*Munches on pebble* @valeria-eated-rock - Tumblr Blog

The Revolution

The face of a clock is a beautiful, wonderous thing. A perfect revolution of numbers, I to XII, line themselves along the edges of the clock, and hands, both small and large, spin their way around the face to the numbers. It is a marvel of engineering, unchanging in concept for many centuries... a face with numbers and hands. This is a clock, consistent and practical, something that so many rely on, not only for their jobs, but for their entire lives... but the clocks deceive us all. They tell us something that is not real... something that does not exist... something that without a clock, we could not know nor could we care. Without a clock, time does not exist. But without time, a clock could not exist.

He had woken up that day to a knock at his dorm room door. He climbed out of bed and went to open it, but before his hand could reach the knob, a small piece of paper slid underneath the door. He looked down, eyes still half stuck together, and reached to pick it up. It was a letter, with only three words written on the front: ‘Mr Ernest Turner’. This was peculiar; a letter with no stamp? A letter with no indication of who or where it came from? Ernest flipped it over and saw the V shape that was sealing the letter inside, at the crossroads of the V sat a red wax, pressed with a symbol he had not seen before. For some reason, the symbol seemed like the face of a clock, with little roman numerals lining the outside of the circle and miniature hands, both the minutes and hour, pointing outwards. Ernest sat down at his table, and with a small brass knife, he cut the top of the envelope and rescued the piece of folded paper inside. It fell out onto the table, and Ernest reached for the mysterious note, and began to slowly unfold it...

“Mr Turner!”

Ernest awoke from his daydream, snapped back to reality by an Irish voice. Ernest sat within a carriage, drawn by a duo of beautiful grey horses. At the helm of the horses sat the source of the Irish voice, the driver of his carriage, who is dressed in a grey suit and flat cap. The road they drove on was treacherous, with jolts and bumps rocking the whole carriage, so egregious and disturbing the carriage could only travel at a leisurely trot. The road is also lined with great green trees on either side, so thick and tall that they block out the sun, so that the only light that shines through is tinted with a dark green. Ernest jolted upright in his seat, before the driver continued.

“We are making poor time. The road is slowing us down, we won’t make it to York in time before the sun sets.”

The carriage was just beginning to rear its head out of the lonely road in the forest, and the warm yellow of the sun could finally shine on the carriage again. Both the driver and Ernest could see clearly that the sun was only just touching the horizon, and Ernest looked down to his pocket, taking out his shiny silver pocket watch. The time reads V in the afternoon, by then they should have been in York! But as luck would have it, a small town could be seen in the distance along the road. The driver and Ernest agreed that they should stop there for the night. The carriage continued its slow pace, until eventually it reached the edges of the town. On the edges sat a sign, and it read:

“Toynbee.” Ernest muttered under his breath.

The carriage continued into the town centre, where a handful of people made their way around, walking from one place to another. It is much less lively than Ernest is used to in Oxford. The carriage stops, and Ernest steps outside, stepping on the smooth dirt ground, his shoes crunching the ground beneath his feet. Ernest spots in the distance a store, and he tells his driver to wait with the horses, while he finds a place to stay. The door to the store opens gently, and the bell gives a soft ding. The shopkeeper behind the counter looks up to meet a stranger’s eyes.

“Welcome to my store! Say, I haven’t seen a face like yours before, have I?”.

The stranger is well dressed, with a perfectly fitting black dress suit so clean it looked brand new. The cleanliness of his suit was only outmatched by his clean-shaven face, and the shine of a silver pocket-watch sat comfortably inside his pocket. The shopkeeper almost feels embarrassed, what with his dusty apron and long beard, that he and such a fine man stand in the same store. The feeling passes when the stranger gives a kind smile.

“No sir, you have not. I have just come from Oxford; I am traveling to York to visit my fellow academics. They said they’ve found remnants of an older people: the Vikings, if you’ve heard of them. I simply cannot forsake such an opportunity as a historian.”

“Can’t say that I have heard of such people. Anyway, what brings someone like you here? What can the humble General Store of Toynbee do for you?”

“I must ask directions to the nearest tavern; the sun sets soon and I must rest for the night, but I couldn’t find it.”

“Ah, of course. It’s right across the street, in that building there.” He points out the window to a wooden building; but no lights come from it, nor are its doors open.

“The sign is faded and hard to read, even for those who can. Visitors are rare, and since everyone in town already knows where it is, the owners never thought to fix that sign.”

The stranger turns back around, asking why it is so desolate, and is answered with a small, but hearty laugh.

“You’re new here, I almost forgot. The tavern doesn’t open until exactly six at night, when everyone stops working for the day. Every weekday at exactly the same time, the men take the time to unwind with their friends at the bar, and their wives are often there too, conversing about – well whatever it is that women talk about. Then it quiets down at nine, as everyone gets up bright and early at seven to work, then we do it all again! That is, of course, except on Sundays. In fact...”

The shopkeeper points to a clocktower, sat atop an apartment. The rusty hands on the face point to Roman numerals, originally black but so faded that they appear grey. It reads 5:59, and as the hand counting the seconds ticks along, it reaches the top of the face. In a flash, the doors to the tavern swing open, lights turn on and people leave their buildings and go onto the street and into the tavern.

“My word! What clockwork!” The stranger expresses in awe.

Both the shopkeeper and the stranger enter the tavern. Tables can be seen full of people, and just as the shopkeeper said, seeming to have a grand time. The stranger looks to the bar, seating himself on an empty stool. He tries to get the attention of the bartender, but he fails as the bartender’s gaze is drawn elsewhere. What could be so fixating? The stranger turns, seeing that the rest of the tavern had gone silent, their gazes fixed upon two men standing in the middle of the room. The first stands out among the crowd, his attire being not unlike the stranger’s own. With the way he commanded the room’s attention, the stranger thought he must be the mayor. The other was a decently dressed young man, wearing a fairly clean dress shirt and jeans, though his rural hometown still showed on his clothes.

“As we all know,” the first man spoke to the room, “tonight marks exactly one year after the sudden death of Joeseph Weaver, a great man and a good friend of mine. But, it also marks the first anniversary since his son took over the vital work of maintaining the clocktower, the history of Toynbee itself, and thus today is both a solemn and celebratory day. Lad, I’m sure Joeseph is proud of you up in Heaven, and I am sure he’d want us to celebrate you today. To Peter Weaver!”

“To Peter Weaver!” The crowd chants back, raising their glasses and downing them. The tavern returns to its previous state of noise as quickly as it left, and the man called Peter Weaver moves to sit at the bar beside the stranger.

“That sure is a fine watch.”

The stranger quickly looks to his pocket, and indeed, the thing is quite visible.

“Not many people use watches here. In fact, I don’t think anyone does; we all rely on the old clocktower.”

"And you're its keeper? My, I pray you will tell me about it!” The stranger remarks, with a failed attempt at repressing his enthusiasm.

“My father maintained it before me and his father before him. That very same clocktower has been here since the founding of Toynbee, and my family has been its keeper since. I carry with me a legacy of five-hundred years of clockwork engineering.”

The stranger’s eyes betray his astonishment. This does not go unnoticed by Peter, who is glad to have impressed the stranger with his story.

“Five-hundred years? My, what of kind of stories can you tell? You tempt me with such a promise! You must tell me!” The stranger’s enthusiasm is rampant, but is quickly constrained as he returns to his senses. “Forgive me. I haven’t even introduced myself.” He reaches out. “Mr Ernest Turner, Oxford historian.”

Peter receives his hand and they shake.

“Peter Weaver. Say, can I buy you a drink?”

Despite only having arrived mere moments ago, Ernest found himself with the rest of the tavern; drinking like he also worked all day in the fields and engaging in a wonderful conversation with Peter. They’d talk about many things; Ernest asked how they cared for the clock, and Peter would answer. Peter asked about Ernest’s studies, and Ernest would answer. Ernest would show Peter his silver pocket watch, and Peter would marvel. But upon looking down at it, Ernest is shocked.

“Nine o’clock? How quickly does the time pass? I’ve spent what felt like mere moments here, and yet it has been so long in reality. I certainly made no mistake stopping by this town; it would seem that fate itself lead me here, lead me to meet you!”

Peter nods, agreeing whole heartedly, for as amazed Ernest was, he felt the same. But as he looked out the window, his smile turned to a frown.

“Ernest? There’s something wrong...”

Ernest followed his gaze out the window; through it he saw the clocktower, and it read:

“Ten o’clock? My watch must be slow. A full hour behind? And yet, the clocks told the same time just hours before!” A brief pause interjected itself, as both men process. “Ah, no matter.” Ernest finally said. “My watch must be broken. Perhaps tomorrow you could help me fix it, Peter?”

“I’d gladly, as thanks for tonight.”

Δ Δ Δ

The sun soon rises on the horizon, casting its beams through Peter’s window and into his eyes. Despite being unable to see the clock above his house, he still knows the time: six am, the same time that he wakes every morning. He sits up and stretches, before climbing out of bed and readying himself for the day ahead. Normally, Peter would spend the day carefully inspecting the clock’s mechanisms, ensuring that they are completely functional without a fault, and in the evenings, he would visit the tavern like everyone else. Today would be different, as he knew he would have a visitor. He was wandering around upstairs inside the creaking wooden room hosting the clocktower mechanism, inspecting every cog and shaft and ensuring that they are well oiled and clean, when he hears a knock at his door. He goes downstairs to the front door.

“Ernest! Please, come inside!” But Peter realises that Ernest wears a frown on his face. “What’s wrong Ernest?”

“Come, step outside. You need to see this.”

Peter steps outside and looks around but sees nothing.

“Look up, Peter.”

Peter slowly looks up at the clock face, and to his utter horror sees that IX is missing, in its place a faded outline left by the weathering over time.

“What? What happened? Where did it go? Ernest! Did it fall off?”

“I couldn’t see it anywhere on the ground here. I have no idea what has happened.”

By this point, a small crowd of people gathered on the road in front of the clocktower, their many different chatters asking the same question: Where was IX?

“Do you think someone stole it? In fact, when did it even go?” Peter asks, his breath quickening. How could I have let this happen? Numbers would never disappear if Father was still at work.

“I don’t know. For all we know, it was already gone last night and it was just too dark to see it gone.”

The time was almost IX already. As the seconds hand tick, tick, ticked towards XII, it quickly reaches it. But gasps erupt from the crowd. Ernest’s eyes widen and Peter’s jaw drops. Right before their very eyes, the clock that should have shown exactly IX instead changed in the blink of an eye, and the hour hand now sat on X. For just a moment there was silence as the crowd stood there, stunned by the impossible reality, but then there was a was a whisper, then there was chatter, and finally a burst of many voices, each demanding to know the answer. Soon, the mayor, only just emerging from the town hall, interrupts the crowd.

“Alright!” His booming voice turning the many heads of the crowd; no wonder he is mayor. “What is the meaning of this?”

He too, looks up and realises the present situation. As he does so, the crowd swiftly bombard him with questions.

“Let’s all calm down for just a moment.” He says, while raising his arms only to slowly lower them. “Since it is his clock, I ask Mr Weaver to come here. Peter?” The mayor gestures towards Peter, and he and Ernest walk to him.

“Sir, I have no idea –” Peter’s eyebrows are high on his forehead, eyes wide. He takes a breath before continuing. “It seemed like normal just this morning!”

The crowd continues to murmur. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be he who lived right beneath the clock. And if he did not know...

Ernest looked down at his pocket watch, and then it dawned on him.

“Yesterday it was an hour behind!” He yelled, drawing the attention of the crowd. “You saw this too, Peter. I came here today to get it fixed! And now, it is not just one, but two hours behind! Perhaps my watch isn’t broken. Perhaps, the same thing happened yesterday like it did today, but we didn’t notice! It’s one thing to have a clock that tells a different time, but if you look to the sky, you’ll see that the sun has moved!”

And it was true. When the crowd tilted their heads up, they saw the sun had greatly shifted from where it was just minutes before. A series of gasps and other exclamations followed this discovery. The mayor looks back down and shakes his head.

“I know not what is happening -” He is interrupted as a loud thud, a puff of dust kicks up below the clocktower. The crowd swiftly turns, screams surging. The mayor looks on in horror as the dust settles, revealing what had fallen: I. The mayor is stunned, but soon is able to recollect himself.

“I apologise to everyone here.” The crowd’s attention returns to the mayor. “I cannot answer all your questions. To me, this seems like it was the doing of a power beyond this world.” He pauses as the crowd whisper to each other, their fears uneased. “And thus! I say that we must discuss this properly inside of the town hall immediately. I ask that everyone stop what they are doing and attend. This is an emergency.”

And with that, the crowd disperse to gather their friends and family not present, and soon they flow into the doors and onto the floor of the townhall.

¿ ¿ ¿

The mayor directs the people into the town hall courtroom, which he has temporarily commandeered to serve as an adequately large meeting room. In just the short time between the disbanding and regathering of the crowd, he had ordered various people of importance, such as the Chief of Police and the local Priest, and even Peter, to sit in the jury while the rest of the town’s people sat in the gallery that observed the courtroom. The mayor himself is seated in the judge’s seat.

“Good morning to all the good citizens of Toynbee. I am aware this is unusual to be seated here in the courtroom, but as many of you already know, we face an even more unusual situation.” He gestures to the window to his left, and out of it the clocktower can clearly be seen. “Time itself, a thing we once thought to be bound by a strict and persistent rule of consistency, falls apart before our very eyes. As I have said before, this is clearly a matter caused by a power beyond human. And thus, because the only power beyond us humans must be divine or demonic, I ask Father David to speak.”

Father David is an old man, with wrinkly skin and pure white hair, and clad in black clerical robes typical to his position. He stands to address the room.

“Thank you, Mr Mayor. The Father, our Lord, is an eternal and infinite being. In various scriptures and interpretations, God is synonymous with time itself. No low sorcerer or lesser demon could do such an egregious thing to time, as it must also be an attack on God. This must be the work of the Devil!”

Chatter emerges in response to Father David’s speech; was the Devil spelling doom for the world?

“And so,” Father David continues, “We must hold our hands together in prayer, we must show the Lord that our faith in him be unshaken, and I am sure by the grace of God, we will persevere into tomorrow!”

Initially, the crowd timidly accepts the wisdom of the Priest, though their unease is not soothed. But, suddenly, another bang in the distance interrupts the quiet of the courtroom. The clocktower! Someone yells, and out of the window, another puff of dust flies in the wind; on the clockface, another number is missing: V. Before panic could ensue, the mayor reasserts the order of the courtroom, banging the gavel so that the sound of it overpowers all others. But the crowd is not constrained; they show on their faces fear, terror at the attack of the Devil told by the Priest.

“How could we sit around and do nothing while the end is near?” A woman from the gallery stands up and yells out. The priest looks at her and grimaces.

“Silence, woman!” The Priest scowls at her, how dare she question faith. But another voice stands up from the gallery to cut him off.

“She’s right! For all we know, God has forsaken our town! Remember what that stranger said? His watch still tells the correct time!”

The gallery voices their agreement, to the disgust of the Priest. The mayor interrupts the insurrection with another bang of the gavel.

“That is quite enough! Take a seat, Father.”

The Priest reluctantly sits back down. The mayor turns to address the gallery.

“If it is action that you want, then what action would that be?”

Many voices come from the gallery; no single word could be made out. But, one voice would rise above the rest, dominating the rest.

“Destroy the tower!” This voice does not just come from the gallery, but from the mouth of Ernest. “If the clock is the cause of the end, then it must go!”

The whole courtroom looks at him. Silence holds in the room, the gravity of his words weighs on Ernest. Maybe he had offended the whole town. But that thought was dismissed when the rest of the gallery responded. Yes! He is right!

“No!” Peter quickly stands up and shouts. “That clock is 500 years old! Its history is intertwined with Toynbee! Destroying it could bring the end even closer! Perhaps the clock is the only thing preventing our doom!”

The rest of the jury nod their heads in agreement with Peter, but the gallery quickly voices opposition. They agree with Ernest, the foreign academic from the prestigious Oxford. The mayor bangs his gavel for the third time, but the room does not simmer down, the gavel did not work. We should destroy the clocktower now! We must do something! the gallery chants.

“Silence!” In this word, the mayor expels all the oxygen in his lungs out to the room. And in turn, the room deafens for a moment, long enough for the mayor to retake their attention. “I say, we cannot be so divided in a time like this! As mayor, I will say what we do. We will not destroy the clock, but instead we fix the fallen numbers back to the face. And if that fails, then we might destroy it. Everyone is dismissed.”

The chief of Police orders everybody out of the room, and as the gallery leaves, the mayor approaches Peter.

“We will give you everything you need; fix the damn clock.”

Peter nods and rushes outside.

π π π

Time passes quickly as Peter and other crew construct the scaffold in front of the clock, and another crowd gathers to watch. At 12:50, they are almost ready to fix I back into place. The crew lift the heavy metal I with a pulley, making sure to do it swiftly so they can replace it before time is up.

Meanwhile, from his room in the tavern, Ernest stood looking out the window, he watched Peter and his crew haul, and he watched them lift.

“Peter... I am sorry for what I said.” He spoke to the glass of the window. “For our sakes, I hope the numbers can be stitched back onto the face. I truly want to be wrong... I don’t understand why. I have always believed I was right, no matter how much I was told by my colleagues how ridiculous my findings were...”

With a tug at the rope, the number flies up to the top where Peter stands, and he and another worker lift the heavy thing to its place. With a bang of the hammer and a twist of the screwdriver, I is fixed back onto the face of the clock, right before the hands reached I. Peter and the crew step back to witness the clock and the crowd below hold their breaths, just as the seconds hand finally ticks onto XII. And it keeps going. A moment of silence, a temporary relief, a cluster of gasps, as they realised that the hour hand was still fixed on I, and not II. Peter had done it.

“Yes! Hallelujah!” Peter shouted. Onlookers in the crowd cheered and clapped for him, ecstatic that their doom would be avoided. But it was unceremoniously halted, when another thud, and a cloud of dust struck up from below the clocktower. And the cause was the number X. And then, more thuds, clouds of dusts, IV, and VI! It couldn’t be...

The crowd below, just as quickly as it was cheering, it was gasping, how can this be? It was shouting, yelling, why? Is this the end of it all? Then it was fleeing, running from the stationary clock. But there was one who didn’t flee; he was still standing at his window. A single tear began to well in his eye, but Ernest wipes it away. And swiftly, he turns around, the tail of his coat swishes in the air.

Ω Ω Ω

Some time passes, but most of it falls straight off the face of the clocktower. Sometimes it is midday, and the sun beams bright and hot up in the sky. But the next hour, the sun teeters over the horizon, with beautiful pink and orange colours painted over the blue. And then the next it is gone completely; but all too soon yet again it shines in the sky. Peter paces inside the clocktower; he looks at one cog and another shaft, where was the secret power of the clocktower located? Days literally pass by, and every day, another thud meets the ears of Peter, and vibrates down his spine. His clothes became damp from his sweat as he worked, the days still go by, and his clothes begin grow black mould.

During this time, Ernest gathered the town’s people, the ones who could be calmed down from their hysteria. These people stood behind Ernest at the foot of the clocktower, brandishing bottles of flaming oil and cloth, and others carry wooden boxes, filled to the brim of small red cylinders of pure destruction. The base of the clocktower had become a junkyard of rusty metal numbers, all in a pile below the face of the clock tower. As the mob gazed up at the face of the clocktower, they saw that only two numbers were left. But right in front of their eyes, the number VII fell from its place, in the air it slowly spun, and it crashed with a violent clash and scraping of metal against metal. XII is the last number standing, glimmering, reflecting the moonlight off the exposed metal where the black paint was peeling. Ernest turns around to witness the mob, and they looked at him with anticipation, holding their tools with tight fists.

“We stand here, together, with no other choice!” Ernest yells in his loudest voice. “Time runs out before our very eyes, and the end cannot be closer! The tower will fall, but this town will not fall with it! We will live to see tomorrow!”

The mob returns a cheer, raising their fists into the night sky. Through the sea of people, a large tree trunk sails on top, carried by four strong men towards the blockade of metal. They spew out from the mob, and heave the trunk like a battering ram. One! A swing back, a low thud returns as the trunk and metal make contact. Two! Again, thud, but some metal shifts. Three! Breakthrough. The front entrance to the building is punctured wide open, bricks and glass scatter. Before the dust even settles, men carrying the boxes of dynamite rush into the opening, setting them down at the base, evacuating just as quick as they came. But before the Molotovs could be thrown, Ernest raised his hand.

“Wait! Peter is still in there!”

The mob first looked at him, and then to each other in worry. They didn’t have time for this.

Ernest stepped over the metal and bricks into the house; it seemed that it was a lovely house, before he had just let himself in. Ernest ran across the wooden floor, past the boxes and up the stairs to the top.

“Peter!”

“Ernest?”

They gazed at each other, Peter was covered in oil and sweat, so immersed in his work he tuned out the terrible sounds outside.

“Peter!” Ernest repeated. “This place is about to explode! Come with me!” He offers his hand. “We need to leave.”

“Ernest!” The shocking news shows itself on Peter’s face, but he shakes it off. “You would doom us all! I am so close to finding the catalyst for this nightmare! It is here somewhere, I know it!”

Outside, the mob waits with stomachs of butterflies. Waiting for Ernest is killing them inside, when suddenly, XII makes a creak, the metal scraping on the glass clockface. It hinges on one last bolt, the mob gasps. And in the panic, a yell rings through, a bottle of fire spins through the air, and shatters on the wooden floor. Another, and another follow. The smashing can be heard clear as day by Ernest and Peter.

“Peter!” Ernest can hardly hold back his tears any longer, and they begin stream down his face. Peter hesitates but stands firm while the water in his eyes wells.

“This is my home! My family lived here for centuries!” Rivers of tears line down Peter’s face, and his voice shakes and cracks. “My father died in this clocktower, Ernest! He died showing me the mechanism! He died when his arms caught in the cogs!”

Ernest’s jaw lowers. The fire and smoke start to spread up to the clock room from the bottom floor, travelling up the wooden pillars and starting on the wooden floor below them. Ernest and Peter both look back up to each other’s eyes, they don’t hold back their tears for each other.

Ernest moves in closer to Peter, and grabs his hands. Peter wanted to recoil back, but he quickly realises that he doesn’t want to let go.

“You have fascinated me since we met...” Ernest whispered softly and leaning in closer. “I don’t want to live without you anymore.”

Their faces are so close, their heavy breaths in sync not out of terror to the world around them, not anymore. In this moment, all their fears leave, the world disappears around them. Now, there was only Ernest and Peter...

Their lips gravitated to each other like two magnets. And like magnets, they met together, and stuck together, inseparable by any force. Nothing else mattered to them in this moment, not society, not God, not the Reaper on their doorsteps; nothing. They were like the lowest of animals: no reason nor thought behind their actions but pure instinct, the purest form of lust... yet they were like the highest of artists. The artwork, no, the pure emotion from their kiss put Michaelangelo and Leonardo to shame.

But their moment would be interrupted, as they returned to reality. The dynamite below finally caught alight, and succumbed to the influence of the fire. The explosion was massive, and the force hit the two. Time seemed to slow down, as Ernest and Peter were ripped away from each other, still holding hands as tight as they possibly could. They were able to look at each other, one last time, before time sped back up, and Ernest was torn away from Peter. The last thing Ernest saw was Peter, engulfed by the thick black smoke, as he flew backwards out of the face of the clocktower, the glass shattering and cutting him all over. Gravity caught up with him, and his head tilted towards the sky. He gazed into the pale light of the full moon, and smiled.

∞

“Good citizens of Toynbee!” A short and stout man shouts from atop a box that overlooks a crowd.

Behind the new mayor, who stands on the box, a railway platform quietly waits, pristine like a newly minted coin. Onlookers in the crowd give gasps of their astonishment, Wow! Look at that! They say. Some try to stand on their toes and dart their heads one way to the other, they simply cannot miss this.

“Today is a very special day in our history! The very first state-of-the-art railway has finally been constructed, and Toynbee will finally join the future of transport! Dare I say, the future of all our lives?”

The crowd cheer and applaud him, and the mayor raises a bottle of wine.

“With this, I declare the Toynbee Railway Station open for all!”. He smashes the bottle on the ground, the red liquid slowly seeps out. The crowd whistle and shout hooray! Children laugh and adults give their applause.

The station was lovely, yet quaint. It has all the necessities of a station: benches, ticket booths, timetables, and... a clock?

Something within you stirs; the noise of the crowd softens in your ears, gradually becoming almost mute. You see the clock, head on, it slowly becomes larger and larger, zooming in, you can read the hands perfectly, nine o’clock it says, and as it comes closer and closer you hear the noise of the ticking tick tick tick become louder and louder, it echoes in your brain until it becomes the only thing you can hear the clock the only thing you can see and the clock the only thing you can think when suddenly you hear the sounds of screaming, crying, the clock remains still and ticking and ticking and ticking but the screaming becomes louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and louder... the clock is beautiful, a light behind it beams, the ring of the clock shines with the golden glow of beauty, power...

Does your clock tell you the time?

#short story #trigger warning: super gay homosexuals

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