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    Thread: The Clock

    1. #1
      Dead Roach Samuel Achievements:
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      Kiza's Avatar
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      The Clock

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      The clock is off, you notice. The tick lingers too long.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      Across from you, a woman scolds her child. You cannot help but
      notice that both the child and her are obese. You close your
      eyes, but the image remains: the fat woman and child, the off
      clock, the peeling walls, the plaque on the door saying, "M. Esser, G.P."
      You wonder if that's the correct way to say you're a doctor. Perhaps
      it isn't. Perhaps he isn't a doctor at all.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      Arranged across the walls are the doctor's credentials. A university
      you have never heard of, a signed form saying he is allowed
      to be what he is, a whole slew of vaguely grey pieces of paper
      signed by people you don't know.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      A man a few seats from you breaks down into coughs. He is forty,
      bald, alone. Not obese, you notice. The skinny man coughs, and
      the patients next to him lean away, as if he had some kind of disease.
      He reminds you slightly of your father, except if your father had more
      skin. Or blood. Or internal organs.

      Tickkkk-
      -tock.

      The clock is broken, you realise. They will have someone in to fix it
      soon. Things should not remain broken. He will come in, and he will
      have a spanner, and he will fix the clock. And everything will be all right.

      A woman is called in. There seems to be nothing wrong with her, until
      you realise her right arm does not move. It stays stationary against
      her side, like a slab of meat. It is waxy, unmoving . . . prosthetic. She
      notices you staring, but she does not glare. She looks to the wall instead,
      and you instantly feel sick.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      A man walks in the door; he is wearing a suit, and he leads a child in
      with him. He is not obese, nor skinny, nor prosthetic, and he nods at
      you amiably as he strolls in. He is the perfect picture of happiness, and
      the child he has come in with looks constantly up at him, completely terrified.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      The prosthetic woman takes eighteen minutes; you know because you counted.
      M. Esser, General Practitioner, whispers to his secretary and goes back to
      his office, and the secretary calls in the next patient. The skinny man. The coughing
      man. The diseased man.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      Silence descends over the room like a dark, choking blanket. It is only
      broken by the obese child, who shrieks at his mother that he is bored.
      The happy man does not try to conceal his irritation, the prosthetic
      woman is still talking to secretary and does not notice, and the obese
      woman says that yes, honey, she is bored too but it will be soon.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      The obese woman. The child. M. Esser, General Practitioner, pokes his
      head out the door as they come in and the diseased man leaves, and
      he looks surprised. He is only one doctor, yet there is upwards of a
      dozen patients. He closes the door: there is a click and, again, silence.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      Two old women come in the door. They are talking, and as soon as
      they enter, the silent room absorbs their conversation and it is
      immediately transformed into a whispered consort. They are
      old, you think. They are too old. They sit down next to you, and you
      listen to their conversation with your left ear and the clock with your right.

      They are talking about grandchildren. You neither have, want, or
      possess the slightest interest in grandchildren, so you listen intently.
      One of them talks about Alastair, who is turning eight. Eight! He has
      begun swearing, and this bothers her. Eight year olds swear? You did
      not know this.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      The prosthetic woman leaves; the diseased man has already departed.
      The obese woman and child remain inside, then. It has been
      twenty-seven minutes, thirteen seconds. It has been too long. You have
      not looked at the happy man, but you know he is beyond simple anger by now.
      Right now, the happy man is the angriest man on the planet.

      Tickkk-
      -tock.

      Another name is called; it is the happy man and his child. He holds
      her delicate hand like it is a flower and he is crushing it. You know you
      were here before him, and not only him; you were here before the
      diseased man, and the obese woman and child. You know you were
      here before them all, but you are not angry. Perhaps you are relieved. In any
      case, you are leaving.

      Tickkk-
      -tock-is the last sound that you hear before you leave the doctor's.
      No-one came to fix the clock with a spanner, but that is all right.
      Perhaps some things cannot be fixed. Perhaps some things aren't meant to be.

      The sun is high in the sky, and blinding. A light breeze sweeps over
      you; a few leaves nearby are kicked up, and for a brief moment dance together.
      You laugh, not because of leaves, but because you finally can.

      Only a few blocks away there is a beachside resort. It is tall, but not
      too tall for second thoughts.

      You walk down to the resort; the street is packed with people, and
      some of them are obese, some of them are wearing suits, some of them
      are grandmas. All of them are diseased.

      At the resort, you take the stairs, because the elevator would be an insult.

      It is windy on the roof, and a gust whips your coat off. You climb on to
      the ledge and watch it flutter down to the pavement like a blossom from
      a tree. It lands in the path of someone male; from this height he could
      be anything from sixteen to eighty. He looks up in confusion, and spots you.
      He points up at you, almost as if something exciting is about to happen.

      You laugh, because you can, and throw yourself from the roof without
      a second thought.
      Last edited by Kiza; 09-30-2009 at 03:51 PM.
      A turd with a bullet in it ain't exactly 5 O'Clock News Ray

    2. #2
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      Beautiful. ;____;
      Bollocks.

    3. #3
      Member Tyler's Avatar
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      Wow Kiza.
      This shit never happens to me

    4. #4
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      Bravo. :bravo:

    5. #5
      I am become fish pear Abra's Avatar
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      /impressed
      Abraxas

      Quote Originally Posted by OldSparta
      I murdered someone, there was bloody everywhere. On the walls, on my hands. The air smelled metallic, like iron. My mouth... tasted metallic, like iron. The floor was metallic, probably iron

    6. #6
      Veteran of the DV Wars Man of Steel's Avatar
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      I wanted to write a story with a broken-sounding clock. You beat me to it.


      I liked the punchline.

    7. #7
      Pistol Pete CanceledCzech's Avatar
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