to a reasonable price of $62,500. It probably would have brought more at somewhere like Sotheby's but I was too impatient. On the slow traffic home I was as giddy as a schoolgirl, thinking of what I could do with all that money. One thing I wanted to do was get out of the dreary suburb of Seacaucus and a lot farther away from New York City. The next three days were spent looking at real estate listings upstate, which seemed surprisingly expensive, and selling some of the antique junk that was clogging up my place. In the process I came across an clock in a store that looked very similar to the Fitzgerald one and on an impulse, bought it for only $150. I don't know if you believe in fate, but the next day the man from the auction who had taken me to lunch called. "I'm going to be in the city today and thought you might like to take a walk around Central Park or something." I was hoping he'd call. "Yes, that would be nice. About what time?" "How about 3:00, Eastside entrance on 79th by the Met." "I'll be there." After a stroll though the beautiful Shakespeare Garden and past the old castle, we ended up at the art museum. I thought I knew a lot about art but he was right there up with me and then some. We were competitive but comfortable. Before we parted it seemed natural to offer him a kiss. The word fireworks came to my mind as I left a little dazed. I was trying to move and change my life and the last thing I needed was a man complicating things. The next few days were spent organizing and packing and putting my house up for sale though I hadn't found a new one yet. I talked to Mr. fancy Newport on the phone a couple of times and decided I'd better have it out with him to see if this little affairette was going to go anywhere. Saturday afternoon I packed up the other clock and took a pleasant drive up to Rhode Island (which really isn't an island, of course). Calling from a roadside Ho-Jo's, I found him at home. "Hi, it's me. I was in the area at a sale," I little-white-lied, "and found a similar clock you might be interested in." "Great, I'd like to see it. I'm expecting a couple of business calls so why don't you come by my house?" He gave me directions and ten minutes later I parked my dusty old Chevy in front of a house that had to have at least fifteen rooms. He was right. Even the substitute clock was perfect for the George III oak dresser. I accepted his invitation to stay for dinner and then did something I didn't think I'd do, I spent the night. As we woke up the next morning to the soft ticking of the clock he said: "You know there are a few good storefronts in Providence where you could open that antique shop you've always wanted. They come with living quarters or you could split your time between there and here." "What makes you think I can afford to buy a store?" I asked him suspiciously. "I figured with the $62,500 you got for the Fitzgerald clock, you might be able to swing it." "So you knew all along! Why did you let me have it?" "You needed it more than me and besides, I wanted to be able to see you again." I smiled and snuggled into his arms. "Your clock is on the house." |
|
| The Clock lee10@host365.com |
#2 of 8 |
| 1456 | |
| "Bloody hell!" The writer rubbed gritty sleep from his
eyes but the crick in his neck defeated the cack-handed massaging that
followed. He rolled his chin round on his chest. "Bloody hell!" he said again,
wincing as a stab of pain shot down his back. He was sore; he was cold; and
bloody stupid too, he thought. Every muscle protested as he unravelled himself from the back seat of his car, where he’d fallen asleep. The idea that had seemed so good in the pub last night, after five or six beers, no longer appealed and he groaned. He trod on empty beer cans, swore and finally managed to open the car door and stumble out into the night, all his joints aching. He rubbed his neck; he stretched his back; he needed a wee. He looked at his watch but its light had died, along with its battery. "Bloody hell!" the writer swore, forgetting all the tools of his trade except these two expressive words. The sky was a deep blue-black, an overcast realm in which no stars twinkled, but the false glow of dawn was still below the horizon, so he knew, even without the aid of his watch, that he would be in time. He staggered round to the back of the car and relieved himself. As his bladder emptied, he sighed thankfully. At least one ache was assuaged. A chill breeze drove him back inside and he sat in the driving seat and switched on the interior light. He found what he’d written last night and read; Stonehenge is ancient; more ancient than the Druids even, whose descendants still claim it as their own. Work started on the sacred site as long ago as 3100 BC – about time they bloody well finished it then, he grumbled – Excavations have uncovered cremated bones. It is thought that the original purposes of the site were religious and probably involved human sacrifice. "It’s crap!" The writer ripped the page from his notepad. "Boring, pretentious crap!" he complained. He crumpled the paper and tossed it over his shoulder to join the beer cans in the floor-well behind his seat. Last night’s binge had given him an appetite and rummaging in the glove box he found a half-eaten Mars bar. The sweetness of the chocolate stickiness trickled down his throat and began to bring him back to life. He noticed that the volume of traffic passing the layby in which he was parked, was building up. "Must be nearly time," he observed. He swallowed the last bite and turned the ignition key. The engine caught, the exhaust backfired and the writer farted. He smiled and noted, for future use, the onomatopoeic juxtaposition of the actions, but decided he’d better not use them in his creative writing class for fear of upsetting the old dears who preferred sentimental, cloying rhyming poetry to spirited prose. As he drove the two miles to the site, the writer tried again to compose the beginning of his story; Stonehenge is a clock, nothing more and nothing less. Despite the sacred status accorded to it, the site exists merely to measure time. Hmm, he thought, better, but I need conflict. Between the old earth gods and modern man perhaps? Maybe the protagonist, in a drug-induced trance could see, perhaps even be involved in an ancient ceremony in which a beautiful virgin is sacrificed on the altar to welcome the sunrise? No. Too clichéd. The writer’s thinking this early in the day was woolly but he hoped to be able to capture the excitement he’d felt last night when he’d tried to explain to his mates why he had to stay up to see the daybreak. "Atmosphere", he’d told them. "That’s what I need and where better, and when better, than to be at Stonehenge itself for the Summer Solstice?" The writer drove into the car park at the Stonehenge Visitor Centre where shadowy figures in light-coloured, fluorescent jackets were tidily directing traffic. A flashlight- wielding, insubstantial apparition waved him into a parking spot. The writer locked his car and walked away on legs still stiff and ungainly. He rolled his head on his neck, trying to loosen a few more kinks. The public toilets were lit and open and he decided to make use of the facilities before going any further. Inside, he inspected his face over the sink. He’d expected to see bloodshot eyes, underlined with deep purple bags but, he nodded at his reflection, it was not as bad as he’d thought. His hair was tufted and he slicked it down. As he was drying his hands, a biker came in. "Mornin’," the biker said, putting his crash helmet and leather gloves down on the sink surround before crossing to the urinal. Startled at being spoken to in the Gents, the writer stammered an acknowledgement and left the biker to his business, but not before making a mental sketch for future use; Biker : a big man, tall and bulky with thick muscles, taut under a black T-shirt and leather waistcoat (4 pewter buttons-undone); a tattoo of a snake writhing round the left biceps, its diamond-shaped head nestling on the biker’s neck, its tongue flickering towards his Adams’ apple; long hair, dyed black, drawn back into a ponytail (split ends!). Police ushered the writer and thousands of other people through the gates leading to the stone circle; police helmets silhouetted against a lightening sky. The night was disappearing. Clouds were dissolving into thin strands of grey haze. Venus, the morning star, was a clear spark in the east and a full moon, draped with the last of the thinning mists, shone over the western horizon. There was a palpable, vibrant feeling of anticipation in the air. It’s almost visible, the writer thought, as he became part of the crowd of Druids, New Age practitioners and others like him, the frankly curious. Thousands of small lights from candles held high flickered on all sides. Women dressed in Indian cotton, wearing Native American beadwork, danced with men wearing deer-antler headwear. Drums were beaten in a cadence that heightened the tension, underpinning the coming event with a spirituality so intense it verged on the sexual. A flash of light exploded in the east, announcing the day and the sun rose triumphantly, breaking over the Heel Stone. The masses greeted the blaze with cheers loud enough to life the roof off the universe. Young girls hugged strangers. Foreigners threw their arms around people they didn’t know and the English shook hands. Even the police smiled a welcome to the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. "What time is it?" someone shouted. "Summer time," someone else laughingly replied. The heavens spin, thought the writer, and the seasons change. Thus it was and ever shall be. Then he grinned, thinking how like the old dears he sounded. Caught up in the magnificence of the morning, as the gloriously risen sun began to warm the crowd, the writer understood at last, the place of poetry in the world. The gods seemed to kiss the earth as light flooded the plain, washing away for a brief while, selfish individuality, welding the thousands of people into one exhilarated whole. The pilgrimage was a loud, boisterous success; the sun’s rays dowsing into insignificance, the lights of a thousand small candles. A Druid, dressed in long robes, turned his face to the sun, flung out his arms and threw back his head, in a state of jubilation. His eyes closed, he seemed to be inviting the sun to pour into him. His hood slipped from his head, exposing the almost-alive tattoo of a snake, inching towards the man’s throat, as he chanted his thanks to the old gods for the sacred daybreak. The writer soaked up the atmosphere, noted the sounds and the sights, the smells and the touch of the multitude gathered to watch the monolithic clock turn on the year’s axis. He was part of the mystery, part of the millennia-old worship, at one with the rhythms of the earth. Once dawn had broken and was becoming early day, most of the revellers left, buoyed up with the magic of the experience. The writer settled down on the soft, springy turf, his back to warm sandstone and for hours he wrote. The story’s working title was ‘The Stonehenge Clock’. And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was a good short story, perhaps even a prizewinner. Finished, he read it through and satisfied, he looked around at the standing stones, anthems of praise to the endeavours and faith of early man. Then he wrote on the page, The End : John Claremont © 2004 |
|
| The Clock gingerdog43@yahoo.com |
#3 of 8 |
| 2494 | |
| "Don’t be shy, come in," the tall, elderly
gentleman coaxed persuasively as he motioned to the young boy standing in the
doorway. The thin, red haired boy looked up at him from the doorsill, his blue eyes searching the old man’s face. He tightly clutched a shoebox against his oversized, green sweater. Slowly, he shuffled across the sill and entered Henry’s Repair-Resale Shop. "Let’s go to my office, lad, where the light is better," Henry said. The boy followed him through a maze of display cases, tables, and shelves, all filled with assorted knick-knacks, jewelry, and household appliances. The price tags hanging from some items waved to him in the slight breeze stirred by the old man walking at a quick pace just ahead. They entered a stuffy little room in the back of the store. The filmy white walls were thumb tacked over with a variety of old movie posters promoting Casablanca, The Wizard of Oz, Psycho, and a host of other all-time greats. An upholstered chair mottled with coffee stains sat to the left of the entry on one wall. Beside it stood a small end table upon which a coffee maker was warming leftover brew. A whitish sugar trail meandered from a box of powdered doughnuts on the table to the arm of the chair. An antique grandfather clock towered in the corner. A small, grimy window in the center of the adjoining wall afforded little daylight to peep through. A withering, thirsty plant drooped in the dingy windowsill. A dented filing cabinet stood against the back wall. An out-dated calendar and a cluttered pegboard hung behind a bulky desk that took up the remainder of the room. Henry walked behind the desk and pulled the string on an ornate brass floor lamp hovering over one corner as he sat down. The large piece of glass covering the top of the desk fairly glared from the brilliance of the lamplight. An array of old photos was strewn helter-skelter beneath the glass. "Now then," Henry said, reaching his arms across the desk toward the boy, "let’s see what you’ve got there." With some trepidation, the boy handed over the box. Henry removed the lid and lifted out an object wrapped in newspaper. An abundance of scotch tape wound around the paper. "Well, you certainly wrapped it nice and tight," he laughed. He turned around in his swivel chair to a small cabinet behind him and rummaged through a drawer of assorted small tools. He wheeled back around holding magnifying goggles and a pair of scissors. He popped the goggles on over his spectacles and cut the tape, then carefully pulled the paper away. His expression of amusement quickly changed to admiration. He pulled the magnifying goggles off and adjusted his spectacles. He glanced at the boy, who stood opposite the desk wolfing down a doughnut. "What an enchanting clock!" Henry beamed. He lifted it upright and held it underneath the lamp. It was small, about ten inches tall, six inches wide, and four inches thick. It glistened in dark and light tones of a brownish-gold color. It appeared to Henry to be hand-carved from a hard wood, but he couldn’t determine the type. The main body was perfectly square. There was a delicately crafted scene of a forest with tiny, mythical animals carved underneath the clock face. A small carving of a man’s face peered out from above the clock face. Although impish looking, his eyes looked old and wise. "In all my years, I’ve never seen one quite like this." He ran his hands over it. He looked at the perfectly timed grandfather clock in the corner. It showed half past three on the dot. He looked at the face on the little wooden clock. It showed the exact same time. "It appears to be keeping time very well," he noted aloud as he sat the clock down. Clearing his throat he said, "Young man, since the clock is working fine I assume you are offering it for sale. As you can see, I am in the re-sale business, but I could not offer you much money…" his voice trailed off as he toyed with his mustache. The boy wiped his hands on his sweater to remove the powdery residue from the doughnut, then looked at Henry, his eyes large. "N…no sir," he stammered, "it isn’t for sale and I know it isn’t broken." He swallowed nervously, then added, "I want you to break it." Henry abruptly stopped stroking his mustache and gave the boy a startled look. "Break it? But whatever for?" he asked in astonishment. "B…be…because it’s… evil, sir," the boy stuttered, then looked away. "Preposterous!" Henry shouted. "It’s a perfectly working clock! And," he added keenly, "could be worth a small fortune." "Look at it again, sir." The boy pleaded. Henry glared at the boy, but picked up the clock and turned it over in his hands. The impish face seemed to throb with life when he touched it, but he refrained from saying so. The boy pointed toward the clock. "What time is it now?" he asked. Henry looked at the clock. "It’s 3:27 pm," he said. He glanced at the grandfather clock. It showed 3:33 pm. "Wait a minute! Three minutes ago, the two clocks were in sync. Now this one appears to be running backwards. Obviously it is broken." Henry popped the magnifying goggles on again to examine the clock more closely. "Hold on now! This clock doesn’t appear to have a winding mechanism, or a battery compartment. It also seems that the numerals and the hands are carved out from the same block of wood. But how is it the hands can move?" Henry sat for a moment in thought, then jerked the goggles off. "What kind of trick are you trying to pull, boy? I don’t have time…" "It’s no trick, sir. Let me explain," the boy broke in. Henry frowned at him, but settled back in his chair to listen. "That clock carries a curse," he said with emphasis. "Whomever has it in his possession will soon regret it." Henry cocked a bushy eyebrow. "A curse you say?" The boy nodded. "The clock reverses time and makes one young again." Henry looked at the boy solemnly, then broke out in a hearty laugh. "And I suppose you’re going to stand there and tell me you’re from back in time, that you’re actually 70 years old, same as me, but this clock turned you back into a child again?" he shook with laughter. "Yes, sir." The boy stated matter of factly. "I’m 13 now, but I was 63 when I came into possession of this damned thing." Henry gave the boy another solemn look, then broke out laughing again. "Oh my, this is rich, rich! I haven’t heard a tale this good since…" "Stop it!" yelled the boy as he slammed a fist down on the desk. Henry was stunned into silence by his outburst. "At first, I didn’t believe it either, but it’s the truth, I tell you! I spotted this clock in an antique store while vacationing this spring in a small village in Spain. I collect clocks, so naturally I was curious. The young lady working there told me it is approximately 600 years old, but the most amazing thing was the legend surrounding it. She said legend goes that it was carved by a wizard from the wood of a tree no longer in existence, so it is the only one of it’s kind. Supposedly, the man’s face on the clock is in the wizard’s own image. The wizard performed a special ceremony over the clock, giving it great, magical powers to continually erase time and restore one’s youth. As soon as someone takes possession of it, it begins to work it’s magic for them right away. It only works for them, however, as long as they keep the clock in their possession. Once they part with it, they will remain forever young at the age they are when they pass it to someone else. The lady stated it had been in her family for 7 generations and she was the last surviving member. She said she knew first hand that it did work magic because she was living proof of it. I asked her how she knew and she said because she was 82 years old when it came into her possession. Of course I looked at her in disbelief, as she didn’t look a day older than 25. I didn’t take her seriously, but her story was so fascinating that I decided to purchase the clock for the legend’s sake alone. I thought it would make a great conversation piece. "Well it’s certainly been a tall tale so far," Henry interjected. "Please, sir…" the boy said glumly. Henry made a gesture for him to proceed. "I arrived home, unpacked it, and set it on the mantle. It showed the correct time at first but a few days later, I noticed it was losing time. I thought it got damaged during transit and decided at first opportunity I would bring it to you for repair. I became busy catching up at work, however, and thought no more about it. Then one morning I noticed that the gray in my hair and mustache was gone. By the end of that same week, hair had grown back into the bald spot on top of my head. A week later, the wrinkles on my face disappeared and were replaced by freckles. Those were nice surprises, but within a few more weeks, I noticed my trousers getting longer in length and too large around my waist. My shirts were not fitting properly either. I purchased a new wardrobe and shoes, but within a couple of months, all of my new things were too large. My body became increasingly fit, but smaller. People at work began to stare at me. Then one morning I got in my car and I couldn’t reach the pedals. It was then I realized that that clock was indeed turning me back into a young boy!" He glared at the ticking piece of wood on Henry’s desk, then continued. "I stopped going in to work in order to concentrate on how to resolve this mess I’m in. I finally remembered the shop’s name in Spain where I purchased the clock. It was Take Your Time. I dialed assistance but the international operators told me the number was disconnected. I never got the lady’s name, nor did she put a business card inside the box with the clock. I realized it would be impossible to locate her by phone. I tried to purchase a plane ticket back to Spain, but the airlines refused me because my physical description no longer matched my passport photo ID— or any other ID for that matter. I phoned my doctor and told him what was happening to me. He immediately made an appointment for me to see an associate of his, a psychiatrist. I went to see him and took the clock with me. I told him the legend and all about the reverse aging treatment it was giving me. I knew he didn’t believe me after he suggested I come back with my ‘mommy and daddy’." "Hmmm… and have you entertained your parents with this story?" Henry asked placidly. "My parents are dead. They died in an apartment fire when I was 53!" the boy snapped. "I’m sorry," offered Henry. The boy sighed. "Look, I know this is all hard to swallow, but I swear it’s the truth. All of this has happened to me in just a matter of months. That magical clock has certainly reduced me back to a young boy, but I no longer have control of my life. I physically went back in time, but time didn’t go back with me. Nothing around me is as it was when I was 13 the first time. I’ve changed but everything and everyone else is still the same. Nobody recognizes me. I tried to destroy that damn thing, but nothing affects it, not water, fire, acid— I even tried chopping it up with an ax, but as you can see, it is still in perfect condition. It has driven me almost to the point of madness, but this afternoon I remembered your repair shop. That is why I brought it to you. Somehow, you have to destroy that cursed clock, sir!" Henry squirmed in his chair. "And this curse is still upon you now?" he asked, a slight smile on his lips. The boy breathed deeply. "Not any longer, sir. When you unwrapped the clock, the curse became yours." Any signs of a smile suddenly faded from Henry’s face. He jumped slightly as the grandfather clock chimed 4:00 pm. He slowly shifted his gaze down to the little clock sitting on his desk. It showed the time to be 3:00 pm. With slightly shaking hands, Henry picked up the clock and made a pass over it again, looking for hidden panels or anything that may allow an opening to its insides. Finding nothing, he put it down and stood up. "Look boy, I still don’t believe this wild whopper of yours. You ought to be spanked for a week for telling lies like this. Nevertheless, if you don’t want it, I’m sure I could get me a pretty price for it, and without resorting to include that silly legend to boot." Henry gave the clock a calculating look. "Why, as an antique, it’s probably worth thousands!" "It’s all yours, sir." The boy gave Henry a defeated look as he slowly backed away from the desk. He turned to go, then glanced back at Henry. "I’m sorry," he whispered with a vacant look in his eyes, and bolted from the shop. ********************* One year later, a 13-year old, red haired boy sat in the grass beneath an oak tree across the street from the repair shop. He rubbed an apple against his shirtsleeve and bit in. As he ate, he watched with great interest as an old woman eyed up a box sitting outside the shop’s door. A sign on the box read: "FREE FOR THE TAKING". The boy chewed more slowly as the woman opened the box and pulled out an object wrapped in newspaper. She tore the paper away and held up a carved, wooden clock. After turning it over a few times, she shrugged, tucked it inside a canvas bag slung over her shoulder, and wandered away. The boy swallowed a bite of apple as his eyes met those of another young boy standing just outside the shop’s open door. He recognized those eyes, and those eyes recognized him. They stared intensely at each other. Finally, Henry broke their gaze. With the clumsiness of foot that accompanies a child of his age, he toddled back inside the store. |
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| The Clock Donna Marie Dufour mrsdew4@adelphia.net |
#4 of 8 |
| 533 | |
| God bless him and keep him safe today. I watched through our bedroom window as he drove off. And memories filled my mind up again. Just as emotion contained my body- mostly with sadness But also worry each time he left. An incredibly strong young athlete once, Now diminished from years of injury at work. My mind holds photos of him at this weakest. His body screaming with pain After yet another horrendous day long back surgery. Nausea and fear consumed me as I wondered each time How much more damage his body would survive. We had known each other since childhood, and had grown up together. Dated when he was 15, I was 14; we were married 5 years later. Everyone knew him as someone who was not only strong and a hard worker, But good at anything he attempted. Someone you could count on. Now he was known for someone who could beat the odds. Because if you saw him, you would never know what hell he had been through. God I love him so much. As I sat or paced alone in the hospital waiting room, I sipped nasty coffee, and cried on and off while I Impatiently looked up at the damn clock that never moved forward. I felt guilty when I wanted to take a nap after the first 10 or 11 hours went by. I prayed for someone to come through the door, and tell me his surgery was over, Successful, And he was alright. Hoping each time, I would not run out of prayers long before the door would open. Yet during these weakest of physical times, He continued to stay strong for our family. Never complained of the agonizing pain he was enduring. The stress of such times caused fear for our future Both emotionally and financially. Our love became strongest yet was most vulnerable here. The pain he suffers overwhelmed my heart with guilt and helplessness. Sometimes I could not even look at him, my mind running away to regroup. Our life together would never be written as a book. Noone would believe the constant crisis we encountered could ever truly happen. But in other times, despite the injuries, I saw his wrath and strength rise to superhuman. Protected our family from cruelty and sadness we encountered in life. Our love bonded from those tests of the heart and life long ago. In a hate-filled world, a family bond never to be torn apart. Yet my heart would still cry out as I watched him struggle trying to get up from a chair or to walk some days. So as I watched him drive away, Some part of our life history together flashed through my mind. Would stay with me for the day. This repeated continually as the years passed. I prayed he would come home safe, Listened as long as it took for the car to pull into the driveway. And could not rest unto it did. My shoulders would drop, and my heart would breathe easier, And was relieved as the door opened and he entered. He never saw this; it happened automatically. Another day safe. God bless him. I need him. |
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| The Clock shobantwal@aol.com |
#5 of 8 |
| 1176 | |
| Menopause, insomnia and senility are a way of life for
me in the last couple of years. Waking up in the middle of the night, bathed in
a warm, moist sweat has become a habit. My cotton nightgown feels like it just
came out of the washer, damp and steamy. I throw a weary glance at my bedside
clock. It reads precisely 2:43 A.M. About four more hours until daybreak.
The glowing neon-red readout mocks at me: ha-ha, can’t sleep again, huh? I nod at the clock. His name is Sigmund, like Sigmund Freud. Oh yes, my clock has a name. For all his wisdom and perception, he deserves to be named after Freud. Sigmund has a face like a chubby-faced sunflower, complete with golden yellow cheeks, black button eyes, wide mouth and a cute digital readout for a nose. He has a wry personality that hardly matches his sunny looks though. Oscar, as in grouch, would have been more suitable, but Sigmund has an intellectual air about him. Besides, he plays the role of pompous psychoanalyst so well. Well, all right then. I suppose you’ll want to talk. Sigmund sounds a bit moody tonight. "Yeah, looks like another sleepless night for you and me, pal," I whisper. I can almost see Sigmund’s button eyes rolling. Humph. Let’s get on with it then. "You never really get to sleep, do you, Sig? You’re always on the alert -- around the clock." Ha-ha. You’re beginning to develop a sense of humor, I see. And by the way, I do sleep, whenever the damn power goes out in this wretched little town. As often as twice a week. "Okay, wise guy. Get ready for a long counseling session." Do I have to play psychologist to you each and every night? "What else do you have to do with your life? And why do you think your name is Sigmund? You gave me that stupid name. Ignoring Sigmund’s ornery outburst, I settle on my imaginary, brass-studded leather couch. "Do you think I’m going insane, Sig?" Neurotic yes. Obsessive-compulsive yes. But insane no. Uh...not yet. "Thanks for boosting my confidence, Dr. Freud." Sig is to the point, if nothing else. But I’m not convinced of his diagnosis. There’s a weird numbness, a tingling in my limbs and brain. My skin feels like an angry army of ants is marching just beneath its surface, ready to wage war against a faceless, nameless enemy. No, I’m not having a stroke. I’m not a druggie. Hallucinating is not my thing either. All those possibilities have been considered and discarded by my doctor. A while back, I wake up with a start on a night similar to this, imagining it is a nightmare of the worst kind, one that leaves me perspiring and gasping for breath. When it occurs again the following week, I tell myself I’m suffering from stress. The third time around I dismiss it as a mild panic attack. When it keeps coming back I become convinced that a serious illness has invaded my body. Or could it be aliens? Those supermarket tabloids could be right, you know. I could be pregnant with a creature that’s a cross between a lizard and a shark. But nah, I’m too old for pregnancy. When I run out of excuses, I go for the only logical explanation left: Insanity. Enter Sigmund the clock. So, go see the doctor. My doctor pats me on the back and throws me a condescending smile. "Some minor female problems, Mrs. B. Nothing a dose of hormones can’t fix. An optimistic grin settles over my face as I rush to the pharmacy with my prescription for estrogen. Relief is only a pill away! But sleep still eludes me. My nightly tossing continues; my hot flashes often turn into flaming firestorms; my ants mutate and multiply. To add to my tribulations, the estrogen makes me a bloated, waddling, madcap insomniac instead of the previous slim, smiling and energetic woman. A peek in the mirror confirms my worst fears: Good Lord, I’m the Goodyear blimp! Thank God for Sigmund! He has provided me solace in my dark hours of need and has come to mean a lot to me. His screaming alarm is an unnecessary feature in my present ever-wakeful condition, but it’s nice to know that unlike myself Sigmund still has all his faculties in order. He needs his wits about him to dole out advice to a woman who moans constantly about her middle-age woes. Sigmund knows all about my ailments, my hopes, my dreams, my heartaches, my disappointments, my beloved husband and my wonderful grown children. Together, Sigmund and I manage to make it through each night until the sun lazily puts in an appearance. Sigmund’s a great listener despite his cynical façade. And his counsel is free. Insomnia and fatigue are his areas of expertise. But even he has his moments. Every now and then he loses his temper and chastises me. How do you expect to keep good health when you don’t exercise? And do you know what those donuts are doing to your expanding waistline? At this rate you might end up doing a commercial with the Michelin Man and the Pillsbury dough boy. Following Sigmund’s stern reprimand I feel guilty enough to get on the treadmill for a half-hour and tell myself that the sheer exhaustion from the exercise will make me sleep like a baby. Alas, I should know better than to expect miracles. My knobby kneecaps tingle once again and those ants pick up their rifles, forcing me to stare at the ceiling and praying for the lost souls, the sinners and the sickly before starting to count sheep. I’ve heard somewhere that praying for others is better than praying for oneself because the good vibes come back to oneself tenfold. I’m still waiting for my altruistic vibes to make their rounds and return to me. Tonight I swallow a potent sleeping potion prescribed by my doctor. The dogged look of a politician on Election Day is what I wear, determined to give hell to her challengers. I’ll have one good night of blissful oblivion, I resolve. Perhaps tomorrow morning my missing hair will be back, my waist will be twenty-two inches again, and my brilliant mind will function like before. Full of anticipation I slip into bed beside my sleeping husband. An unladylike yawn escapes my lips. It’s a good sign. Ahh, the medication is kicking in. At 2:01 A.M., I turn to Sigmund with a deep sigh. "The ants are hauling ballistic missiles tonight, Sig. The medication didn’t help, not one bit." So I see. We’re back to square one. "Menopause is a bitch, Sig. Don’t ever have it." Sigmund chuckles. I’ll try not to, kid. But I might end up joining you yet. Those nasty power surges could easily morph me into a dreadful cuckoo clock. When he hears no response, he sighs. That was a joke. "Aha, see, I am crazy! I can’t even understand your humor anymore." |
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| The Clock Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#6 of 8 |
| 1708 | |
| Hickory Dickory Dock, The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, The mouse ran down! Hickory Dickory Dock. Mortimer Mouse executed a few wobbly dance steps, looking like a ballerina reject, and plopped down on his back. "Man, I just gotta resemble to get outta there afore that dadblasted clock goes off like a fogglehorn. My ears is still rin-tin-tinabulatin'. Sincing I'm up and about, might has well have a look-see fer some vittles." But the living room was bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. Just a few old dusty chairs and the old grandfather clock against the wall. Not a crumb could be found, much less a tasty piece of cheese, so Mortimer decided to continue his nap. Once again he was rudely awakened. Hickory Dickory Dock, The bird looked at the clock, The clock struck two 2, Away she flew, Hickory Dickory Dock "Well if it isn't ol' Percival Pigeon," said Mortimer Mouse. "What brings you 'round these here parts? Last I heared, you'd given up the pigeon drop and was crooning at a honky tonk in Savannah. Fuzz git after you agin?" "It seems you have outlined the situation with approximate truth. An honest living I was making, and investing in an upturn of chickpea futures, when Boss Hawk swooped down on me claiming a violation of the Homeland Insecurity Act. I spent three fortnights in the bastille of the local constabulary, playing solitaire in solitary until they realized it wasn't me they were after, but some dove." "I simple-thise wif you, times are tough nowadays. Looky! Here comes ol' Harry the Hound." Hickory Dickory Dock, The dog barked at the clock, The clock struck three 3, Fiddle-de-dee, Hickory Dickory Dock! "Groof. Groof. Growrrroof." "Kin you pipe down a notch, Harry? My earbones is still a-wringin'. Whuffo you gotta bark ever' time you hears a noise?" "It's in my contract," Harry Hound replied gruffly. "How you gonna know who not to trust unless I bark at everything?" "Well you've a-known me since we was tads, Harry, and ol' Percival has lived around these here parts all his life." Harry Hound regarded him suspiciously. "I don't know. He got some shifty eyes on him." "Indubitably, my concerned canine. I am a natural born bird, a genus noted for their keen ocular perception." "Be that as it may, you can't be too careful in this millenium." "C'mon, Harry. You snoozled for years until they ast you to dust off the Cerberus trade." "I believe the point our diminutive friend is trying to make is that there is a vast difference between being a valiant watchdog of liberty and, to employ the local vernacular, a snitch." "Besides, some watchdoggle you is. Whilst you was yammering at us, ol' Barnaby Bear done snuck in and is hibernating by the clock." Hickory Dickory Dock, The bear slept by the clock, The clock struck four 4, He ran out the door, Hickory Dickory Dock! "Hey Barnaby! Come join us." " 'Taint no loss, Mortimer," said Henry. He was just a homeless freeloader anyway." "My dear Sirrah. Just because the gentleman is in reduced circumstances, does not mean he is deprived of his constitutional right of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happification." "An' mebbe some hot vittles once't in a while." "Out of sight, out of mind, is what I says." Hickory Dickory Dock, The bee buzzed round the clock, The clock struck five 5, She went to her hive, Hickory Dickory Dock! "Duck!" cried Harry Hound. "It's one of them fighter-type airyplains that swoops down and lays waste to the landscape." He dove into the corner with his paws over his floppy ears over his eyes. " 'Taint neither," said the mouse. "It's jest Mizz Bee lookin' for some honey fer her chilluns. She ain't no more dangerous nor a li'l busterfly." "Quite so," put in Percival. "The stalwart wife and mother, the backbone of civilization. If you fear her or ignore her you do so at your own peril." "Hummph," said Harry. "You try ignoring someone what buzzes round your head and when you swats at 'em, they just comes right back." "Precisely. My keen eyes espies another member of the distaff side approaching." Hickory Dickory Dock, The hen pecked at the clock, The clock struck six 6, Oh, fiddle-sticks, Hickory Dickory Dock! "Well howdy ol' Henrietta Hen. Whuffo you peckin' around that clock fer?" "Land sakes, chile. That's what we leghorns was born and bred for; a peck here, a peck there, leave no stone unturned." "I wold imagine, my dear lady, that you have unconcealed a veritable fount of information in your perigrinations." "Mebbe I has in my parry-whatever but I keeps it to myself. My momma allus taught me not to go spreadin' no gossip and rumors, tho' she did spend a fair amout of time gabbing over the back fence." Suddenly, a cry of alarm went up as a feline presence bounded into the room, scattering all. Hickory Dickory Dock, The cat ran round the clock, The clock struck seven 7, She wanted to get 'em, Hickory Dickory Dock! "Mercy, Mr. Cat," said Henrietta, "You gave us quite a scare. Must you always be discomposin' everyone." "Why yes," said the cat with a sniff of his whiskers. "Birds and meece and such is my sworn enemies and prey. It says so here in the Good Book." "Perhaps you should consider expanding the scope of your opuscules." "Naw. This one book's been good enuff for cats since the dawn of history and it's good enuff for me." "Do it say anything about dogs in there?" said Harry Hound. "Yikes! A dogger-woggle." "Yikes with stars on it for you," Harry retorted. "You'd best be behavin' yourself now." Mortimer Mouse put in petulantly, "With all this yakkering, I mought as well mosey down to the train tracks and listen to the 7:59 go by as try an git any sleep here. Besides, I'm gittin' mighty hungrified" "I, too, feel an ubiquitous emptiness," added Percival. A thunder of hooves was heard and before they knew it... Hickory Dickory Dock, The horse jumped over the clock, The clock struck eight 8, He ate some cake, Hickory Dickory Dock! "Cake! Where'd you find a chonklit cake, ol' horse? It looks delicorice" "It was right here in the kitchen. You only have to know where to look." "Well I'll be," said Henrietta. "I never thought to look in the kitchum." "Quit crowdin'," said the horse. "There ain't enough for everyone and besides, I found it first." "Harrumph," said Henry Hound. "If that's the way you're going to be, then I'm leaving." "Me too," said the cat. "Perhaps the two of us can form a coalition." "I s'pose we could. There is one thing we have in common. Let's looky for scraps in that garbleage can." The hen and pigeon just waited patiently for the crumbs they knew would be there later. Then in through the door hopped a cow. "Clarabelle Cow, as I live and breathe. What you hoppin' for?" "I thought I'd get a job as the Easter bunny. Can't have too many of those." "But you're no rabbit. You ain't got a hair o' hare on you. Aren't you just happy being yourself?" "Tried it. Didn't work out to well. I reckon I could give it another shot. Give me a boost here, Mr. Horse, to the top of the clock." "Whatever for?" "If I'm gonna be a cow, then I gotta show that a cow can can-can." Hickory Dickory Dock, The cow danced on the clock, The clock struck nine 9, She felt so fine, Hickory Dickory Dock! "That ain't like the hoe down prancin' I've seen but mighty intersting," mused Mortimer. "My, oh my. I haven't danced like that since I was a weanling." "Mighty disgraceful, I calls it," said Henry Hound. "But is it art?" asked Percival Pigeon philosophically. "Hard to tell, but I knows art when I sees it." "I think you either gots a fan or a heckler in the audioence," said Henrietta. Hickory Dickory Dock, The pig oinked at the clock, The clock struck ten 10, He did it again, Hickory Dickory Dock! "Petey Pig," said Mortimer Mouse. "We don't see you 'round much down here. You usually rootin' around in the trough or rollin' in the mud." "I heerd there was a gatherin' so I came down to present and protect the pig's point of view. An' I got jist as much right to oink at the clock as anyone." "Well I guess you shorely do," said Henrietta, "but we wasn't clucking, cooing, mooing, neighing, or squeaking at the ol' clock." "Pooh. Maybe it's about time somebody did." "Cannot you content yourself with the status quo?" "As long as the quo improves my status." "They say a pig can't see his own tail," whispered Clarabelle to Mortimer." "Cover yo' ears." "What? Why?" "Jist do it." Bong, bong, bong.... Hickory Dickory Dock, The duck quacked at the clock The clock struck eleven 11, The duck said 'oh heavens!' Hickory Dickory Dock! "Quaaack. Quack, quack, quack, quack." "Jumpin' Jiminy, Dicky Duck. Does you hafta quack at everthing alla time." "Someone's gotta do it," Dicky Duck replied haughtily. "If something needs quackin' at, then I'm your man." "Methinks the duck doth quack too much." "It seems to me," said Clarabelle meekly, "that just makes you a rabble rouser." "It's a hystorical postulate that the rabble needs some rousing from time to time." "But I was here first, oinking at it." "Mebbe, you you doesn't represent alla ducks in the county like I do." "Well you don't see me cooing at the clock." "Or me mooing." "Or me naying" "Or me cluckin' at it, an' I got my in-a-saleable rights too." "Quieeeet!" screamed Mortimer Mouse, somehow making his shrill voice heard through the din. "This clock is my own personal home and you'all is interlopers. Kindly take your gabblin' somewheres off the premysis." They all tromped out, babbling amongst themselves, and Mortimer Mouse breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought they'd a never go home." Hickory Dickory Dock, The mouse ran up the clock The clock struck noon He's here too soon! Hickory Dickory Dock! |
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| The Clock Tom Setcoski tom_set@yahoo.com |
#7 of 8 |
| 402 | |
| A sharp wind was slashing torrents of rain against the
windows of an old man's home. He sank unruffled into his favorite armchair and
reached for one of his favorite books by Edgar Allan Poe. It was a perfect
night on a midnight dreary to ponder weak and weary over this quaint and
curious volume of forgotten lore. The only other sound, during those moments
when the fierce gusts abated, was the ticking of his late wife's clock.
Not very late, as he had just buried Greta last Sunday. He missed her companionship somewhat, but he would certainly not miss her constant harping in that shrill voice, somewhere between the cawing of a raven and fingernails on a blackboard. She lacked the art of conversation but unfortunately not the power of speech. With her last dying breath, when she realized she had been poisoned, she swore she would claw her way out of the grave to get him. That's why he had taken the precaution of burying her upside down. The wind had picked up to a shrill whine, not unlike that of the departed Greta. The howling of the hurricane and the infernal ticking of the clock tore his thoughts from the printed page and implanted the suspicion that he might be going a trifle insane. Nonsense, he thought. The eye of the hurricane was more than a hundred miles away and no ticking from the clock he had perversely kept would play tricks with his mind. Just the same, he thought it prudent to reexamine the fastenings on the windows. They seemed secure enough but the shrieking without and the ticking within was becoming more than he could bear. Perhaps she was coming after her clock, coming after him! He grabbed the clock and flung it against the wall, hearing a satisfying crunch. Even smashed and warped, the clock continued to tick, tick, tick. He sank to his knees in anguish and began crawling toward the offending timepiece. Just then, a large branch crashed into the window, shattering the glass, and by the merest twist of fortune, a shard lodged itself in his throat. As the life ebbed out of him in a pool of blood, he could swear he heard her voice in the wind, calling out his name amid the unquenchable tick-tock of her hellish clock. The news the next day reported: "Another Victim Claimed By Hurricane Greta." |
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| The Clock mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#8 of 8 Winner |
| 117 | |
| Objects and events... Reality's denizens Loom into consciousness. Pressed by their gravity My pen swings heavy Across the page Relentless. Indifferent. Like the pendulum of time. And a thought Engages me. Whirls through my apathy A gyroscope in the mist Spinning Counter-clockwise. Unexpected Like a churchbell At midnight. A short, sharp breath Between the ticking seconds A realizing whelms And swells Gargantuous A monolith of fact That all ambitions, Visions of success Desire to impact Indent infinity Are void. The memory of me Will perish with my sons And nothing waits But the dark And the vast And the absolute cold Of the rest of my days And their hours And their seconds Ticking slowly, Quietly Down. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club