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6 		"The Timepiece"
(the seventy-fifth ACWclub monthly writing contest)
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Assignment:
Write a story or poem using the
following title: "The Timepiece"
2500 words or less.

Deadline:
Midnight (EST),
November 15, 2007

All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent.

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The Timepiece
By Colin Campbell
www.colincampbell.org
(Entry #1)
~Winning Entry~
"How did you get the toupee to stay on?" whispered the new apprentice. He wished the cold, white-tiled workroom behind the funeral parlor could be better lit and the winter rain wouldn't strike so loud on the window.

"Speak up lad it's only the two of us. The dead can't hear and they don't care what we say or do," said the old hand.

"Is there a special way of doing toupees?" the apprentice spoke louder wondering about advances in the craft in the 21st century.

"I was clean out of double-sided tape but I managed to find a couple of masonry nails," said the old hand pointing to a hammer lying on the tiled work bench beside the body. "They don't care and they don't bleed."

The apprentice managed to keep his composure. He said nothing but more of the color drained away from his face and he clasped both hands hard on top of his head.

The old hand worked on in silence. Make-up and a three piece suit soon had the deceased looking something like his old self. The toupee was combed over the nail heads. The body was lifted into the coffin ready for the final adjustments. The apprentice watched carefully partly out of grim fascination and partly mindful that he too would be doing all this one day. He promised himself that he would never let himself run out of double-sided tape.

"This is a real beauty," said the old hand fastening a pocket watch onto the body. "It's marked as a railroad watch. Looks like an old one. It's not gold and neither is the chain but it has to be worth something. Who says you can't take it with you. He's going to. He left special instructions for his own burial. Not many do that."

Soon the deceased was nicely laid out so that respects could be paid before the coffin was closed. One of the relatives asked about the watch but no one knew why he had insisted it should be buried with him.

Someone said. "When he was sick and knew he wasn't going to pull through he seemed to be more concerned about what would happen to the watch than what would happen to his family."

An old aunt said, "It stopped when he died."

Then the old hand was brought back to close the coffin and everyone moved on to the graveside for the interment.

Time passed and the apprentice said nothing when the old hand started coming to work wearing a railroad watch and chain. Soon the grave and the funeral and the life it marked were forgotten like all the others. The old hand got a little older and then he got sick but he had never saved his money so he had to carry on working.

One morning the apprentice arrived and overheard voices in the workroom. They were not speaking loudly so he could only make out parts of the conversation, something about railroads. Not wishing to intrude he didn't go in right away. When he did go in he wished he had gone in earlier. The old hand was alone and lying on the floor with a haunted look. When he saw his young colleague he pointed to the watch lying just out of his reach. He was struggling to speak but his eyes were rolling and the words just wouldn't come out. Barely pausing, the apprentice put the watch in his pocket for safekeeping and called an ambulance. He did his best to remember the little first aid he knew but he saw that death was near.

"Do you want to come to the hospital with your friend?" the ambulance lady asked.

"Thank you but no, he won't know and he won't care," he said for by then he knew death well.

A few days passed and the old hand was back as a customer in the cold, white-tiled workroom. His funeral and the life it marked would soon be forgotten like all the others.

The apprentice waited a few weeks then took the watch for repair for it had stopped when the old hand died. He asked about its background.

"Don't know too much about it myself but there are collectors who specialize in railroad memorabilia. Here's one who brings railroad watches in sometimes," said the watch-repair man digging around in a drawer for a name-card.

The apprentice put the card away to follow up on when time permitted. That night he worked late and alone. He locked the door for he feared the living more than the dead. Few visitors came to the cold, white-tiled workroom and he had drifted into the habit of talking to the deceased as he worked.

"Soon have you nice and comfortable in there," he said nodding towards the waiting coffin. This would not be an easy lift when working alone so he paused for a break first. Some small movement outside caught his attention and he went over to the small window but there was nothing to see in the near darkness except the trees straining in the wind. He took out the watch to check that it was still keeping time after the repair.

"The chain's not right," said a hollow voice behind him.

Fear gripped him at once with icy fingers that dug deep into his back as if to hold him immobile in the path of some horrible and unseen danger. It was with no small effort both physical and mental that he turned towards the voice from beyond the grave.

He felt the air was suddenly colder and saw the scene had changed behind him. The body was lying where it had been but now the tiled work bench had somehow become a plain wooden table. Adding to the terrible strangeness, the deceased was now clothed in some sort of old railway uniform and the whole room was starting to change into something different, something older. He blinked just once and it was all gone with everything back in its proper place.

He backed off towards the door pulling out his key and was glad, very glad to get out of that place. In his panic to secure the door behind him he broke the key in the lock and was unable to lock the workroom behind him. It was with a great fear of being followed that he ran off into the night.

It all seemed so different the next morning. The sun was out. There was time enough before the funeral to finish preparing the body in the coffin. He even managed to pull the broken key out of the lock with a pair of pliers. Perhaps working too hard makes one imagine all sorts of things he thought.

However he took the afternoon off to visit the railroad collector, the one with the card who knew about watches.

The railroad memorabilia collector was pleased to be asked. "Well let's see. It's a conductor's watch marked Western Maryland Rail Road Co. That makes it an old one for they changed the name to Western Maryland Railway Co. in 1902. It's what they call a 'Railroad-grade Pocket Watch'. Now the standard for that didn't come in until 1893. So there you are, it was issued to a conductor on the Western Maryland Rail Road sometime between 1893 and 1902."

The collector's expertise was matched with a deep enthusiasm and he brought out a pile of neatly indexed albums. Together they looked through old photos, newspaper cuttings, and lots more besides all about railroads and railroad watches.

"He wouldn't have worn it on a chain. He would have used a leather FOB strap and probably some sort of leather holder. You can get good replicas on the Internet."

The apprentice took the chain off and put the watch back into his pocket. He wondered if the collector had noticed his hand was shaking a little.

"Just wait here for a minute," said the collector. "I'll show you something else you can get on the Internet."

"What's wrong, you look like you've seen a ghost?" said the collector. He had returned wearing an accurate replica of the uniform of a railroad conductor of the late 19th century.

The apprentice was still pale and shaky when he thanked and left the collector. Having lost time by taking the afternoon off, he once again had to face working late and alone in the white-tiled workroom.

This time he left the door unlocked and tried to stay close to it. He turned to his evening's work and said with as much confidence as he could. "Now you stay quiet and we'll get on just fine."

Working more quickly than usual, the apprentice prepared the body and maneuvered it into the coffin without stopping for a break. Thankfully he took out the watch and was pleased to see how early it was. It was then that a sudden coldness in the air made him shiver. He felt himself becoming a little light-headed and rubbed his eyes hard. The fear returned with a dreadful rush when he opened his eyes again.

The scene was changing back and he could see it more clearly this time. Once again, the deceased was in the uniform of a railroad conductor. The room was no longer white-tiled, bare and modern. It was now just like the collector's pictures of railroad waiting rooms of days long gone. But none of these old photos had a dead conductor in a coffin on the table.

"Keep it well wound up. For when it stops you will have to come with me." The ghastly voice alone would have been more than the apprentice could have coped with. This time it was made much worse for the conductor was struggling to sit up in the coffin.

Fear seized the apprentice in its paralyzing grip. The watch slipped from his hand. Time seemed to slow and he had one last terrible moment of realization as his eyes followed the watch all the way down to smash on the floor.

They found him in the morning with a wild look frozen on his face. His lifeless eyes were still staring at the watch.

"That must be when he died," said someone pointing to the time on the watch. "Looks like an unusual timepiece. I wonder if it can be repaired."

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The Timepiece
By glenlee10@sky.com
(Entry #4)
~Runner Up~
Daddy always said he wasn't quite sure which arrived first, the new century or me. I loved to hear the tale of that New Year's Eve when he was sitting alone in the drawing room, counting down the seconds of the old year to the chimes of the old grandfather clock. On the twelfth stroke, he was about to raise a glass of brandy to his lips to welcome in 1900 when he heard a baby squalling from upstairs and the delighted shout from the midwife of, "It's a girl!"

"And that baby was me!" I always finished the story for him.

"And that baby was you," he'd agree and tickle me.

* * *

The grandfather clock stood in the corner of the drawing room, out of the sunlight, to protect its mahogany case from fading. The ceramic face, off-white and crazed by time, was protected by a glass door, which hinged open so that the mechanism could be wound. The hands were long and slender, with the minute hand being only slightly shorter than the other. The numbers were painted in 'real gold' Daddy insisted, and the maker's name was written in italicised lettering underneath the number six. The old clock's face was my first text book and before my fifth birthday I'd learnt to read, "Samuel Deacon : Clockmaker : Barton-in-the-Beans."

I never thought about the clock. It was just there, part of the background of my growing-up years, along with the dining-table, two huge, easy chairs, a bookcase with a glass front, a rug, a standard lamp and a coal fire that was always laid, even if the weather was too warm for it to be lit. The maid cleaned the room daily, moving the heavy furniture with difficulty when required by Mother but always putting it back in exactly the same place afterwards.

The table stood against the wall opposite the window and was covered by chenille cloth. The cloth was the colour of Daddy's port wine and hung nearly to the floor on every side. I spent many hours underneath the table. It was a cave and Daddy was a big grizzly bear. It was a boat and Daddy was the captain, shaking the ends of the cloth, pretending the sails were blowing in the storm. It was a railway carriage and Daddy and I travelled all over the world with my atlas, seeing strange places and peoples. And even when Daddy was at work, it was the place to take my book when I wanted to read. Mummy always knew where to look for me. The ticking of the clock accompanied me on all my voyages. It was the falling of the waters at the Victoria Falls, an instrument in a symphony at the Royal Albert Hall or the chattering of monkeys in a rain forest.

The clock was never allowed to stop. Daddy wound it every week, after tea on Sunday. It was a ritual. I was allowed to watch but not take part. When he had finished, he'd replace the key on top of the case for safekeeping.

Eventually I grew too big to play under the table but I was always Daddy's little girl. He taught me to play chess while Mother sewed and the clock ticked the evenings of our lives away.

When the day came for me to leave home, Mother fussed and worried at me. "Get a move on," she said. "Or you'll be late."

But I knew I wouldn't be late. As long as I left the house at the twelfth stroke of the old clock's chimes, I knew I wouldn't be late for the church. At the half hour, Mother left with my bridesmaids and Daddy and I were alone. Although we were upstairs, in the room in which I had been born twenty-five years ago, we could hear the clock's strong tick-tock. The quarter hour struck and I began to gather together the bits and pieces I needed for the coming ceremony; my bouquet, the new locket my fiancé had given me and my gloves.

We heard the familiar whirr the clock gave before starting to chime the hour and we stood up.

"Love you, Daddy," I said and hugged him.

"Love you too, sweetheart," he replied. "Time to go?"

"Time to go," I nodded.

In the hall, at the eleventh chime, I had time to inspect the slender bride in her white gown in the hall mirror. I tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my era. My reflection did the same. I grasped my bouquet more firmly and left the house as the last chime sounded for noon.

* * *

But time slid by too fast. My husband's time was cut short by consumption after a brief ten years together. My Mother died in 1939, a month before war came to Europe and after the funeral, I returned to the house to stay. It was as though I had never been away. The figure in the hall mirror was dressed in black, that was the only difference. The old clock still kept good time, Daddy still wound it on Sundays and the table was still covered by the chenille cloth. Even the maid was the same. Annie was stouter but still insisted on moving the heavy furniture once a week, "because that was what the missus would have wanted."

After our evening meal, Daddy and I would sit on either side of the fireplace. He'd read aloud snippets from the newspaper about the progress of the war while I sewed. There was always a lot of mending to be done, especially as wartime conditions bit and rationing made life difficult on so many domestic fronts.

Then the war came to our town. The Council had prepared us and the air raid siren was frequently tested, sending a shiver down my spine, but for the most part, the war was far away and our routine was rarely disrupted. Until the night, that is, when the sirens sounded. It was almost ten o'clock, dark and cold outside but warm and snug inside.

Daddy looked up from his newspaper. "That's no test," he said calmly. "Not at this time of night."

The clock whirred and began to strike the hour.

"We must go to the shelter." I leapt to my feet, scattering the sewing things from my lap. "Quickly, Daddy."

He stood up, but his arthritis was bad because of the damp weather and he was too stiff to hurry. I fetched out coats but we were too late. We felt a thump reverberate throughout the house and heard the subdued boom of a bomb exploding nearby.

"The railway siding," Daddy gasped. "They're bombing the railway siding."

I didn't reply. There was another, closer thump and I found myself on my back, looking at a crack that had appeared on the drawing room ceiling. Dust drifted down from the light fixture. I must tell Annie to dust that a little more often I thought.

My senses began to return. "Daddy!" I screamed and rolled over onto my stomach. My father was on his knees. "I'll be fine. I'll be fine," he muttered. "We must take shelter. Under the table. Quick." He crawled under the table and I followed.

We huddled together. "Where's Annie tonight?" Daddy asked. "I heard her go out earlier. Do you think she's safe?"

I put my arm around him, hugged him tight. God alone knew who would be safe and who would not tonight.

We counted another three bombs. The lights went out. Flames from the coal fire glowed through the red tablecloth. This was the worst adventure that Daddy and I had ever had under the table. I think I dozed, leaning against Daddy's side. I was woken by the closet and largest blast of the night. My ears rang. The old clock stopped ticking. The silence was deep, thick, menacing. I had never experienced such a depth of silence. It was finally broken by the crash of masonry falling nearby. I gasped and buried my head in my hands. The vibration stared the clock ticking again and Daddy grasped my hand.

"Do you know," he said. In the slight light from the fire I could see he was smiling. "I was never quite sure which arrived first, you or the new century."

His voice was gentle as he retold the old story and when it was my turn I whispered, "And that baby was me!"

And that baby was you," he said.

We held onto each other until long after the all clear sounded, comforted by the ticking of the old clock and the occasional crackle of coal on the fire.

* * *

Daddy was seventy years of age when the bombs dropped and he seemed to age more quickly after that night. Soon, the stairs were too much for him and I turned the drawing room into his bedroom. The table was stored in an outhouse, to make space for the bed but otherwise the room wasn't changed and we continued to sit on either side of the fire after supper, reading or chatting. I worked as a teacher in a junior school at the time and had many tales to tell about the children and their silly doings and their clever questionings.

Daddy died one Sunday teatime. Old Annie was bustling around piling used cups and plates onto a tea tray. Daddy, who'd closed his eyes for his usual after tea nap, suddenly sat up and said. "The clock!"

I jerked my head round. "What's wrong with the clock?" And when I turned back, Daddy was gone.

Annie dropped the tray and started crying. I knelt at Daddy's side, took his hand and kissed it. Then I stood up, took the key from its place on top of the clock, opened the glass door and for the first time ever, I wound the clock.

"There Daddy," I said. "The clock's fine.

* * *

For the last thirty years I have wound the clock every Sunday. Its ticking may be as strong as ever but I have grown weaker. The bed has been brought back downstairs because I can no longer manage the stairs. The dusting is no longer done as regularly. Annie followed my Father to the cemetery within twelve months. I don't think she recovered from the shock of his sudden death. I miss them both. They were all the family I had.

I think today is Wednesday. My fingers were too stiff to wind the clock last Sunday but I don't know if my old friend has stopped ticking or not. I am too deaf to hear and my eyes are too weak to see its face. The coal fire has gone and I have a gas fire. It's easy to use but dries out the air, making me sleepy all the time. The silence envelops me. It is a strange, quiet world. I was born before Queen Victoria died, when the horse and carriage was the main method of transportation. I have straddled the ages and lived to see a rocket put men on the moon. I think I can be forgiven for sometimes feeling out of place in this new world. The burden of keeping things going is too much for me sometimes. I think I doze….

…to be woken by the drawing room door being thrust heartily open and a loud voice shouting at me.

"Afternoon, Dora," my home help booms. "It's twelve o'clock and your meals-on-wheels has arrived."

I smile. After all, who needs an ancient timepiece, when they have a loud and cheerful person around who counts off the hours of her chores with the precision of a parade-ground sergeant?


The WCA's
The Writers' Choice Awards
Here's how the members of the ACWclub voted for their favorite entries:

First place:
#1

Second place:
#9

Third place:
#4

Fourth place:
#11

Fifth place:
#2

Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.


The Timepiece
Colin Campbell
www.colincampbell.org		 #1 of 12
Winner
1694 words
"How did you get the toupee to stay on?" whispered the new apprentice. He wished the cold, white-tiled workroom behind the funeral parlor could be better lit and the winter rain wouldn't strike so loud on the window.

"Speak up lad it's only the two of us. The dead can't hear and they don't care what we say or do," said the old hand.

"Is there a special way of doing toupees?" the apprentice spoke louder wondering about advances in the craft in the 21st century.

"I was clean out of double-sided tape but I managed to find a couple of masonry nails," said the old hand pointing to a hammer lying on the tiled work bench beside the body. "They don't care and they don't bleed."

The apprentice managed to keep his composure. He said nothing but more of the color drained away from his face and he clasped both hands hard on top of his head.

The old hand worked on in silence. Make-up and a three piece suit soon had the deceased looking something like his old self. The toupee was combed over the nail heads. The body was lifted into the coffin ready for the final adjustments. The apprentice watched carefully partly out of grim fascination and partly mindful that he too would be doing all this one day. He promised himself that he would never let himself run out of double-sided tape.

"This is a real beauty," said the old hand fastening a pocket watch onto the body. "It's marked as a railroad watch. Looks like an old one. It's not gold and neither is the chain but it has to be worth something. Who says you can't take it with you. He's going to. He left special instructions for his own burial. Not many do that."

Soon the deceased was nicely laid out so that respects could be paid before the coffin was closed. One of the relatives asked about the watch but no one knew why he had insisted it should be buried with him.

Someone said. "When he was sick and knew he wasn't going to pull through he seemed to be more concerned about what would happen to the watch than what would happen to his family."

An old aunt said, "It stopped when he died."

Then the old hand was brought back to close the coffin and everyone moved on to the graveside for the interment.

Time passed and the apprentice said nothing when the old hand started coming to work wearing a railroad watch and chain. Soon the grave and the funeral and the life it marked were forgotten like all the others. The old hand got a little older and then he got sick but he had never saved his money so he had to carry on working.

One morning the apprentice arrived and overheard voices in the workroom. They were not speaking loudly so he could only make out parts of the conversation, something about railroads. Not wishing to intrude he didn't go in right away. When he did go in he wished he had gone in earlier. The old hand was alone and lying on the floor with a haunted look. When he saw his young colleague he pointed to the watch lying just out of his reach. He was struggling to speak but his eyes were rolling and the words just wouldn't come out. Barely pausing, the apprentice put the watch in his pocket for safekeeping and called an ambulance. He did his best to remember the little first aid he knew but he saw that death was near.

"Do you want to come to the hospital with your friend?" the ambulance lady asked.

"Thank you but no, he won't know and he won't care," he said for by then he knew death well.

A few days passed and the old hand was back as a customer in the cold, white-tiled workroom. His funeral and the life it marked would soon be forgotten like all the others.

The apprentice waited a few weeks then took the watch for repair for it had stopped when the old hand died. He asked about its background.

"Don't know too much about it myself but there are collectors who specialize in railroad memorabilia. Here's one who brings railroad watches in sometimes," said the watch-repair man digging around in a drawer for a name-card.

The apprentice put the card away to follow up on when time permitted. That night he worked late and alone. He locked the door for he feared the living more than the dead. Few visitors came to the cold, white-tiled workroom and he had drifted into the habit of talking to the deceased as he worked.

"Soon have you nice and comfortable in there," he said nodding towards the waiting coffin. This would not be an easy lift when working alone so he paused for a break first. Some small movement outside caught his attention and he went over to the small window but there was nothing to see in the near darkness except the trees straining in the wind. He took out the watch to check that it was still keeping time after the repair.

"The chain's not right," said a hollow voice behind him.

Fear gripped him at once with icy fingers that dug deep into his back as if to hold him immobile in the path of some horrible and unseen danger. It was with no small effort both physical and mental that he turned towards the voice from beyond the grave.

He felt the air was suddenly colder and saw the scene had changed behind him. The body was lying where it had been but now the tiled work bench had somehow become a plain wooden table. Adding to the terrible strangeness, the deceased was now clothed in some sort of old railway uniform and the whole room was starting to change into something different, something older. He blinked just once and it was all gone with everything back in its proper place.

He backed off towards the door pulling out his key and was glad, very glad to get out of that place. In his panic to secure the door behind him he broke the key in the lock and was unable to lock the workroom behind him. It was with a great fear of being followed that he ran off into the night.

It all seemed so different the next morning. The sun was out. There was time enough before the funeral to finish preparing the body in the coffin. He even managed to pull the broken key out of the lock with a pair of pliers. Perhaps working too hard makes one imagine all sorts of things he thought.

However he took the afternoon off to visit the railroad collector, the one with the card who knew about watches.

The railroad memorabilia collector was pleased to be asked. "Well let's see. It's a conductor's watch marked Western Maryland Rail Road Co. That makes it an old one for they changed the name to Western Maryland Railway Co. in 1902. It's what they call a 'Railroad-grade Pocket Watch'. Now the standard for that didn't come in until 1893. So there you are, it was issued to a conductor on the Western Maryland Rail Road sometime between 1893 and 1902."

The collector's expertise was matched with a deep enthusiasm and he brought out a pile of neatly indexed albums. Together they looked through old photos, newspaper cuttings, and lots more besides all about railroads and railroad watches.

"He wouldn't have worn it on a chain. He would have used a leather FOB strap and probably some sort of leather holder. You can get good replicas on the Internet."

The apprentice took the chain off and put the watch back into his pocket. He wondered if the collector had noticed his hand was shaking a little.

"Just wait here for a minute," said the collector. "I'll show you something else you can get on the Internet."

"What's wrong, you look like you've seen a ghost?" said the collector. He had returned wearing an accurate replica of the uniform of a railroad conductor of the late 19th century.

The apprentice was still pale and shaky when he thanked and left the collector. Having lost time by taking the afternoon off, he once again had to face working late and alone in the white-tiled workroom.

This time he left the door unlocked and tried to stay close to it. He turned to his evening's work and said with as much confidence as he could. "Now you stay quiet and we'll get on just fine."

Working more quickly than usual, the apprentice prepared the body and maneuvered it into the coffin without stopping for a break. Thankfully he took out the watch and was pleased to see how early it was. It was then that a sudden coldness in the air made him shiver. He felt himself becoming a little light-headed and rubbed his eyes hard. The fear returned with a dreadful rush when he opened his eyes again.

The scene was changing back and he could see it more clearly this time. Once again, the deceased was in the uniform of a railroad conductor. The room was no longer white-tiled, bare and modern. It was now just like the collector's pictures of railroad waiting rooms of days long gone. But none of these old photos had a dead conductor in a coffin on the table.

"Keep it well wound up. For when it stops you will have to come with me." The ghastly voice alone would have been more than the apprentice could have coped with. This time it was made much worse for the conductor was struggling to sit up in the coffin.

Fear seized the apprentice in its paralyzing grip. The watch slipped from his hand. Time seemed to slow and he had one last terrible moment of realization as his eyes followed the watch all the way down to smash on the floor.

They found him in the morning with a wild look frozen on his face. His lifeless eyes were still staring at the watch.

"That must be when he died," said someone pointing to the time on the watch. "Looks like an unusual timepiece. I wonder if it can be repaired."

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The Timepiece
Ken Staley
kstaley@gmail.com		 #2 of 12
1503 words
Me and Eddie were broke, no way around it. The landlord was constantly on our butts and no way we had rent money. We had very few places left where we could go and steal a stupid can of spam even. Grocery stores in town got hip to us months ago. No pot to piss in and people looking to cut off our tally-whackers. Then we found the pawn shop.

We’d hit all the regular pawn places in town - hell - like I said, we were well known, on a first name basis in most of the owners, whose first words were likely to be “get the HELL outta here!” At All States Pawn, we could walk down the aisle and point out those things that once furnished our apartment. Eddie’s stereo, my portable TV, even the electric razor we shared. We knew every shop. We had that page of the phone book taped on the wall, even though the phone had been disconnected three months ago. The phone was an old dial up clunker or we’d have hocked it ages ago. Nobody wanted it any more, like us.

We stepped into an alley in that part of town, a part we normally avoided because it was likely to be our next living arrangements after our pending eviction. Tenements of cardboard - of stolen construction plywood - of 8 mil black plastic - fought for room in burned out husks that were once somebody’s small business dream. Steam from the grates wafted the odor of urine…and worse…into the street. Derelicts of society lined the alley with whatever garbage they didn’t use or eat. While we were almost there, we weren’t quite willing to start shopping for packing crates just yet.

Three brass balls hung from a neat shop in the middle of this drek.

“How long’s this place been here?” Eddie asked.

We stopped - actually stared at the place. We thought we’d hit every pawn place we knew.

“Dunno,” I said. “We don’t come down here. Remember?”

Three bells twinkled above the door - that was the first thing I noticed. Each had a different tone. No security cameras, no bars on the windows or door - that was the second thing I noticed. Pawn shops had security measures that would make a bank blush. Most clerks had loaded weapons in plain sight as well.

Not here.

No cage, no shelves of used goods hiding behind chicken wire - no stinking, cigar smoking manager in a stained tee shirt to follow our every move. Just a small gentleman in a bow tie sitting at a desk reading a book, holding court on an empty store.

“Where’s the stuff?” Eddie asked.

“Stuff?” His kind brown eyes looked full of tears, like he was ready to cry.

“Yeah,” I said. “You know. Stuff. Tools, stereos, junk like that.”

“Oh, we don’t do that here,” he said as he returned to his book.

Eddie walked around the empty shop, stopping here and there. Maybe he thought that the stuff was invisible, hiding under the rug, maybe in a back room where he needed a secret password to get in.

“Well, what do you sell?” Eddie asked.

“Only that which people most desperately desire,” the proprietor said without looking up.

“Sex?” Eddie asked.

“Perhaps in another shop,” the old man smiled, but his was a sad smile.

“What do you need?” I asked. “Maybe we got some stuff that will help you get started.”

This old fart had obviously just opened his shop and needed some inventory. Everything of value we had was gone, but perhaps he’d be desperate enough to look at junk rejected by the other shops.

The old clerk looked up from his reading and closed his book, marking his place carefully.

“Do you use illicit narcotics?” He asked.

“You a cop?” Eddie asked as he backed towards the door.

“Do I fit the physical requirements?” He smiled and rose from his stool, holding his arms away from his sides.

Of course not. He was just about the shortest man I ever saw wearing long pants. A brown cardigan sweater hung from him like he was a walking clothes hanger. Every button was buttoned tight - all the way up to the top. He’d pulled his pants up past his navel, almost to his armpits. The crown of his head was bald and splotched with liver spots like a painter’s well used pallet.

“No,” I sighed. “We don’t do drugs.”

Not our own, I should have added. Sometimes we could bum a hit there or a toke now and then, never really enough for a buzz. We didn’t do drugs because we couldn’t afford to eat, much less anything more exotic. Hell, we had a hard time just getting three meals on a regular basis.

“The contract is fairly simple,” the old buzzard said as he slid papers to the edge of his desk, one for each of us. I scanned the page quickly. He was right, there were no hidden tricks. It was a straight signature sale, no redemption involved.

“What are we selling?” I asked, looking for a blood donor’s table, a plasma bench, anything to give me a clue. The shop held nothing.

“Your time,” the old man said simply.

“Hey,” Eddie pushed the papers away. “We aren’t looking for work here.”

“I am not offering employment,” the old man said.

“Time - like what kind of time?”

“I buy time in three minute blocks,” the old man explained. “Simply put, I buy a piece of your life, three minutes at a time.”

“How much?” Eddie demanded.

Me, I wanted to leave. Soon as Eddie discovered it wasn’t going to require any effort on his part, he was ready to deal.

“Five thousand dollars a minute.”

“FIVE!?” Eddie stammered. “Five thou? Really?”

“Line sixteen of the contract discusses remuneration,” he pointed to the place on the page, towards the center.

“An hour, five K a block . . .” Eddie’s voice trailed off as he tried to calculate the total.

“Sorry,” the old man said. “There is a fifteen minute limit.”

We signed. What else could we do?

Eddie went crazy after that and blew through twenty-five thou in less than a week. You name it, Eddie headed over that edge. New apartment – booze – he stayed away from drugs so he could sell more but a woman or two - a good car all fit his immediate plan. With little effort on his part, twenty-five thou was gone and he went back for more, at least twice that I know of.

I went back to school. I always managed to put off going back until the money was simply an insurmountable complication. Until the Pawn Shop , that is.

The first event happened in the middle of class. It wasn’t a big thing, just a sharp pain in the chest. It was over so quickly - less than 15 seconds - that I wondered if it occurred at all. The second event lasted a bit longer – say 35 seconds - enough time passed that I lost consciousness right in the middle of my history class. People gathered around, watching, waiting. A couple kids knelt beside me, but looked lost, like they hadn’t a clue what was happening.

They weren’t alone. One minute – fine – not a care in the world but boring U. S History and the Civil War. Next minute – wham – flat on my ass in the aisle. Then, like waking up out of a really deep, dreamless sleep. Just – there. No other way to put it.

I heard the whispers.

“Drunk.”

“Dope.”

Lots of things.

“Is he ok?”

“Is he breathing?”

“Should we call someone?”

I was fine. Most moved back out of my way when I opened my eyes and sat up, almost instantly. I Shocked them, I think. Scared me. I mean, how in hell did I get there? On the floor? I was at my desk - and then - I wasn’t.

I went back to the pawn shop. Just once. The shop was still there, same alley, same part of town.

“Of course,” the old man nodded as he pulled my contract from his files. “Of course we take your time. You gave us a block, two in fact. Here, check the tally sheet.”

There it was, in bright red letters.

“Monday – 2: 45 pm 15 seconds.

Wednesday 11:28 am 37 seconds.”

“No warning?”

“No, no warning,” the old man shook his head and pointed to line 27 of the contract. “…without prior notification…” in legalese jingoistic gobble-de-gook.

“How? Why?”

I didn’t need the explanation. I knew. There were people in this world - important people, influential people, powerful people, people of means and money - who needed just a few extra seconds, perhaps as much as a minute. Those precious seconds, painful to me, were priceless to them. And my pain, less than 1 minute, would drag through me like a knife.

“But there is a set time limit,” he reminded me that table two, and line 53 stipulated how much time could be expended in one withdrawal by the shop.

Up to three minutes.

“You see, the mind begins to deteriorate after three minutes,” the old man smiled. “We need you healthy and active.”

29 minutes to worry now.

Poor Eddie.

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The Timepiece
Salvatore Buttaci
sambpoet@yahoo.com		 #3 of 12
102 words
Pretend miles above the abyss it's the branch
you are holding onto as you hang suspended
or the claw of a gargantuan beast held high
in the air as its thundering shrieks deafen you.

The desk clock's minute hand moves quicker than the eye,
unlike the second hand that chases numbers in circles
like serial lovers who dizzy themselves in failed relationships,
knocking down heart throbs as they stomp through time.

You hang on to the hefty black blade of the sword
lifting moment to moment as it slashes
determinedly towards the peak of the hour.
If you release your hands, time will run out.

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The Timepiece
glenlee10@sky.com		 #4 of 12
Runner-up
2144 words
Daddy always said he wasn't quite sure which arrived first, the new century or me. I loved to hear the tale of that New Year's Eve when he was sitting alone in the drawing room, counting down the seconds of the old year to the chimes of the old grandfather clock. On the twelfth stroke, he was about to raise a glass of brandy to his lips to welcome in 1900 when he heard a baby squalling from upstairs and the delighted shout from the midwife of, "It's a girl!"

"And that baby was me!" I always finished the story for him.

"And that baby was you," he'd agree and tickle me.

* * *

The grandfather clock stood in the corner of the drawing room, out of the sunlight, to protect its mahogany case from fading. The ceramic face, off-white and crazed by time, was protected by a glass door, which hinged open so that the mechanism could be wound. The hands were long and slender, with the minute hand being only slightly shorter than the other. The numbers were painted in 'real gold' Daddy insisted, and the maker's name was written in italicised lettering underneath the number six. The old clock's face was my first text book and before my fifth birthday I'd learnt to read, "Samuel Deacon : Clockmaker : Barton-in-the-Beans."

I never thought about the clock. It was just there, part of the background of my growing-up years, along with the dining-table, two huge, easy chairs, a bookcase with a glass front, a rug, a standard lamp and a coal fire that was always laid, even if the weather was too warm for it to be lit. The maid cleaned the room daily, moving the heavy furniture with difficulty when required by Mother but always putting it back in exactly the same place afterwards.

The table stood against the wall opposite the window and was covered by chenille cloth. The cloth was the colour of Daddy's port wine and hung nearly to the floor on every side. I spent many hours underneath the table. It was a cave and Daddy was a big grizzly bear. It was a boat and Daddy was the captain, shaking the ends of the cloth, pretending the sails were blowing in the storm. It was a railway carriage and Daddy and I travelled all over the world with my atlas, seeing strange places and peoples. And even when Daddy was at work, it was the place to take my book when I wanted to read. Mummy always knew where to look for me. The ticking of the clock accompanied me on all my voyages. It was the falling of the waters at the Victoria Falls, an instrument in a symphony at the Royal Albert Hall or the chattering of monkeys in a rain forest.

The clock was never allowed to stop. Daddy wound it every week, after tea on Sunday. It was a ritual. I was allowed to watch but not take part. When he had finished, he'd replace the key on top of the case for safekeeping.

Eventually I grew too big to play under the table but I was always Daddy's little girl. He taught me to play chess while Mother sewed and the clock ticked the evenings of our lives away.

When the day came for me to leave home, Mother fussed and worried at me. "Get a move on," she said. "Or you'll be late."

But I knew I wouldn't be late. As long as I left the house at the twelfth stroke of the old clock's chimes, I knew I wouldn't be late for the church. At the half hour, Mother left with my bridesmaids and Daddy and I were alone. Although we were upstairs, in the room in which I had been born twenty-five years ago, we could hear the clock's strong tick-tock. The quarter hour struck and I began to gather together the bits and pieces I needed for the coming ceremony; my bouquet, the new locket my fiancé had given me and my gloves.

We heard the familiar whirr the clock gave before starting to chime the hour and we stood up.

"Love you, Daddy," I said and hugged him.

"Love you too, sweetheart," he replied. "Time to go?"

"Time to go," I nodded.

In the hall, at the eleventh chime, I had time to inspect the slender bride in her white gown in the hall mirror. I tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my era. My reflection did the same. I grasped my bouquet more firmly and left the house as the last chime sounded for noon.

* * *

But time slid by too fast. My husband's time was cut short by consumption after a brief ten years together. My Mother died in 1939, a month before war came to Europe and after the funeral, I returned to the house to stay. It was as though I had never been away. The figure in the hall mirror was dressed in black, that was the only difference. The old clock still kept good time, Daddy still wound it on Sundays and the table was still covered by the chenille cloth. Even the maid was the same. Annie was stouter but still insisted on moving the heavy furniture once a week, "because that was what the missus would have wanted."

After our evening meal, Daddy and I would sit on either side of the fireplace. He'd read aloud snippets from the newspaper about the progress of the war while I sewed. There was always a lot of mending to be done, especially as wartime conditions bit and rationing made life difficult on so many domestic fronts.

Then the war came to our town. The Council had prepared us and the air raid siren was frequently tested, sending a shiver down my spine, but for the most part, the war was far away and our routine was rarely disrupted. Until the night, that is, when the sirens sounded. It was almost ten o'clock, dark and cold outside but warm and snug inside.

Daddy looked up from his newspaper. "That's no test," he said calmly. "Not at this time of night."

The clock whirred and began to strike the hour.

"We must go to the shelter." I leapt to my feet, scattering the sewing things from my lap. "Quickly, Daddy."

He stood up, but his arthritis was bad because of the damp weather and he was too stiff to hurry. I fetched out coats but we were too late. We felt a thump reverberate throughout the house and heard the subdued boom of a bomb exploding nearby.

"The railway siding," Daddy gasped. "They're bombing the railway siding."

I didn't reply. There was another, closer thump and I found myself on my back, looking at a crack that had appeared on the drawing room ceiling. Dust drifted down from the light fixture. I must tell Annie to dust that a little more often I thought.

My senses began to return. "Daddy!" I screamed and rolled over onto my stomach. My father was on his knees. "I'll be fine. I'll be fine," he muttered. "We must take shelter. Under the table. Quick." He crawled under the table and I followed.

We huddled together. "Where's Annie tonight?" Daddy asked. "I heard her go out earlier. Do you think she's safe?"

I put my arm around him, hugged him tight. God alone knew who would be safe and who would not tonight.

We counted another three bombs. The lights went out. Flames from the coal fire glowed through the red tablecloth. This was the worst adventure that Daddy and I had ever had under the table. I think I dozed, leaning against Daddy's side. I was woken by the closet and largest blast of the night. My ears rang. The old clock stopped ticking. The silence was deep, thick, menacing. I had never experienced such a depth of silence. It was finally broken by the crash of masonry falling nearby. I gasped and buried my head in my hands. The vibration stared the clock ticking again and Daddy grasped my hand.

"Do you know," he said. In the slight light from the fire I could see he was smiling. "I was never quite sure which arrived first, you or the new century."

His voice was gentle as he retold the old story and when it was my turn I whispered, "And that baby was me!"

And that baby was you," he said.

We held onto each other until long after the all clear sounded, comforted by the ticking of the old clock and the occasional crackle of coal on the fire.

* * *

Daddy was seventy years of age when the bombs dropped and he seemed to age more quickly after that night. Soon, the stairs were too much for him and I turned the drawing room into his bedroom. The table was stored in an outhouse, to make space for the bed but otherwise the room wasn't changed and we continued to sit on either side of the fire after supper, reading or chatting. I worked as a teacher in a junior school at the time and had many tales to tell about the children and their silly doings and their clever questionings.

Daddy died one Sunday teatime. Old Annie was bustling around piling used cups and plates onto a tea tray. Daddy, who'd closed his eyes for his usual after tea nap, suddenly sat up and said. "The clock!"

I jerked my head round. "What's wrong with the clock?" And when I turned back, Daddy was gone.

Annie dropped the tray and started crying. I knelt at Daddy's side, took his hand and kissed it. Then I stood up, took the key from its place on top of the clock, opened the glass door and for the first time ever, I wound the clock.

"There Daddy," I said. "The clock's fine.

* * *

For the last thirty years I have wound the clock every Sunday. Its ticking may be as strong as ever but I have grown weaker. The bed has been brought back downstairs because I can no longer manage the stairs. The dusting is no longer done as regularly. Annie followed my Father to the cemetery within twelve months. I don't think she recovered from the shock of his sudden death. I miss them both. They were all the family I had.

I think today is Wednesday. My fingers were too stiff to wind the clock last Sunday but I don't know if my old friend has stopped ticking or not. I am too deaf to hear and my eyes are too weak to see its face. The coal fire has gone and I have a gas fire. It's easy to use but dries out the air, making me sleepy all the time. The silence envelops me. It is a strange, quiet world. I was born before Queen Victoria died, when the horse and carriage was the main method of transportation. I have straddled the ages and lived to see a rocket put men on the moon. I think I can be forgiven for sometimes feeling out of place in this new world. The burden of keeping things going is too much for me sometimes. I think I doze….

…to be woken by the drawing room door being thrust heartily open and a loud voice shouting at me.

"Afternoon, Dora," my home help booms. "It's twelve o'clock and your meals-on-wheels has arrived."

I smile. After all, who needs an ancient timepiece, when they have a loud and cheerful person around who counts off the hours of her chores with the precision of a parade-ground sergeant?

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The Timepiece
Heather Lazarus
lazdom@ono.com		 #5 of 12
260 words
You could almost see his steps, fit your feet

into the space he left behind. Just about see him,

as he reached to wind the clock once its song started to slur

when it seemed time too would warble and slow.

Back when you moved faster than the click-click-click,

when minutes were still lifetimes. And then,

the way you learned to not listen

during the day, when we were so industrious.

Its calling the quarter-hours, of unsent letters

and missed busses, of something leaving

like that long final note wavering as if it wanted to stay.

And the way that at night it was all you could hear

the hours walking the darkened hallways

stretching gracefully like cats

after a harsh days’ shrinking, its chime

a low could-have-been, always marking

the past, the almost-forgotten, the not yet cleared away.

And there was always another round, the stoic little sticks

lying and crossing, left beyond their time but for their beauty.

And now the key is mine, thick but not as strong

as I’d remembered. Soon my slippers will shuffle with the effort,

my muttering incomprehensible, like my father’s before me,

when it comes time to wind. The shaky turns,

the noisy forcing of each tooth in time’s grimace

back into place, reminding me

of your gentle ribbing, how I used to hate it

when you’d push me back into myself.

The key returned, I breathe

as the gears ease through the minutes

set free to speed into nothingness,

their empty whir brushing past my cheek, through my bones,

through your absence coating the walls. The click-click-click

marking my steps through the hollow house,

reminding me of what will come

if I let the hands go still.

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The Timepiece
lins.writing@yahoo.com		 #6 of 12
2459 words
The snow swirled around my feet, as I stood silent before Grandpa Edgar. The leaves, long gone from the branches, danced among the pillars in the courtyard giving me something at which to look, other than into the eyes of the old man. I had nowhere to go and no explanation as to why this was happening. Mom and Dad’s funeral had been only two days ago and I hurt all over; my insides hurt like someone punched me in the gut, it even hurt to breath. I thought maybe if I came out where we had so much fun making a snowman, it would all be a dream and everything would go back the way it was. Grandpa found me crying, hugging the snowman, a cold wet snowman. I felt stupid; I’m a fifteen-year-old guy and hugging a snowman. How silly could that be?

“Jesse, look at me. I would like to tell you the pain will go away and all will be well. I can’t. Oh, the hurt may lessen, even change into memories, but the ache will not go away.” He looked at his pocket watch and closed it. “A timepiece, watch, clock, what are they used to measure? The calculation of how long we do whatever? Go, into the house with you before you catch cold.”

I turned towards the house to go but couldn’t. I fell into his arms and cried.

“Grandpa, I miss them so much.”

“Yes, me too. Your Great Grandpa Axel told me this when his dad past away. ‘What if I said I’d be there and left you in my dust? What if I stood with you, His assurance, and His trust?’ Do you know what he meant?”

“He wouldn’t leave you but would stand with you all the way, just like God is with us always?”

“Yes, now you should get to bed, it’s getting late.”

I walked up the path, into the house, and looked out the window at Grandpa. He appeared to be watching the snow build up around the trees then followed my steps to the door, stamped his feet, shook his head, and came in.

“Thanks Grandpa, goodnight.”

++

Things at school were hard for the next few months. I started hanging around with Claude. He had a limp from breaking his leg after crashing his four-wheeler while attempting a jump. Most kids ignored him because he was so self- absorbed. I thought maybe if I could get him to understand God didn’t do this to him, he wouldn’t get into so much trouble. So far, it hadn’t worked; he still thought only of himself, with his oh-woe-is-me attitude.

“Hey Jesse, lets go out to the Lower End tonight and see if anything’s happening. It’s Friday and maybe we can get lucky.”

“Is that all you think about? Getting lucky? I don’t think getting a girl pregnant or catching an STD, or the worst STD - AIDS, is lucky.”

“Well, you gonna come or not? You can sit by the fire if you want. I’m sure there are other scaredy cats coming.”

“I’ll be there.” We called it the Lower End because it was a dead end road out in the boonies. It wasn’t far from home and I could walk it in fifteen minutes. Most of the kids came just to hang out, but lately some came and brought beer. I thought it was stupid and didn’t indulge.

Now I had to talk Grandpa into letting me stay out later than 10:30. He usually listened to reason. I only had to find a reason to which he’d listen.

“Hi Grandpa. How’s it goin’? Did you go fishing today?”

“Yes, but didn’t catch any. I even told the Lord I’d invite the pastor for a fish dinner if I caught a bunch.”

“I remember going fishing with Dad, he said the same thing when he didn’t catch anything.”

“Yep, Grandpa Axel always said, ‘What if I donate a bit, as if it’s all I could afford? What if I took one tenth of what I have, gave it to my Lord?’ Do you know what he meant?”

“Yes, he was talking about tithing and giving back to God what was already His.”

“That’s mostly right. Remember, giving is between you and God, and He knows how much is fair and how you’re giving… where it’s coming from, your heart or you pocket book.”

I didn’t know if the timing was right but couldn’t wait any longer and had to ask.

“Grandpa, I think my curfew is outdated. Could I stay out until 11:00? It’s only a half hour later.”

“What’s so important you can’t get it done by 10:30?”

“Nothing, I guess, but it’s only a half hour.”

Grandpa turned and walked away. I wasn’t sure if he agreed or not but he didn’t say no.

The Lower End filled to capacity, started to get noisy. Beer was in great supply and some kids were drunk.

“Hello, Jesse!” Come on and have a beer. I’d like you to meet my new girlfriend. What you say your name is?”

“Cassandra, Cassie to you,” she replied giggling.

“Claude, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No. Is there ever enough? Come on Cassie let’s go over there and get to know each other better.”

I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere with him, and Ezekiel, Zeke for short, was sitting alone off to one side of the fire.

“Zeke, what’s happening?”

“Nothing, I don’t think I’ll stay much longer--too noisy and I’m supposed to be home by eleven, and it’s getting close.”

“Yeah, me too.”

We started walking when I saw flashing lights coming down the road.

“COPS! Scatter!” I yelled and took off running down the hill towards home but I wasn’t fast enough and got caught. The cop let me go after I took a breathalyzer that registered nothing. I went straight home and came up the walk when Grandpa opened the door and stood on the porch.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Grandpa asked opening his pocket watch.

“I’m not sure what I’ve done to upset you.”

“You’re 15 years old and it’s 11:00 o’clock at night--a little late, don’t you think?”

“It’s Friday night, I thought we had agreed 11:00 o’clock would be curfew.”

“No, you decided it would be 11:00 and I didn’t respond. You’re thirty minutes late so next time you will be in the house thirty minutes early, 10:00.”

“Yes sir.” I went into the house and to my room quietly, knowing he was right. I listened by my door and heard him whispering as he came upstairs.

“Lord, what am I supposed to do with this young one who has a mind of his own and doesn’t understand I put rules in effect for a reason? When will he see the truth that all must pay for mistakes made, even if it’s years in the future? Open his heart to you. Allow him to make wise choices now, enabling him to receive all your blessings in the years to come,” Grandpa prayed.

Saturday morning at breakfast, I told him about the party being busted but left out the part about being caught. He sat without speaking for a few minutes, then opened his watch and asked me if I had any beer.

“No, Grandpa. That’s plain foolish. You let me taste it and I didn’t like it at all.”

“Grandpa Axel had a saying for that too. ‘What if I follow the ways of the world and never putting up a fight? What if He uses The Timepiece, measures how long it takes to see the light?’ What does it mean?”

“The ways of the world aren’t always the right way?”

“Yep, and to what does ‘see the light’ refer?”

“God’s way.”

“Remember it,” he said, and went back to eating his breakfast.

++

The guests from the graduation party had finally left, leaving the two of them sitting alone in the living room.

“Congratulations, my boy.” Grandpa said looking at his watch. “You received your diploma, and you did it by yourself. I’m proud of you for all the hard work and effort put into your studies.”

“I didn’t do it myself. You had everything to do with it. You kept on me until I thought you were nuts and wanted to drive me there with you. Your determination and coaching urged me on. Thanks, Grandpa, for being there all the time and for believing in me.”

“Remember when you were only fifteen and came home late? I didn’t budge on the rules then and consistently stood firm in truth, yet with compassion. You must do the same with the rest of your life. You set high goals for yourself. With a little coaching from me, and many prayers, you will accomplish the first of your dreams, college. Don’t let the world bog you down with all its mediocre melodrama, insisting the little things don’t matter; they do. If you don’t keep the little things in life pure, the rest of your dreams will wither and die, leaving you with nothing. Usually, the big decisions are easy to make because it’s evident what is right, but the small things tend to be harder because it’s painless to bend the rules to get by, with no one the wiser… except you and God. When that happens, you will find it simpler each time to make slip shod choices. However, if you pray before making the final assessment, you’ll know which way to go. You’ll do fine in college. Grandpa Axel said, ‘What if I walked the wide road of success, according to the world? What if I used the lonely path and came to the summit unfurled?’”

“I know what that means. The road to success isn’t always easy to follow. Just because the rest of the world walks down the wide path, doesn’t make it the right way. The narrow road can be lonely, but it is the right course.”

“Yes, and it’s getting late, I think I’ll be going off to bed. Leave the mess--I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

Grandpa stood, looked again at his watch, and went upstairs to his room.

++

Life at the university proved to be as difficult as I could imagine. The curriculum wasn’t the only hard part. Everyone came from a different back round and belief system. Some of the students were wealthy and thought they could buy their way to a degree, while others thought it was ‘party time’. Claude was still one of the drinkers, and Zeke, one of the rich but he wouldn’t even think of buying his way. He strengthened me with his constant studying and urging me to do the same. It helped but I still was falling behind. I had a girlfriend, Fay and she took up more time than my studies. It was a loosing battle no matter which way I went.

“Grandpa, I think I may drop one of my classes. I took far more than I could handle.”

“You do what you must, but remember you’ll eventually have to have all the classes to get your degree,” he replied, closing his watch. “It may be the late nights you’ve been keeping have hindered you.”

“I think I’ve figured that out, but a little too late to catch up with what I’ve missed. I didn’t think there would be this much research. Fay has been helping me but she has her own work to do.”

“You still have almost two years to catch up. Make the most of the time allotted. Grandpa Axel had a saying for this too. ‘What if I made it to the top by treading on a peer? What if I employed the Word to make my objective clear?’”

“Don’t worry, Grandpa. I study, pray, and step on nobody in the process.”

The following summer session, I took the classes I’d dropped during the school year, bringing me back in line for graduation the subsequent year. Fay and I were becoming serious, and talking about marriage, but Grandpa said we should wait until after graduation. She had another whole year to go after I finished. I didn’t think we could wait that long. One night we had a big fight, she said we should live together and make sure we could make a go of marriage. Everything I’d been taught told me no that wasn’t the right way to do things but gave in and moved in with her. I told Grandpa I was going to live on campus for a few weeks to catch up on my thesis.

The first week wasn’t bad, but the second week she started in on why I didn’t have supper ready when she had a late class, or was I ever going to do the dishes or the laundry. I tried to keep up with all my work and whatever she wanted but it never was enough. She didn’t seem to be doing any better on the dishes or laundry than me either. At least I put my dirty clothes in the hamper. That was one of the reasons I didn’t do her laundry, I never new what was clean. She also wanted to know if we were ever going to sleep together. I told her not until we were married. From the beginning of our relationship, she never quite grasped the purity concept. By the third week I knew we weren’t meant to be more than friends and because I valued our friendship, I moved back home.

I came home the evening before graduation from college to find Grandpa sitting in the living room staring at his watch.

“Is something wrong, Grandpa?”

“Nothing, Jesse. I was recalling when Grandpa Axel gave me this watch. He told me to remember its only use is to measure the passage of time. As you embark on a new path, I thought it only fitting to share more words of wisdom he shared with me. ‘What if I moved in circles of the rich but ended cold, dreary? What if I helped the down trodden and offered rest for the weary? What if I took the narrow road, ended with nary a penny? What if I followed His example? I’d surely need not any”’ Do you know what he meant?”

“I think I do, but you tell me.”

“Well, I think he meant that every time I look at The Timepiece, I should be aware of the passage of time. I must prudently use every minute I have.”

“I start my new position on Monday at Dempsey, Janus and Stanley. It’ll be a big change going from the mailroom to one of the offices upstairs. Hopefully, I’ll remember all you’ve taught me and make you proud.”

“I am proud of you. I now pass The Timepiece on to you to measure your time here on earth wisely, and I give you Grandpa Axel’s final words. ’What if I ask, hope and pray with all my heart, remaining ever fervent? Will at the end the words I hear be, “Welcome my good and faithful servant?’”

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The Timepiece
Michael
michaelpelc@yahoo.com		 #7 of 12
2202 words
Hoddington H. Smith was born, as the expression goes, with a silver spoon in his mouth, his ancestors having arrived in the new world on a ship of no lesser importance than the Mayflower itself. Taking their cue from that first Smith, successive generations of the family parlayed their early arrival into a considerable accumulation of wealth, land, power and privilege. Unfortunately for the current generation, however, the adage about one bad apple spoiling the whole bunch was as applicable to genealogy as it was to the principles of food storage. In Hoddington's case, that bad apple was his father, Lucien Earl Smith. In a matter of months the man had pissed away everything his ancestors had taken three centuries to acquire.

So it was that by the time Hoddington assumed stewardship of the family finances with the passing of his father, the only tangible remnants of what had once been a sizeable fortune consisted of a bungalow on the lower cape, a trust fund that provided for a small staff of servants, and an old table clock of undetermined origin that never seemed to run right.

Smith hated that clock. He hated the way it looked, he hated the way it worked, and he hated what it stood for. But most of all, he hated what it was doing to him.

"You're going to be the death of me one of these days," he was heard to scream on more than one occasion, wagging a gnarled, arthritic finger at the clock as it sat across from him at the dinner table.

The servants, of course, thought the old man to be quite mad. The more educated among them would whisper of Alzheimers or senility or dementia. The more religious believed they were bearing witness to the work of the devil. Both groups were careful to keep their opinions to themselves. A man who has dinner conversations with his clock is not a man to be taken lightly.

In contrast to the servants, Herr Sterbenzeit, who lived in a one-bedroom apartment above his watch repair shop on the mainland, considered Smith to be a godsend. If he believed in fairy tales, which he did not, Sterbenzeit would have thought the man to be the reincarnation of the goose that laid the golden egg. Smith's eccentricities provided a regular stream of income for Sterbenzeit, calling as he did at all hours of the day and night to demand that the watchmaker attend immediately to the needs of his clock.

"It's running too slow," Smith would say, his speech slurred, his voice frail and weak. "It's losing time, I tell you, Herr Sterbenzeit. The bloody thing is losing time. As you know, I can not abide a clock that loses things so. You must come at once, my good man, and make the wretched beast run properly."

As often as Smith would call to complain that his clock was too slow, he would call to say it was too fast.

"It's running much too quickly," he would say, his manner highly animated. "If I were younger like you, it wouldn't matter so much. But at my age, Herr Sterbenzeit, I cannot keep up with such a clock. You must do something immediately before I find myself rather completely out of breath."

It was not uncommon for Sterbenzeit to make three or four trips a week out to the old man's place to service the antique timepiece. Consequently, there was nothing unusual about the phone call he received late one night last October. Judging by the hour – it was half past midnight - Sterbenzeit was certain it was Smith. No doubt something was wrong with the clock again. Too fast, too slow, too loud. Whatever it was, as always it was something that couldn't wait until morning.

"Herr Sterbenzeit?" An unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line mangled the pronunciation of his name. "Mister Smith says you must come very fast. It is, he says, emergency. You understand, yes?"

In a battery-powered world of Swatches, Timexes and throw-away Casios, there wasn't much demand for watch repairmen any more. Customers like Smith were to be cultivated, their whims and idiosyncrasies courteously attended to, regardless of the hour or the inconvenience. As always, Sterbenzeit dropped what he was doing – in this case sleeping – and headed out to see what was bothering the old man this time.

A thousand thoughts flashed through Sterbenzeit's mind as he made his way over the Bourne bridge and out onto the cape. Why didn't the old man call himself? It wasn't like him to have one of the servants call. Not at this hour, and not when it involved that precious clock of his. But what if it wasn't a servant who had called? What if it was family, a distant relative? What if there wasn't anything wrong with the clock, but instead, there was something wrong with Smith? The man was old and in poor health. He wheezed when he spoke and he had a chronic cough that rattled the bones. Sterbenzeit wondered if he should have asked if an ambulance was needed before he got out on the road, but it was too late for that now. He was already at the Tupper Road turn off.

Smith's longtime cook, a stocky woman named Marisol, was standing at the end of the driveway frantically waving a flashlight. Sterbenzeit pulled to a stop and opened the door for the woman to get in. She spoke rapidly in broken English, "You must hurry. Mr. Smith, he very upset. Me never see him like this before. He walking around, how you say, en la azotea. Me afraid he going to jump."

Sterbenzeit pushed down hard on the accelerator and sped up the long gravel driveway toward the isolated house.

As he emerged from his car, Sterbenzeit spotted the shivering outline of the old man huddled precariously on the roof. His feet were propped against the gutter and he cradled the clock in his arms, holding it as if it were a newborn baby.

"Hallo. Mr. Smith," Sterbenzeit called out.

"Herr Sterbenzeit, is that you? Why, how very kind of you to come, sir." Smith spoke as non-chalantly if he were chatting with an old friend at a cocktail party he was hosting.

Sterbenzeit turned to the cook standing beside him. "Marisol, have you called the police yet?" he whispered.

"La Policia? No Señor, I call you. I do wrong?"

"No, no, Marisol. That's fine. You did the right thing. But now I want you to go call the police. All right?"

"La Policia. Si, Señor." Marisol crossed herself and hurried into the house.

"Tell me, Herr Sterbenzeit," Smith went on chatting from his perch atop the roof, "in all the years that you've been fixing clocks, did you ever stop to think about time?"

"Of course. I could not fix a clock without knowing the time."

"Ah, Herr Sterbenzeit, so predictable. So down to earth. So grounded in the here and now, as it were. Alas, I must say I envy you in your little world of precisely defined temporal increments."

"Sir?"

"You see, Herr Sterbenzeit, when I asked you about time I was referring to it in the broad, philosophical sense. Not an 8:02 or 6:15 kind of time. Or whatever time it is now, for that matter. No, you see, those are just little times, Herr Sterbenzeit. Quite frankly – and forgive me here for being so blunt to a skilled craftsman such as yourself – but those little times are not very important at all when you think about it."

"I'm afraid I still don't understand, sir. Shall I come up? Would that help?"

"Oh, please do, Herr Sterbenzeit. As you can see, I've taken the liberty of saving you a place here beside me." Smith patted the roof next to where he was sitting. "It's got quite the lovely view. Why I dare say, you can see nigh on to forever from up here."

Sterbenzeit went into the house and made his way up to one of the windows on the second floor.

"Now mind your step there, Herr Sterbenzeit. I'm afraid there's been a bit of a mist blowing in off the water this evening. Makes the footing quite treacherous, you know."

Sterbenzeit eased his way out the window and crawled on his hands and knees over to where Smith was sitting. The old man's scraggly gray hair was plastered down flat against his skull, suggesting that he'd been on the roof for some time. His pajamas were soaked through to the skin. The garments clung so tightly to his bony frame that it was possible to count the old man's ribs. Sterbenzeit had the impression he'd seen more meat on a skeleton than what Smith had to offer.

"And how's the clock?" asked Sterbenzeit, not being at all sure what to say to an eccentric old man sitting on the roof in the middle of the night. "Is it running well?"

"Not a whit, sir, not a whit. I dare say there's been neither a tick nor a tock of any significance since a quarter past two this afternoon."

"I could fix that if you'd like."

"What is it they say, Herr Sterbenzeit – the joke about the broken clock – how does it go exactly?"

"You mean how even a broken clock is right twice a day?"

"Yes, that's it. That's the one. No, Herr Sterbenzeit, I think that would be quite adequate, being right but twice a day. No need to fix a clock like that, now is there? Not when time itself never changes."

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you mean, when you say time doesn't change. A couple minutes ago it was not quite two in the morning," Sterbenzeit paused to look at his watch, "and now it's a little past. That's a change, isn't it?"

"Oh, we may admire the way a second hand sweeps gracefully across the face of a Bulova. Never stopping, never backing up, never even pausing for a moment to catch its breath. And all the while teasing us with the illusion that another moment or two has passed us by on its way to eternity. But really, Herr Sterbenzeit, when you think about it – really think about it - everything is the same as it was. You are still you and I am still me and tomorrow is as far away today as it was yesterday."

"I really wouldn't know about that, Mr. Smith. Perhaps if you explained it to me inside, out of the weather …"

"Take this clock, for example." Smith went on, ignoring Sterbenzeit's suggestion. "It's old, as you well know. So let's pretend – just for the sake of argument – that this is the very first clock that ever was, and in so being, it therefore holds within it all the time there ever was. Can we agree to that, Herr Sterbenzeit?"

"Yes, all right. But I still think we …"

"Well then, Herr Sterbenzeit, my question to you is this: if this is the very first of clocks, and we go back to the day BEFORE this clock was made, does that mean there was no time?"

"Of course not. You just wouldn't know what time it was, that's all."

"Oh, Herr Sterbenzeit, my simple, simple friend. How I envy you. How I long to have a mind like yours – so free of torment, so free of the anguish that keeps one awake throughout the night pondering the unanswerable philosophical questions of the universe. Ah, if only my world could be reduced to the quaint practicality of a watchmaker. Adding a spot of grease here or a drop of oil there, with no quandary more difficult than the occasional need to tweeze out a stubborn piece of lint."

"Yes, well it's an honest profession, fixing clocks."

"Oh, I'm sure it is, Herr Sterbenzeit. And I should think it would be peaceful, too, in its way. Untroubled by the paradox that is eternity, you live your life in a finite world of hours and minutes and seconds, as though knowing the correct time is all one would ever need to know about the matter. Tell me, Herr Sterbenzeit, do you know what time it is?"

Sterbenzeit looked at his watch. "It's 2:15."

"Precisely?"

"Yes."

"By your watch there?"

"Yes, by my watch."

"I dare say, we should mark this occasion, celebrate the moment for what it is! For you see, by my broken clock it is also quarter past two. Our worlds, Herr Sterbenzeit, are at an intersect. And while one may move on – well, perhaps I should just leave it at that. There are some things, as you know, that are best left unsaid. Here, lend me your hand. Help me to my feet."

Sterbenzeit stood up and extended his arm toward the old man.

Just then a little gust of wind blew in across the marsh. It wasn't much of a gust at all, really. Not as far as gusts go. More like a little puff of air. A gentle zephyr at best. Not much more than that. Hardly even worth mention.

…

The Police report as it appeared in the October 27 issue of the Sagamore Crier.

On Saturday night, Barnstable County Police were called for a second time to the residence of the late Hoddington H. Smith, a longtime resident of Sagamore, who had passed away earlier in the day. There they found the body of Dieter Sterbenzeit, age unknown, a resident of Wareham. Sergeant Anthony Timmons, who was leading the investigation, stated that he believed Sterbenzeit was engaged in the process of burglarizing the Smith household, attempting to gain entry by a second story window, when he apparently slipped and fell from the roof. Timmons stated he did not believe anything of value had been taken from the residence.

…

"Do you think it would look better on the mantle or on the sideboard?"

"Oh, it's much too big for the sideboard, Tony."

"Yeah, you're right. But you know, if we set it up on the mantle, we should at least get it to running right, don't you think?"

"How do we do that?"

"I dunno. I guess we call a watchmaker or a clock repair place or something like that."

"Do people still do that?"

"Yeah, I think so. Look in the Yellow Pages under clock repair. Try that. See if there's anything there."

"Well, I'll be …"

"What?"

"There is a listing under clock repair. Just one. It's got a really big ad, though. A place over in Wareham … uh, let's see, it's run by a Mr. Smith, proprietor, blah-blah-blah … years of experience, blah-blah-blah … cute little motto: your time is our time, blah-blah-blah. Oh, gimme a break -Tony, do you know what he calls the place?"

"No, what?"

"Time Peace."

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The Timepiece
onlyjokin@worldonline.co.za		 #8 of 12
1660 words
Jeffery walked down the foyer. If anyone bothered to look, they would have seen the tears scarring his otherwise reserved countenance. His face earthbound, his hand feeling something in his pocket he proceeded to his car. He turned the ignition and heard the hum of his Mercedes C Class engine for a while. His composure regained, Jeffery sped out the car park of Whyte and Cross Attorneys.

He called out, “Office,” and waited as his mobile phone automatically dialed his secretary..

“Listen Jenny, I don’t think I will be coming in today. No, nothing is wrong just some personal stuff. I don’t know, make something up, tell them I met with an accident or I am sick. Just make something up.”

He turned into his parking, number 315 and stopped. He walked down the quiet parking lot to the elevator that would carry him to his studio apartment. The world seemed strange, he never experienced what daytime life was like at Time Square Heights. It was quiet, due largely to the fact that all the professionals, the residents of the building, were out at work. The elevator stopped on the ground floor. The signalling tone echoed down the hall as the doors slid open. Jeffery got in and mechanically chose his floor. Once inside his apartment he kicked of his shoes, loosened his tie and slumped down on his couch. He stared into space for a while then removed that which he carried in his pocket.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he focused his gaze on the pocket watch in his hand. He was holding onto a gift from a total stranger, a gift from his father.

Time stood still in Jeffery’s world as the pocket watch ticked the seconds by. The gentle drop of his tear on his hand broke his trance. The surprise and loss that enshrouded him dissipated as raw anger gushed into his being. He grabbed the phone and dialled the only person who would be able to help.

“Hello Nan!”

“I trust that you are well!”

“I am not at all well. I have questions that only you can answer.”

“No, seriously Nan, I need the truth this time. Not the truth that you and mom created for me but the actual truth as it happened.”

“No Nan, I am at home. I found out things that made me sick. How could mom do this? How could you do this?”

“What I am talking about? Nan, I just received an heirloom from my father. My father, Nan, who died last month and not twenty-five years ago like you and mom made me believe.”

“Nan! Nan! Fuck! Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!

Jeffrey ripped the telephone from the wall and watched as it flew across the room crashing into the glass door, falling with the sharp cascading glass shards.

He picked up his fathers watch and his car keys and ran out of the apartment.

Jeffrey’s Grandmother’s house was a quaint little cottage in the centre of suburbia. He parked off and waded through the neighbourhood children to get to the front door.

“Hello Jeffrey.” His grandmother greeted him before he could wrap on the door.

“Hello Nan, why did you cut the call?” He replied, annoyance evident in his tone.

“Jeffrey William Dalton, don’t you dare take that tone with me. You not to old to get a spanking from your grandmother.”

“Are you really my Grandmother, or is that to just a part of the intricate novella that you and my mum have created.”

“That will be enough of that now. Come, sit, I have prepared some tea. We shall sit down and discuss this matter like civilised people.” She closed the door and gestured Jeffrey into the dining room.

“Now Jeffery, about your father,” Nan took a bite from her tea soaked biscuit. “Yes… your mother and I lied. I her told to.”

“How could you?” Jeffrey screamed.

“I am sorry son but it is a very long story.” Nan stared passed Jeffery’s face to the past that existed behind him. She dunked her biscuit into her tea, took a bite and then began her story.

“Your mother was a young and beautiful woman. She was intelligent too but then she met your father. He was charming and quite handsome. You look like him.

I suppose that it is a good thing your mother is dead, seeing you would have made her so sad.” Nan sipped her tea and shook her head.

“What happened between the two of them?” He asked impatiently.

“You never questioned the stories before, why the sudden interest”, for the first time since the conversation started, Nan sounded concerned and afraid.

Jeffrey removed the pocket watch from his pocket and laid it on the table. “This is why I am suddenly so curious grandmother.”

Nan picked up the pocket watch and examined it, “A remarkable timepiece for a real piece of work.”

“There as a letter also, a letter I have read. My father has, in death communicated his version of the truth. My mother died making me believe her version. I need you to set things straight so that when it is my time to die I can say that I know who I am.”

“But you are Jeffrey, you are a wonderful successful man and...”

“No! I am a lie. Please tell me the truth. Forget about protecting me, forget about protecting my mother, forget about protecting your family pride and just tell me the truth. Please.”

Nan stepped to the kitchen. The cupboard door creaked as she opened it and withdrew a box of cigarettes.

“It has been a while since I have had one of these, but it seems that a lot of the past is coming back to haunt me. You right Jeffrey; you are a big boy now and deserve to know the truth. Can I pour you a drink?”

Jeffrey raised his eyebrows at his grandmother’s offer.

“Oh you're not in high school Jeffery , you can have a drink. Besides I know you enjoyed a bottle or two even when you were in high school”, and with that she opened a bottle of Jack, poured two doubles and returned to the table.

“Okay, as I was saying. You mother met your father and fell in love, or so she said. They looked happy together for most part. They were happy, no one could deny that.” The ice tinkled in the glass as Nan sipped her whiskey.

“Then why…” urged Jeffery.

“Be patient Jeffery, you did ask for the whole story. Your father is not the only secret that we have kept from you Jeff. When your parents got married, they were the happiest couple alive. Two years later your mother fell pregnant.”

“Don’t tell me that you lied about my age.”

“No, stop interrupting for God’s sake! Your mother fell pregnant but things were complicated and your brother entered this world a corpse.

“What?” Interjected Jeffery.

“Yes, Jeffrey before you, your parents almost had another baby. Your parents seemed to go on with their lives but something was lost and everyone knew it. They were a lot quieter around each other and quite distant. Your father drank a lot and rarely came home before dawn. Your mother became bitter and angry at the world. One day your mother woke and your father as gone. All he took was this timepiece, a wedding gift from your mother.

A week later, your mother found out she was pregnant, with you."

"Oh damn it!” Nan dusted the fallen ash from the table clothe and fetched an ashtray from the kitchen.

“Did you never hear from my father again?”

“Your father returned after a year. Where he went, what he did, we never bothered to ask.

He wanted to come back, he pleaded, but too much had happened. Your mother cried a lot but still asked him to leave. She said that she had no more room to love someone who was not there for her through everything and could not risk waking one morning to learn that he had left again for whatever reason. More so she was not prepared for you to wake up and feel as if your father abandoned you. Your mother asked that he never contact you or her ever again. James, your father, was a coward but he was a good man. He respected her wishes and left you both with a simple kiss goodbye. Your mother kept him up to date with every aspect of your life. He often contributed financially to your life but respected our wishes and never interfered.”

“Thank you, for finally being honest with me.” Jeffery picked up his watch kissed his grandmother on the cheek and walked to the door.

“Jeffery, where are you going? What did your father say in his letter?”

“There was no letter. He just left this ith his layer along ith my contact details. And about where I am going, well, I am going to find myself. I am going to start living again. I am taking the advice of my father or maybe it was my mother, whoever I don’t know and it doesn’t matter.”

“What are you talking about, Jeffery?”

Jeffery tossed the pocket watch to his grandmother and left. His grandmother turned the watch around and found an inscription on the back that read,

“With time came life,
With Time comes love,
And Time will one day bring death.
Time waits for no man,
And no man should wait for Time.
So live and love by your heart
And never know the sorrow of death.”

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The Timepiece
Nancy J Schneider
njswritingnook@yahoo.com		 #9 of 12
2343 words
“I’m late, I’m late” the little white rabbit said, pulling that oversized timepiece out of his waistcoat. “I’m late, I’m late - no time to say hello, goodbye, I‘m late, I‘m late, I‘m late,” he cried as he scurried off. And Kate knew just how he felt.

“Comm’on Tiff, turn off the TV. We have to get going.”

“But Mom, it just came on!” Tiff wailed.

“Yes, and you knew it was almost time to leave. Now turn off the TV, get your hat and coat, and let’s get moving.”

“Not fair,” Tiff mumbled, but she got up and turned off the TV.

Kate scrunched down in front of her daughter. “Tell you what. When you get home from school you can put the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ tape in and watch it, ok honey?”

“Promise?”

“I promise. In fact, I’ll leave a note for Mrs. Homan telling her you can watch it.” Kate dashed to the kitchen, opened a drawer and got out a piece of paper. The only thing she could find to write with was a crayon, but whatever! There was no time to search for a pen.

Kate talked as she wrote. “It says: ‘Dear Mrs. Homan. Please let Tiffani watch Alice in Wonderland when she gets home from school. Thank you, Kate.’ I’ll tape it right up here on the fridge so she will be sure to see it. There. Now let’s get a move on or we’ll both be late.”

It was a short drive to the school and after dropping Tiffani off, Kate continued to her office. She parked the car, then with high heels clicking a sharp staccato beat she rushed into the café in the lobby for her morning cup of coffee. As soon as the clerk saw Kate hurrying through the crowd, he got the coffee ready. Kate was very predictable.

“Here you go, Mrs. Bellows, one cup of coffee, light on the French vanilla cream. In a rush as usual, eh?”

“Yes, a rush. So what’s new? Thanks Tim, I appreciate it.” She handed him the money, took a quick sip, fluttered a wave as she turned and hurried out.

Punching the elevator button and looking at her watch at the same time she gave a small groan. What’s taking so long for this stupid elevator? She was about to take the stairs when the door silently slid open and she tumbled in. Comm’on hurry up - let’s get moving! I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.

Tightening her grip on the precious coffee, she bounded out of the elevator, pushed the door of her office open with her free hand, splashing a bit of coffee in the process. She kicked the door closed behind her. Damn, that’s hot. She was about to slip off her shoes when there was light rap and her secretary came bouncing into the room.

“Good morning Mrs. Bellows. I got the coffee on, but it’s not quite ready yet, but it will be by the time you finish that one,” she said nodding toward the cup in Kate’s hand.

“Good morning to you, too, Beth. Course I don’t see too much good about it.”

“The sun’s out and that’s a good thing. The sun always makes me feel good, even when it’s cold.”

“Yes, well I like the sunshine, too, I just hadn’t noticed.”

“Rough morning?”

“Not really. Tiff wanted to watch ‘Alice in Wonderland’ and I really didn’t need to hear that stupid rabbit lament about time. Seems even fantasy land is in a hurry. Is there no end to all this rushing and hurrying?”

“Well, today you have that meeting with Mr. Screwer at ten and the board meeting at one. But other than that, there’s not too much. At least you have a legit reason to make Screwer leave. Tell him it‘s at noon instead of one,” Beth said grinning impishly.

Kate groaned. “Great, just what I need is Mr. Screwer. That man thinks his author is the only author we handle and always wants more, more, more. This is a publishing house, not a babysitting service. Can’t you push him off on Barney today?”

“Nope. He’s got a ten o’clock meeting today, too. With that nice Mrs. Grass.”

“Lucky devil. Wonder if he’d switch?”

“Not on your life. No one likes Mr. Screwer. But you have to give him credit for pushing his client. Too bad he isn’t nicer about it. If everyone hates him so much, why do we keep signing up his clients?“

“Because, as much as I hate to admit it, he picks good ones,“ Kate answered dryly.

“Makes sense, I guess. Too bad he goes along with the deal. Anyway, I gotta check on the coffee and get those new manuscripts to you. Teri seems to think she found a good one in the slush pile. I’ll be back in a jiffy with a fresh cup of coffee.” Beth turned to leave, then said over her shoulder, “Take your time and relax a bit. Now you can kick off your shoes, I’m leaving. You’ve still got an hour before Mr. Pushy gets here. I’ll be back.”

Take my time and relax. Hah, what a joke. I haven’t had time to relax in ages. I haven’t had time for anything but work, rush around at home, spend some family time with Tiff and Jeff, church activities and visit Gram. When is it my time? Time for me?

After her second cup of coffee, she attacked the folders on her desk. She got caught up in the one Teri earmarked. It could be another J. K. Rowlings! And if her publishing company could capitalize on it they wouldn’t need to coddle Screwer! This was truly good. She was about to ring for Beth, but just as she reached for the intercom, Beth walked in. “He’s here in all his glory,” she stated. “Try to be nice to him, think of the sunshine, and maybe he’ll go away.”

Kate slid her chair closer to her desk, cleared it of the new manuscript and told Beth to send him in. Pasting a smile on her face, she looked toward the door. “Mr. Screwer, how nice to see you.”

“Yea, like you’re always glad to see me,” was his sarcastic reply as he flopped down in the chair opposite Kate.

“No, don’t take that attitude with me Ben, not today. I don’t have the patience for it today. We’ve been working together for a couple of years and I must admit I don’t always look forward to our meetings. However, I do approve of your authors, or you wouldn’t be here ever. Shall we get to the nitty-gritty and iron out your concerns?”

This was the first time Kate ever spoke to him in that tone and it worked. The meeting went surprisingly well - and short. After he left Beth came in mouth gaping. “How did you get rid of him so soon?”

“I decided not to coddle him, to let him know how I felt. It seems to have made an impression.”

”And exactly what made you so brave all of a sudden?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it may have something to do with this new manuscript. Beth, I think we found a real winner. I don’t want to be disturbed by anyone for anything until it’s time for the board meeting. Then buzz me and remind me so I’m not late for that.”

“You got it. I’m proud of you, you know that? I always said maybe if people didn’t let Screwer walk all over them and the company he’d change his tune. And having a new author up your sleeve doesn’t hurt either. Bye.” She wiggled her fingers as she left the office.

Kate spent the next hour going over the manuscript and it got better as she concentrated. She added it to the board’s agenda and felt excited for the first time in days. The board meeting went pretty much along the usual paths and there was quite a discussion about this new author. Kate felt exhausted when it was over, but still elated.

“Beth is there anything else that needs my attention right away?” she asked as she went into her office. “I’m really exhausted and I think I’ll cut out a little early and go -------- Darn! I forgot I have to stop in to see my Grandmother. Never mind, I’ll check things over, get out of here, pop in on Granny, then go home.”

“If you say so. Did the board agree with you on the new manuscript?”

“Well, they haven’t read it yet, but from what I told them, they all seemed to think I should actively pursue it. I had hoped to take it with me and read it tonight, but I guess that will have to wait until tomorrow. First I have to go see Gram, I don‘t want to forget that.”

Entering her office, she flipped open her cell and called Kevin. “Hey Kev, I almost forgot. I promised Gram I’d stop in tonight after work for a little bit, so when you get home would you please take supper out of the freezer - it’s on the top shelf right side marked swiss steak - and put it in the oven?… Yea, I will…. Love you too, see you, bye.”

She gave a cursory glance around and nothing jumped out at her, so she put on her coat, picked up her purse and the manuscript and left, saying good-bye to Beth on the way out. Once again she was on the never ending treadmill of life. Rushing but never seeming to get anywhere. At least not anywhere she wanted to be.

It was a short trip across town and when she reached her Gram’s she let herself in with the spare key. “Gram? Where are you? It’s me, Kate,” she called loudly.

“No need to scream young lady, I’m right here in the living room where I always sit.”

Kate pulled off her gloves, walked into the living room and unbuttoned her coat. “I really can’t stay too long Gram, I have a ton of things to do, but I wanted to make sure everything was ok here.” She bent over the wheelchair and gave her Gram a kiss on the head. “Be glad you don’t have to go out today, it’s really nasty. The wind is a typical Chicago wind.”

“Windy or not, it would be a treat to go out,” Gram huffed. “But take off your coat. You can stay for a little while. I haven’t seen you all week. Sit!”

“Gram I really don’t have the time tonight. There’s so much I still have to do and I told Kev I wouldn’t be too late, so I really can’t stay.”

“Can’t stay - too busy - always in a hurry. Kate, I’m telling you sit for a moment. You look frazzled and if I may say, a bit pooped, too. I’ve got Mrs. Bremmer making up a nice tea and it won’t take that long. Please, just sit for a bit.”

“You win,” Kate said taking off her coat. “But I really can’t stay for very long. But a nice hot cup of tea would be wonderful. It’s something I miss. Kev won’t touch the stuff and I seldom make it just for myself. Yes, tea would be welcome.”

Gram smiled lovingly at her granddaughter. “Is something bothering you my Katie?”

Kate let out her breath and leaned back in her chair. “Oh Gram, it’s just that I feel so rushed and unorganized sometimes. I feel like, well like I have my foot nailed to the floor and I’m running and running but I’m only going in a circle. Then this morning Tiff was watching Alice in Wonderland and that stupid rabbit and his stupid timepiece got me all rattled. ‘I’m late, I’m late’ and it made me feel like I’m always late for something. Or in a hurry to get somewhere but I don’t accomplish anything but the running. I wish I could just stop it all!”

“Hummm, that sounds a bit serious. Oh, here comes our tea. Thank you Mrs. Bremmer, we both appreciate it. It looks lovely, doesn’t it Kate?”

“Yes Mrs. Bremmer, thanks. What would Gram do without you?”

“Your Gram would manage, it’s just easier with me here to help. But she’d find a way. Enjoy your tea.”

Both women sipped their tea and nibbled on the fresh baked cookies. Then Gram set down her delicate china cup, leaned forward in the wheelchair and said, “Prioritize Kate, you need to prioritize your time… but…”

“That’s what they tell me, but no one is able to tell me what to cut out! How do I chose? I have to work, I want to spend time with Kev and Tiff, I’m involved in church activities and I just don’t see what I could cut out.”

“I didn’t tell you to cut anything out and you didn‘t let me finish. Yes, you need to prioritize, but more than that Kate, you need to learn to enjoy and be thankful that you can go out, be busy, do things. God forbid you should ever end up in a wheelchair like me. Then you can’t go and do. Then time drags. It’s so much better to be busy, but don’t get caught up in the busyness. Change your attitude about being busy and learn to enjoy the fact that you can be busy.”

The room was silent as each woman thought their own thoughts. Raising her head, Kate looked at her beloved Grandma and said, “You think I’ll ever be as smart as you?”

“Of course, you come from good stock. Remember, occasionally a person needs to take a step back and survey their life. Keep what’s important, learn to adjust your schedule to a less stressful level and always take time to visit your Gramma. Then you can’t go wrong.”

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The Timepiece
Tom Campbell
topcat@spiritone.com 		#10 of 12
456 words
The sun beat down on my back a I drifted listlessly and nearly lifelessly somewhere in the Tasman Sea. It was to be just a half day fishing expedition, I had set out at 4:30 am but the motor on my little 12 footer cut out on me, two days ago now. My radio that I had forgotton to check, wasn't working either.

I thought the tides would take me back towards Wollongong but an easterly wind pushed the boat farther out to sea. Not much traffic out here. I saw the smoke from a steamship yesterday but it was five miles off. No help there. Water almost gone as I was slowly baking into a parched skeleton.

I checked my watch, the fancy one with the calendar and the deep compression resistance and all the other bells and whistles. All it told me was that I had been out on this wretched sea 51 hours and 22 minutes. All it told me was that my life was slowly ticking away, minute by minute. I ripped it off my wrist and flung it into the water. "Bloody Rolex".

I didn't need the timepiece, the monitor of my life. Alway saying you have places to go, people to be, you're late, your life is dripping away with every tick of the arbitrary schedule. What I wanted was a time of peace. I guess it was looking like an eternal one.

People pray to God at times like this, whether they believed in Him or not. I looked up in the opposite direction of the killing sun. The old man wasn't there. There was only me.

What had I done to deserve this? Was there some divine Providence that had totted up my sins and decided I would have a long hopeless death? I had done so much good in my life - I had so much more to do. I'm too young. I pushed myself up from the gunwales where I had been lying and stood on shaky feet shouting, " I'm too young to die!" Oh, the irony. I had just wanted a few fish for breakfast, Now it looked like I would be a meal for the fishes.

The yellow sun was merciless. It had turned me several shades darker and crackled my skin. My canteen lay for'ard and I stumbled over to pour the last few precious drops onto my swollen tongue. I shouted again with my last defiant breath. "I can't live like this! I shouldn't die like this!"

I jumped overboard.

The sea was warm, soothing, embrionic. I thought I saw a charter boat bearing down on me but by then I was slipping under, letting the salt water fill my lungs with a dreamy peace. My time was done.

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The Timepiece
Linda H. Nelson
bren60@bellsouth.net		 #11 of 12
2230 words
I sat watching Mr. Brogan pulling his time piece out of his pocket. He checked it, put it away, pulled it back out and rechecked it. Looking down the track then up and then toward the depot he finally yelled "board" in that long drawn out way of his. Every Friday, it was the same. I would be on my way to Chicago to be with my mother. During the week, I'd stay in Racine with my grandparents. We had to do this so mother could work and I could go to school. We were having a rough time since my father was away. I had to be a big girl and ride the train alone. I wasn't afraid because I usually slept until the train arrived in Chicago.

Mr. Brogan always said the same thing to me, "Howdy, Little Lady."

"Hello, Mr. Brogan." I would look into the bluest eyes topped with the bushiest, silvery white eyebrows and a full head of silvery white hair. Most of all I loved his big smile. It made me feel comfortable and safe.

"We are going to make an extra stop today Little Lady and pick up some special passengers from Fort Sheridan. I want you to stay in your seat and I will come back to check on you."

At the special stop I watched through the window as Mr. Brogan pulled out his time piece give it a long look then he turned gave me wink. I watched as each soldier walked out of the depot and climbed aboard. One sat down next to me and I quickly turned away. I was not supposed to talk to strangers but he looked like a nice man. The noise on the train was louder than I ever remembered. Everybody was having a good time laughing and talking.

I looked at the man next to me and he asked me if I as all alone. I just nodded my head and turned away.

"Cat got your tongue?"

I turned and looked at him covering my mouth. "No", I said curtly. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

"That is a good rule. I have a little sister at home she is about eight how old are you?"

"I just turned 6 last week. My mommy and I saw 'Lassie Come Home'. I really would like to have a collie but we live in an apartment. A dog like that needs room to run."

"What does your daddy do?"

"He is far away but he will be home soon. He is helping his Uncle Sam. My daddy is very brave, Mommy says. He is going to make everybody very safe."

"Oh, I know he will," the soldier said.

"Hey Little Lady are doing okay? Don't chew off this poor soldier's ear." Mr. Brogan smiled and patted the man on the shoulder."

I guess I was good because he had both ears when he got off the train. I remember that trip so well. "Mommy, can we go in the store?"

It's funny how something will trigger a memory. I was standing in front of an antique store on Washington Avenue in downtown Racine looking at a time piece similar to Mr. Brogans. "Okay honey, let's go in. Do you think Daddy would like that time piece?"

"Oh, yes and lets look at those old dolls, I might want one." My daughter was pulling on my jacket dragging me into the store.

"You might huh." I smiled and let her excitement find its way into my heart. I pushed the door open ringing a bell that notified the shop owner he had a customer.

***

It was that trip to Chicago, back in 1943 that my whole life changed. "I want you to stay in your seat little Lady and I'll come back for you just like I always do." The soldier had moved toward the door then I was alone. I waited while Mr. Brogan walked down the aisle announcing the next stop to all the passengers. I watched while Mr. Brogan helped people get off the train. He talked to another conductor for a few minutes as I watched his every move. He looked up at me from time to time and always with a big smile just for me. Then he checked his time piece and boarded the train.

I waited until Mr. Brogan came to my seat. "Well, little lady there has been a small change in plans. You just relax here and I am going to ride with you back to your grandparents. Now, don't get alarmed," he said when he saw the worried look on my face. "Your mother sent me a note saying that she has to go out of town for a few days and she will call you. Your grandparents will meet us back in Racine. Now you get to see me relax as this old buggy takes us home and we will let Mr. Frame take care of us. How does that sound little lady?"

I didn't understand what was happening, but I wasn't worried because Mr. Brogan sat with me the whole trip back to Racine. I never rode that train again and I often wondered what happened to Mr. Brogan. He was so good to me and I felt I owed him a dept of gratitude.

I remember the first ride to Racine he told mother, "She better not be a bother. She is just a baby. I'll do it this once but if she causes any problems, we will not do this again. Remember I am not a babysitter." I was so scared that first time I sat so still I fell asleep and didn't wake up until he tickled my nose to tell me we had arrived. It was after that trip I decided I would never do anything to make Mr. Brogan upset with me. Thinking back I, often thought for me to be alone on the train was unusual but it was wartime and everyone had to step forward and help others.

***

"Yes, I am interested in the time piece in the window," I told the clerk.

"That is a very old watch and in good condition. It is still working," he reached into the window and pulled out the box it came in. He handed me the watch and I looked at it very carefully.

"Mommy let me see." I stooped down so my daughter could look at it.

"Do you know anything about the watch?"

"I have had it about a week and the person that brought it in for consignment said that it was her grandfather's watch."

"Really, is it possible to talk to this person? I would like to find out more about this watch."

"Oh, of course, I'll give her a call and see if she can come to the shop. Just look around and I will see if she is home and maybe she can come over. You want the history of the watch right?"

"Oh, yes absolutely. I really appreciate this."

After a few minutes, the shopkeeper came out of his office and gave me a quick smile. "She can't come today but if at all possible she will meet you here tomorrow, say about one in the afternoon."

"I can do that I will be here at one. Do you mind holding on to the watch for me. I could put a deposit on it, if you like."

"No, no I can hold it. That will be fine. You seem very interested in its history. I'm a little curious also. Until tomorrow then?"

That night I was imagining all sorts of things about the watch. I thought a lot about Mr. Brogan. He had been a major part of my early life. He made sure that I met my mother and Grandparents on the return trip. What a dear man he was. He told me about his granddaughter and showed me pictures of her. She was born right after Christmas that last year. I don't know why these thoughts were so strong but I could not let go of the idea the watch was Mr. Brogan's.

I could hardly wait until the next day. I dropped Rebecca off at my mother's and was in the shop early. Watching the door a young woman walked into the antique shop. She had the bluest eyes and long blonde hair.

"Sandy this is the lady I was telling you about. She is interested in buying your grandfather's watch."

I looked at her for several seconds, then "Sandy, my name is Lucinda Randolph. This was your grandfather's watch.

"He worked for the North Shore Line and this was part of his uniform. He wore it every day that I remember until he retired."

"I was so sure. I was hoping that maybe your grandfather would have been a man that I knew as a child. He was a conductor for the railroad I rode every weekend in 1942 and 43, it was the Northwestern though."

"No I'm sorry he retired from North Shore Line and he worked for them as long as I can remember. Well wait a minute; I do recall that he worked for another railroad during the war. I don't know the name of it, though, sorry. I guess it could have been the Northwestern."

Lucinda felt a little spark of hope. "What was your grandfather's name?"

"His name is Timothy Brogan."

My hands flew to my mouth I couldn't believe it. "Brogan, Timothy Brogan you say? Why are you selling the watch don't you want something to remember him by?"

"Yes I would like to keep it, but he gave it to me many years ago and said I could do whatever I wanted with it. He could use the money and I want him to move closer. He lives in Fond du Lac and I am trying to raise money to move him. I'm in nursing school and he knows how difficult it is to go back and forth."

Lucinda reached into her purse and pulled out a picture. "I searched last night for a picture that my grandparents took as I got on the train one Friday during the war."

Sandy reached for the picture and looked at it for several minutes and a smile came to her face. "You must be Lucy. When I was little, Gramps told me about a little girl my age that was so brave that she would ride the train alone to go to her mother in Chicago. I was afraid to go with him and sit all by myself while he punched tickets. It was because of you that I finally rode with him while he worked. I thought he made you up. You were my imaginary friend. Yes, this is Gramps. My grandmother died 6 months ago and my parents were killed in an accident 15 years ago. So, you see it is just the two of us and I want him here where I can watch over him. He just found out he wont be able to drive any more."

"Sandy, how old is Mr. Bro. your grandfather?"

"Gramps is 87 but still young at heart. He says it is because of me. I keep him young. I know that he would love to hear from you. He told me that you rode with him one Friday and then he saw you no more."

"Yes my father was killed in the war and we moved permanently back here to Racine. I would love to see him too. I also want to help you move him back here."

"I need to find a bigger place. I have to clear some debts before I can do anything. I know that the time piece is valuable I have researched it. I know you will be happy with it. Mr. Allen here said that you were buying it for your husband."

"Sandy, when I said I wanted to help you I meant it. Your grandfather was very special to me in a time when I was missing my father. I was only seeing my mother weekends and your grandfather was very kind to me. If you are interested, my husband and I have some apartments that we are renting out. They are in a nice neighborhood and I think you will like it there. I haven't talked it over with my husband, Dan, but I know that he will agree. Whatever I can do for Mr. Brogan, I will do it. I would like his final years to be comfortable. I bet he would like to be closer to you, am I right."

"Yes, at first he wanted to stay were my Grandmother was laid to rest and since I can't get there too often I think the timing is right."

"Sandy can we go to Fond du Lac this weekend."

"Yes of course I was planning on going there since I don't have to work this weekend. I can't believe this is happening. He will be so surprised to see you."

"Let's surprise him. I will pick you up at your place at eight on Saturday morning. Mr. Allen I would also like to buy that Shirley Temple doll could you wrap it up?"

It's been almost a year and I have been able to pay back a very dear man because of a time piece. I presented Sandy with the watch on her birthday, and she was thrilled to have it back. We all get together every Sunday. Gramps, as I now call him and Dan have become buddies. Gramps and Dan have a running argument over the Packers and the Bears.

Sometimes we go down a path where things seem to be a coincidence but I believe there are no coincidences in life.

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The Timepiece
Heckter Ligtop
ligtop@yahoo.com		 #12 of 12
2489 words
Hello this is Donnie Belcho. You’re live on the air.

Yeah Donnie, great show. Sorry I’m a bit nervous.

Alright then Mr. nervous, who am I talking with?

Sure, Benton Blanford on the line.

Ok Benton, great. Thanks for calling. What’s on your mind?

Love your show. Well I am cooking dinner and listening to your show. We use a pressure cooker.

Great, so what’s under pressure?

David Bowie. Just kidding. Actually we have chops under pressure.

Nice. Save me some. Ok, tonight we’re talking about time travel.

Yeah always an interesting topic. Seems like people still believe that there are actually places back in time. I think the movies have fogged people’s heads.

Well Benton, you have to admit that the movie Somewhere In Time was very engaging. Especially that scene where Christopher Reeve flops on the bed and cries because he sees the penny that snatches him from his passionate intense love with Jane Seymour. What a great ending. Hope I didn’t ruin it for our listeners. Great movie, really.

I hear ya. Not seen the movie though, Donnie.

Yeah, I loved Jane Seymour. My girlfriend liked Christopher Reeve though. In fact, she found out that he was into ant farms. So she went and got one herself. She just loves how they are specialized members of a team and can work together to organize a successful kill. Of course, that is in the wild. On the farm, she just feeds them sugar water. She uses an eye dropper. She can’t believe that ants have ways to defend themselves against even wild bears. She also loves how they can detect the rain long before it comes. That, she says, is a real mystery.

Benton, that ant farm seams like a real hoot. I had one as a kid. But my older brother got mad at me over a shirt and smashed it. I don’t remember too many fights with my older brother but I actually hit him over a polo shirt. Right in the face with my fist. Those ants died for a polo shirt.

I have to tell ya Benton. This is one crazy night. The lightening and rain here at the station are just really strange. I’m sure those ants sensed it (chuckle, chuckle). So where are you calling from Benton?

Well I am in the great city of Golgotha. Home of the Gotha Burger. When I was just a teenager, I use to work at Gotha Town Burgers. That is where I met my girlfriend, Amber Blanton. I remember when she got hired. Mildred hired her. She was so cute. Not Mildred but Amber. Mildred was a real troll of a beast.

But anyway, Amber had these big blue eyes and tightly pulled brown hair pulled back in a tie dye ribbon. She was fair skin and had dimples that wiggled when she sneered. Her ears were tight against her head dangling these bright red earrings. She rolled her tongue a lot.

Wow Benton, rolling her tongue. I think I can see the attraction already.

Yeah, it got my attention.

Down at Gotha Town I remember training her to work the front register. I just wanted to flip burgers. For the guys, that was the throne. Back there I felt like I became a man. I had the power. I had the vision. I had the spatula.

Yeah, sounds like you were just flipping burgers.

Yeah but funny how I can even remember my first manager. His name was Tony. He had these really big forearms and a brawny mustache. He was older, so he thought he was a tough dude. But that changed one day when we arm wrestled. I won. He was quite shaken.

An arm wrestling dual? Aren’t you guys suppose to be dishing out the greasy cuisine?

Yeah Donnie but he needed an awakening.

Once I remember he and his friend challenged me and my friend to a tennis match. We played. He was really sucking. He got madder by the minute. The pressure built and he ultimately smashed his racquet several times against the unforgiving pavement in his disgust. Wow. He was so embarrassed. He owed us a lunch for losing the bet he made on our tennis game. Tasty, if I must say.

Well Benton when I was a teen, I remember working as a lifeguard at a country club near my house. They also had a golf course.

Wow. I always wanted to work as a lifeguard.

Yeah, it was awesome. I remember this one girl in particular. She had this big cute smile, a super tan and a great body featured by her tight black guard suit. Her hair was long and dark and she had a very shapely chest. She should have worked at hooters. Definitely Hooters. She was older and believe it or not, she had the hots for me. I can even remember her name, Malinda. She often sat across from me at the pool and would flash this big smile. Her teeth looked so white amongst her dark skin. She later told me that she liked gazing at me while I scanned and patrolled the waters. Of course, she told me this one night at a party when she got drunk.

Wow. You had her drunk. Sounds like an opportunity.

Well, I guess I was just a young dumb kid. You know Benton, get this, she says she liked me - but, at the same time, she would have her boyfriend up at the pool on her days off. So there I sat up in my chair looking down on her while she splashed and cooed with him in the shallow waters. She would roll and twist with him in the water and make eyes at me all the while.

Wow, that would make me mad, Donnie. You should have jumped in the water and dunked her. Or maybe even bitch slapped her.

Yeah Benton, sometimes a bitch slap goes a long way.

I do remember one time taking a shower with her. Now that was fun. We showered in the mens room. We both had our swim suits on. Man, if I could only go back in time. We got close. We touched. We washed. I got wet. She got wet. We teased. We laughed. We got wetter.

I have to tell you though. There could have been so much more. We did get to kiss deeply however, on my friends farm one night. He had a party. It got dark out. It was fun. I then drove her home.

Wow, did you just hear that? Another bolt of lightening right near our station. Any closer and the tower may come down. I wonder what is causing this surge in power. Sorta feels like weird science.

Benton, do you have a bra on your head or something?

No, would like too though. So Donnie, why are you doing a show on time travel anyway?

Well, I gotta tell you our station got a really interesting piece of mail the other day. It was from my deceased grandmother. The letter had a very odd golden seal on the back side. The seal said Seorta Glandella.

The cover letter said I must break the seal and read the poem inside on the next live program. We decided to search what Seorta Glandella meant on google, we found that it had something to do with.

Oh yeah, Donnie, I think I may know.

You do? Well I have to say I don’t. To our listeners, according to google it means past time yet another chance. It is goes on to say the chance in the past lasts until the mission is passed. Anyway, more on the letter in a minute. So tell me more about what’s on your mind.

Sure Donnie. I guess I am calling cause this topic hits home for me. My girlfriend’s brother Stanton was in a really bad accident years ago. In fact, he was diving in a pool about the time you yourself was a lifeguard. You see, he is very tall and even though he was diving in the twelve foot, he smashed his head. He is now paralyzed. He use to be a champion dart thrower and now in a wheel chair. He feels useless.

Wow, that is such a tragedy. How freaking tall is this guy?

Yeah, he had this pituitary disorder and he is more than ten feet tall. All he had to do was reach out and he could make bull’s-eyes all day. I thought he was awesome. Donnie, I have to admit, if I could go back in time I would warn him of the danger. I would like, yell out, belly flop Stanton! Do the Belly flop!

Wow, ok then. Your friend is paralyzed. And he can no longer compete with the darts and defend his championships.

Listen Benton, this thunderstorm has intensified since I began to touch the golden seal on that envelop. So bear with me.

Ok sure. My girlfriend insists on distracting me. You know. Like flipping cable channels. She is watching this show about breast ironing. It can cause scaring and infection. But apparently this helps this society and the young girl’s adolescence. It keeps the young girls in school longer. The effects can be very debilitating, however. The mothers are actually ironing their daughter’s breasts to keep them from maturing.

Remind me not to watch that show Benton. Personally, my vote is to allow them to blossom.

Benton, sounds like you guys get a little wild over at your place. But we really need to keep on our topic. And on that note, we also need to break away for a commercial break, can you hold Benton?

Sure, Donnie.

We will be right back with Benton in just a few.

Hey Amber, I am on hold right now. What are you mumbling about those darn ants?

Well honey, I just hate it when the strength of ants are always being measured in comparison to human strength. That is such bullshit. These little guys are not super athletes. Their world is just different. Try dropping one of these little guys off our 30-foot deck to the pavement below. They live. But it sure would kill a human, right? So you see, just look at them for what they are. It’s not like we are ever going to compete with these little guys. I just think they’re cute.

Yeah Amber, whatever.

We are back now talking live with Benton Blanford.

Listen Benton. I am going to open this letter now. This golden seal is starting to pulsate. I have to tell you that right before my grandmother died last week she mailed this letter. She was into voodoo and witchcraft. I guess she wanted to release her power.

So Donnie, do you believe in that crap?

Well Benton, not really. But I have to tell you that my grandmother knew a lot about the powers of the demons. She was also known to have empowered the spirits of the bodied transgression. Allowing spiritual mobility and specific time alignment.

This sounds weird Donnie.

Well I guess I will open the letter like it says to. Looks like there is a poem inside. It says,

My grandson you have
in your hand
the choice to make
a place to land
Go back to the girl
the one from the pool
show her your love
you admitted fool.

What is she trying to say Donnie?

I guess she is wanting me to go back in time to shower with Malinda and get naked. She always wanted me to get lucky with the chics.

Well, is it working?

Not sure. Here at the station the lightening has intensified. I guess it won’t hurt if I put my underwear on my head.

Donnie, you mean you actually have your underwear on your head?

Yes, what the hell. It’s clean.

Damn, did you hear that Benton? That loud sound outside with all the bright lights. This is too weird. I actually feel different now. I am different! What about you Benton?

Man. I actually do feel different. I am different!

Hold on, let me go look at myself in the mirror. Wow, Benton. I look like I did when I was a teen. I can’t believe this. This is crazy.

Man, Donnie. I just looked at myself. I too am younger. I think that voodoo stuff has worked. But for how long?

I guess, like the seal says, until I complete my mission. I think I know what I need to do.

Ok, Donnie sure. Man this is so weird. I need to take advantage of this. This is my chance to save Stanton Blanton. He deserves it. I must rush to save him. I feel so young. This is so weird. If I can get to him in time, I am going to keep him from smashing his head. He needs to throw darts again! He needs to do the belly flop!

Hey Benton, listen, I can’t explain this but lets face it, this is happening. Not sure how much time we have. I am going to let you go now. Good luck finding Stanton. I know what I have to do. Give me a call if you get a chance. I gotta run.

Wow. This is great. I am outside now. The sky is so blue and clear. The slight cool breeze feels so good on my face. Now I need to get to my car.

This is so hard to believe. I wonder if my car stands out? All these older cars on the road. This is just too weird. I just need to head up to where I use to work as a lifeguard. This is what I have to do.

Wow. I am driving up to the clubhouse now. There it is. The pool where I use to work. The tall bushes. The fence. All those young kids I use to know.

I am walking in now.

Wow. There is Malinda.

Hey Malinda, what’s up?

Hey Donnie. How are ya?

Great. You look dazzling.

Awesome. Glad you like what you see. I am so hot. I have been in the chair for too long. So what are you doing now?

Not much. I guess I will be getting up in the chairs soon. I do have some time to kill though.

Great Donnie. Hey I also have a few minutes. Why don’t you follow me?

Sure. Where are we going?

Just follow me.

I am right behind you.

Grab my hand.

Ok.

Wow. We are in the mens locker room. And nobody is around. This is interesting.

Yeah, well I guess I am feeling like washing off. You care to join me?

Sure, I guess I can do that. Twist my arm. Here let me get the water hot. Now come over here. I think my bathing suit is broken.

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"You're Too Loose"
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