Clocking Wishes

Winston saw the time, and immediately made a wish.

Because it was eleven in the morning, he knew it was safe. Not like the people that went for the eleven eleven at night. That’s not real eleven eleven, Winston knew. It was twenty-three eleven. But eleven eleven, that was the sweet spot. When your wish would actually come true.

Finishing the wish, Winston opened his eyes again. The clock already said eleven twelve. A tragedy; he hadn’t finished in time, so now the inverse of the wish would come true. He would have to wish it again twice, just to make sure.

Winston took off, knowing the nearest clock was just around the corner. He reached it: eleven thirteen. Damn. Next one.

Reaching the kitchen, Winston saw it: eleven eleven. He quickly re-made his wish, opened his eyes, and was greeted with eleven eleven still. Perfect. One more to go.

He ran all over the house and didn’t find another ready clock. And then he remembered.

Looking down at his wrist, Winston was greeted with a beautiful sight. Eleven ten. He stood and waited, and waited, and waited, and finally it happened. Eleven eleven.

Winston wished, and wished hard. He opened his eyes: still eleven eleven. He had done it. The wish was his.

And the Watching

Margo watched her watch as the time ticked away.

When the sight of the tiny round face grew too much, moved too slowly, she looked up. There, across the room, the wall clock tocked. The second hand moved with interminable slowness, the minute hand a turtle with molasses for blood. In January, she added.

Margo looked back at her watch. It moved slightly faster. Was less delayed by the distance from Margo to the wall.

Still, the watch was slow. So. Very. Slow. Ticking. Away.

Just when she thought she was about to lose it, Margo turned in her chair, looked around. Everyone else was studiously working. She was the only one with nothing to do. But she could watch them, see what the world here was. She did for a few seconds, before realizing how creepy she must appear. So she turned back to her desk and looked down again.

The seconds moved. At long last, they made a full revolution. And the watching began again.

Escalator Time

Otis stood before the escalator, staring as the machine moved, turned, whirred away. A strange creation, he thought. Something to alter the flow of time.

People didn’t behave like normal when they reached an escalator. They walked toward the steps, purposefully, driven. Then they slowed. The escalator had some kind of time distortion around it, for the people slowed, stepped on, and became frozen. They gripped the railing, stared up and ahead, and did not move until the escalator came to its end, releasing them. Time returned to normal, and people moved again.

Some escalators allowed movement, of course, while freezing feet in place. People would turn, twist, look around at this new prison of theirs, wonder where they were going, look at their watch and wonder what was taking so long. The escalator would take its own time. They should be thankful they could at least experience it.

But Otis worried about these distortions, these dilations. He liked his time. He had precious little enough of it. If time was an arrow, Otis was the apple. He had no desire to be pierced.

Turning away, Otis walked to the corner, where a small staircase was tucked away. He began to climb, thankful for every step.

Watching the Wheels Turn

Casey had a rock that was very old.

The rock itself was hundreds of thousands of years old. It had seen species rise and fall. It had watched humanity take its first steps past the animal kingdom. It watched empires stumble over themselves, and hubris overwhelm the most powerful, while the lowest banded together and looked after each other, only occasionally being tricked into the self-indulgent distractions their lords wanted.

Casey thought it was a pretty little rock.

He picked it up on a beach, polished by years of salt water crashing it into other rocks and pulling sand over and around it. It was small enough to fit comfortably in his palm, a soothing feeling in his hand to remind him of the passing nature of life.

Over the years, the rock was imbued with the oils from Casey’s hand. After Casey died, the rock was returned to the ground, left for several thousand years before it was picked up again by a curious scientist.

The scientist examined the rock closely, wondering at what had caused the deep lines of human DNA in the stone. It must, he concluded, have been consumed by earlier humans just before their death, left to sit in a stomach until the body was dead and decayed, and finally picked out and given to another human for the same bizarre ritual.

The scientist published his results in a much-acclaimed paper, and he rose a bit higher in the world. He palmed the stone and carried it with him, waiting for his final days when he could join his predecessors in swallowing it.

The stone continued to watch the wheels turn.

Manic Chaos

Mike looked down at his watch. 13:71, it read. Curious, given it was an analog watch.

He looked up to see the street full of cars. None were moving. Three were honking, and two had drivers yelling obscenities. Down the road, a child could be seen staring at the car in the lead of the motionless pack. The child held a ball, and refused to move.

Above, clouds loomed, dark and brooding. A single hole was open, allowing the sun to shine down, a shaft of light surrounded by shadow. Mike was confused.

A dog barked. There was no response.

Mike looked at his watch. 1:62. He smiled. Back to normal.

Down the road, the child kept standing, despite more horns.

Time Passed

Caroline sat, her palms just a little sweaty, her stomach just a little unsettled.

The door jangled; not Charlie. She breathed out, looked down at her tea as the newcomer went to the counter and ordered. The door jangled again; not Charlie.

Caroline lifted her mug, took a sip, and set it down. She lifted it again as she swallowed, took another sip, and set it down. She rubbed her hands on her jeans, then looked out the window, then back down at her mug.

The door jangled. Charlie was there, walking in and smiling that cute little half-smile he always used to wear. Older by six years – or was it seven? – but still Charlie. His eyes didn’t have the light they used to have, the way she remembered them. The way he used to smile at her. It was different. Distant.

Caroline stood to greet him. She started to extend a hand as he moved both arms out. They smiled uncertainly, and switched. Before she could move back to the handshake he put his arms out again and took her in a hug.

“Nice to see you,” Charlie said, breaking away quickly.

“You too. I’m glad we could do this.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been, what, six years?”

“I was just thinking of that,” Caroline said, sitting. “You can order if you want. I’ll wait.”

“Sure, do you want anything?”

“Uh, no, I’ve got my tea.”

Charlie walked to the counter. Caroline looked at him, remembering him standing at the counter cutting vegetables, remembering his body – a bit slimmer now, she thought, but still attractive – unclothed, his sleeping form turned away from her. He turned and smiled, and she realized she was staring. She threw a smile on her face, then looked away, trying act the right way.

He came back with a mug and sat.

“Irish Breakfast?” Caroline asked. “A pinch of sugar and some cream?”

Charlie looked down. “Uh, yeah. You remember.”

“Well, it’s the details, right?”

Charlie nodded, and Caroline blushed. Too far? she wondered. Maybe. They were both quiet now, and took a sip from their drinks.

“So,” Charlie paused, then said, “what have you been up to?”

Smile for the Camera

“Smile!” Andre said. The group in front of him put on their best smiles, and he looked into the viewfinder. It wasn’t quite in focus, so he adjusted that a little bit, only to find them becoming blurrier. He immediately adjusted the other way, bringing them into clarity.

Looking at the group, he thought they looked a bit too dark. He went through the settings and found one to brighten the image, but the more he brightened it, the less colourful they were. They were soon washed out figures in front of a washed out background. He adjusted back down, but they looked even more shadowed.

The group, still smiling, was waiting.

Andre adjusted some of the contrast, then pressed the shutter halfway. The auto flash popped up, and he cursed under his breath. He reached up, pushing the flash back down, then pressed the shutter again. Again, the flash popped up.

Taking his eye away, he looked down at the camera to find the flash settings. In front of him, the smiles were becoming difficult to maintain.

Turning off the auto flash, Andre brought the camera to his eye once again. He re-adjusted the focus, then said, “Okay, 1, 2 – ” and pressed the button on two.

The smiles in the picture were strained, fake, and three of the five had their eyes closed.

“Time to move on!” Andre called, and the group started shuffling forward.

Nap Time

“Nap time!” Claude shouted.

Janice looked around as the other employees all stood, stretched, then crawled under their desks to curl up. What the hell? she thought. Having no real explanation, and having noticed the mouse poop by the baseboard, she ignored the group and kept typing at her computer.

A light tapping on her shoulder made her turn around. “Janice,” Claude said, standing far too close to her. “It’s nap time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did no one tell? Every day at two pm, everyone in the office takes a thirty-minute nap. Everyone.”

“I’m not tired, thanks.”

“I don’t think you understand, Janice. Your typing is distracting to others. Even if you don’t sleep, you need to take a break. So crawl under your desk, please, and rest. It makes our employees more productive.”

“There’s mouse poop under my desk.”

Claude sighed. “Janice, this is your last chance. Take a nap or you’re fired.”

Janice stared at him. “You can’t do that.”

“Remember that probationary period thing? Yeah, this is it. Sweet dreams.”

Janice watched Claude walk away, then slid down to the floor. She balled up her sweater and put it under her head, and spent the next thirty minutes staring out at the aisle between desks, Claude’s feet regularly thumping past.

This story inspired by a 50 First Words writing prompt!

Patience

Jaguar and Coyote sat on the plain, waiting. The antelope were grazing, slowly making their way through the grass to the predators, but had not come close enough yet.

“Vagabonds, all of them! I can hardly believe I must feed on this sickly crew. I remember when the antelope were all full and strong and healthy,” Jaguar said.

“Perhaps, though we said the same about them ten years ago,” said Coyote.

Jaguar grunted and sniffed the air, trying to estimate how close the herd was. “Not yet,” Coyote said, “or your patience will be undone.”

Jaguar grunted again and sipped sweet water from the nearby stream. “Did we not have larger herds, and more plentiful food in the past?”

“Perhaps; the humans have hunted greatly in this area. But though we have a few lean years, they will find themselves greatly reduced, for they do not know how to survive without abundance. We can live with little. They love their great feasts, of corn and fish and spitted boar. We, we can survive on pinecones and grasses.”

“Hardly a decent meal,” Jaguar grumbled, thinking to his previous night’s near-empty belly. “We should move.”

“The antelope are not close.”

“I mean in general. We should migrate. Jackal says there is great feeding to the south, herds and herds of fresh deer, moose, rabbit.”

“Then why does Jackal not live there? Why is he here? Jackal is a trickster. And remember what has been said by others about the West.”

“The people, aye.”

Jaguar sniffed the air; the antelope were closer now, and Coyote tensed. “No, we will stay. Men may destroy our world, but we will stay and watch them suffer for it. And when they are gone, we and our relations will live on, and bring the land back. And when it is our turn again, we will rule kindly. But for now, we merely carry on the way we have, for it has always worked for us.”

He leapt forward, Jaguar closely behind.

Cookies Cure Heartburn

“Rudolph? What’s going on?”

“He said he was just popping in for a snack, Mrs. C. Something about sweets and heartburn or some such.”

“How long has he been there?”

“20 minutes, Mrs. C.”

“Go in and get him, there’s no time for this nonsense!”

“Yes Ma’am, on it.”

Rudolph trotted off, bracing himself for another battle with the old coot. His bruises from the last cookie binge weren’t fully faded yet, but a job was a job.