Well, I suppose I write, er, differently. How about we think of the styles lately as experimental and enjoy where is goes.
Happy Fiction Saturday – I think the clock is ticking again. Or is it?
The Wise Clock
The clock ticked and ticked, and the noise grew to be more than just a skip across a wooden face. I realized it was past lunchtime. This clock took on a meaning beyond the wall it hung on, beyond the couch I sat on, beyond the door that was closed because he hadn’t walked through it yet.
The clock turned into a symbol of hatred that hung five inches from below the living room ceiling. It taunted me, telling me that he was late for a meal, the latest cry, the newest streak of sunshine through the dusty window blinds at the side of the room.
I stared at the clock and dared myself not to blink, hopeful that the dryness of my eyes would pain them into darkness and his face, the clock face, my own face, would all become only shadows I faintly remembered.
Staring ahead, the clock began to move, left and down the wall, as though falling along with my hopes. Then its metal hands began to bend and move, detach, unhand themselves from the base they had been so long attached to. I gasped, and my breath was heavy with the coffee taste from breakfast, one hour before the Vodka flavor. I reached out for the clock and grabbed the longer hand of the two – taking it within my fingers, making a fist around it.
It was only when the pain in my hand matched the pain I had felt in my eyes that I understood. Drops of blood ran down from my palms as I opened my hand to see the metal had dug into my skin. I smiled as I felt pain, as I felt soberness, and I felt his breath was somewhere close by. I closed my hand on the metal that felt warmth I hadn’t handled in years, and I wondered, was there something I was doing wrong?
~This is christyb in fiction-land.