Thursday, April 2, 2015

Thingy Thursdays #10

A fascinating object that begged at the chance for a story. 
(or in this case, a picture)

     Laura watches the hands of the clock as they move. A steady beat. A steady click. Because she's watching from inside the clock the hands move counterclockwise around the milky-colored face.
     Standing on the catwalk is a man all alone. Laura walks out to him, curious as to why someone else would be inside the clock.  Maybe he likes the peace and the comfort of the consistent sounds and movements. His face is drawn, tired, and his eyes are suspiciously puffy.
     “Why are you sad?” she asks. He simply lets out a deep sigh.
     “Because of the stories I carry,” he whispers, not looking at her. His expression shows an even greater sadness now that those words have been spoken. Laura stands next to him, watching the clock as it continues to tick backwards.
     “Can you tell me one of your stories?” she asks. The man hesitates, then lets out another long breath. “Very well.” And he beings.
     “There was a boy and girl. They were young and they were in love with both each other and the sea. They traveled the world together, sailing the ship anywhere they could. But on their last voyage the ship docked and the girl walked out alone. The boy stayed on the deck, watching.  She tried not to look back, but instead focused on the shoreline. The ship raised its sails, and when she finally dared look up again, he was gone. That was the last they ever saw of each other.”
     Laura listens quietly, but doesn't comment. “Please tell me another,” she says.
     The man is surprised to hear this, but he continues nonetheless. 
     “The author finally finished his first novel. It had taken a year to write. He was pleased and excited—a job well done. But as he began to read through it he realized he was wrong. The job was neither done, nor done well. He started erasing words and sentences, but soon was erasing entire paragraphs. Then chapters. Taking out material, putting it back, only to take it out again. Until finally he nothing but a blank page. All that hard work gone. The story no more.”
     Laura watches the clock sadly. She doesn’t ask to hear any more, but the man speaks again.   
     “I have one more story,” he whispers. She waits for him to tell it, but instead he points at the clock.
     “See how the hands turn backwards?” he says. “My time is running out.”
     Laura looks first at the clock, then back to the man. A new understanding comes into her eyes and she smiles. Taking his hand, she guides him out of the clock and onto the street below.  
     “Look,” she says, still smiling, and points at the clock face. The man watches as he sees the hands tick forward for the first time. His eyebrows skyrocket and he looks to Laura for an explanation.
     “Sometimes when you look at things from the wrong side, it can seem a little unfair and unsatisfying,” she says.
     “But if you look at it from the right perspective, you see that the boy didn’t leave the girl at the shore—that’s when they first met. The author didn’t erase his story, he wrote it.” She looks up to see his face. 
     “Your time isn’t running out. It’s just beginning.” 

God bless,
~Amy Rochelle

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