WOTM #24 Voting (Casual)

[WOTM]

Theme: Time

Explained: A story about time or time travel.

Components:

• The main character finds someone/something from his/her past.
• The story involves time manipulation (pausing, reversing, etc).
• The story involves a historical figure.
• The story involves the individual knowing the future.
• The story involves time travel gone wrong.

Rules for Voting:

• Read ALL entries.
• Vote on your favorite entry.
• Please post explaining your vote and why.
• Please provide helpful feedback on the entries.
• Do NOT post anything insulting or offensive about the entries.
• Do NOT vote for your own entry.
• Do NOT tell others which entry is your own.

Components required for casual entries: 1

The Entries:

A shoebox in the closet,
battered, bruised and worn.
What once was thick and sturdy,
now is ripped and torn.
But, despite the damage,
its contents remain.
Wrapped in velvet pouches,
so that they stay the same.
I pick one out at random,
a weighty little thing.
Hidden in its parcel,
bound by a drawstring.
The string is old and frayed,
the thread is dry and hard.
But still it serves its purpose,
and the contents it must guard.
I pull the string so gently,
to open up the bag.
And peer inside to see,
what prize is to be had.

I remember now,
though, 'til now I had forgot.
A relic of my father,
his grandpa's pocket watch.
And, though it has not rusted,
and still retains its shine.
The watch has lost its function,
and it cannot tell the time.
No longer does it tick,
merrily on its way.
No longer does it differ
between the night and day.
It is a thing of beauty,
this pointless pocket watch.
For, though its hands have tired,
time has yet to stop.
Still, the Sun comes in the morn,
and still, the Moon at night.
Still, ends the dark at dawn.
and still, dusk ends the light.

I have a little theory,
that I hope makes sense to you.
Time does not exist, you see.
Clocks do.

My father hates that I’m the complete duplicate of you. Some nights while he’s getting drunk for what he says is the last time that week, he’ll look into my eyes and say, “You are just like that bitch.” He’s right, isn't he? I look just like you, I have that half smile just like you, I laugh just like you, and the blood that runs through me is your blood. My father had wanted you to get an abortion when he found out you were pregnant. But of course, you insisted that at thirteen years old you were old enough to take care of everything life had to offer. I’m twenty years old now, and I still don’t know if my father had the right idea all along.

It was only a few months ago now, that I seen you walking across the street downtown. You were all dolled up and having a smoke, heading to God knows where looking like that. “Momma!” I called out to you, once, twice, three times without any initial reaction or acknowledgement. I still don’t know why I even did that, I didn't think I wanted to talk to you, I didn't know if I wanted to see you, but it slipped out of my throat, like a cry from a mistreated animal.

I had already crossed across the busy street to run into your arms when your dark brown eyes turned to glare at me. Admit it Mom, you had recognized my voice on the first call, but it took you the third one to gather up the courage to look back at me. “Go home.” You said to me without hesitation, in a strict and emotionless tone. My mouth gaped open, I hadn't seen you in practically a decade, and the only thing you could say to me was, “Go home.” The words ring in my head to this very day, reminding me that at that moment in time I was like a dog that had wandered too far from home, and was not welcome nor wanted where I was. Tears streamed down my face instantly as you said the words, my voice cracked under the pressure, as I blubbered out apologies for even being born. “I’m sorry, please come back. I didn't mean to make you upset, whatever I did, I’m sorry.” I begged, my tears choking me, "I’m sorry I ruined your life, but I need you now, please don’t leave me again. I need you, _{I need you, I need you.}" The repeated phrase overplayed, as my voice became louder and more desperate by the second. You hadn't said a word yet, you just looked at me, examining me. Your mirror image, stared back at you, and you were a blank slate. Your painted lips parted as to say something before you changed your mind and took the lit end of you cigarette and pressed it against my forehead. I fell to my knees as sobs overwhelmed my composure, my skin had felt burnt, but my heart had just felt an ever deeper wound. I had finally found you after ten years, of searching, and you had just used me as an ashtray.

You turned and walked away that night, leaving me once again. I haven’t seen you since, and I don’t know if I ever will. My father hates that I’m a complete duplicate of you. I look just like you, I have that empty half smile just like you, and I have that cold blood that runs through my veins just like you. I’m twenty years old now, and I still don’t know if my father had the right idea all along.

Clockwork

For the past year, whenever I entered the stuffy back room I was greeted by an iridescent layer of dust and the dull ticking of that invisible clock. I hadn’t bothered to rescue it from the junk that constantly threatened to swallow and silence it. Today, however, since Maria had decided to “clean” every inch of the house with a fervor that only meant spring was on its way again, I was shocked to find that neither of the mainstays persisted. She had pulled the clock from its hiding place and urged that I fix it as its hands had frozen having lost the fight against the insufferable silence.

The truth was, I couldn’t. My wife left me the clock with no instructions and no key, probably figuring that I would junk it the first moment that I was able or perhaps naively believing that it would continue on long after her exit.

I took the heavy wooden timepiece in my hands and sat on the bed, balancing it on my knees as I briefly looked it over. There was nothing I could think of to do. Calling a repairman seemed like a waste of time if I didn’t know what make or model it was. I was also somewhat convinced that without the key, nothing could be done. I dreaded breaking the news to Maria, but she was logical and intelligent. She would undoubtedly understand.

However, instead of tossing it back to the pile, I absentmindedly spun the hands around the face several times, feeling the slight resistance. I positioned them at 2:00, smirking slightly. That was the time that her favorite soap opera aired every weekday. She’d watch attentively as I sipped on coffee if it was a day off that I spent with her, and she always mentioned how she hated soaps and her mother for getting her hooked on this one. I couldn’t even remember what it was called but she once looked over to me and told me that she intended to watch it with Maria someday so I’d never have to do so again. I had snapped back at her and told her that our daughter wasn’t going to turn into a housewife with an addiction to cheesy daytime drama and she smiled only with the corners of her lips. I had struck a nerve but she had no intention of fighting me over it. I thought then that if it was truly a big deal, she would have said something to me.

Shaking off that particular memory, I rotated the arms further so that they stood straight as palace guards at twelve. Midnight, to be exact. Our first date in high school came to an abrupt end when I escorted her out of my car on the way back from prom and kissed her on the front steps, with every intention of getting her through the front door before her midnight curfew. The clock in my wheezy old sedan was apparently close to ten minutes slow and her parents gave me the sternest talking-to of my life as well as grounding her for a month. I visited nearly every day, scaling the playset built for her when she was a kid, and threatened to serenade her until she promised she’d go out with me the next time she was allowed out of the house again. More than once her father met me chased me off with the threat of a rifle that he could never produce.

Another quick turn of the clock and it was 4:15. Countless 4:15s past for the both of us, several of mine were spent grading horrendous papers and more than a few of hers were spent missing Maria when she was hard at work. The most important one of both of our lives was the 4:15 of October 7th, 2005 when we were married. The priest grew sick and fainted just before I could say “I do”. The whole wedding party crossed themselves in unison as they went to revive the poor old man. They said our marriage was doomed.

Fast forward to 9:28 AM, and cue my wife’s screaming and the birth of a beautiful, healthy baby girl. She told me time and again that no moment would ever surpass that day for her. It was her happiest and in a roundabout way, truly one of the saddest she’d ever know. What possessed a woman to think that one day, no matter how special, could be her finest? I always assumed that the day Maria got married would be the greatest moment of my life. Now, I’d be the only one to see it... and I’d make sure it was joyous enough for the both of us.

“Daddy?” her voice floated through the small room and caused me to jump. I had to grab for the clock as it lurched from my knee. Maria climbed her way onto the bed and bounced a few times before she looked up at me. Her big blue eyes were starting to get puffy around the sides. She was allergic to dust, she really shouldn’t be in here. I went to pick her up but she crawled across my lap and took the timepiece in her arms. “It’s broken. She’s not here anymore now. Can you fix it?”

I scrunched my face together into a quick smile, “What do you mean, sweetie?” I thought I’d made it clear that Amelia wasn’t coming back.

Maria didn’t say anything for a long while, but her tiny fingers circled the face of the clock and she sighed, impatiently, as though she was the parent explaining the mysteries of death to me, “I know that mommy’s gone to sleep. I came in here when I was sad, and I was sad a lot at first like you were. But the clock was mommy’s way to say goodbye. I could come here and listen... and it sounded like her.” She thrust the clock back at me with somewhat of an accusatory pout, “I’m not ready for her to be gone. You have to keep her going.”

I gently ruffled her hair, pushing her bangs from her eyes and sighed. “Maria,” I shook my head at her, “I know you know that this isn’t going to bring her back. You’re a smart girl.” I removed the clock from her weak grasp. I pointed to the hands, “See this? 9:28 AM. Do you know what happened then?” She bounced enthusiastically. “That was the happiest I had ever seen your mother.”

“Was she even happier than when she married you?” Maria giggled a little into the back of her hand, fighting back a few tears. I nodded back at her.

“But look, there we are in the hospital. There you are at your first piano lesson,” I moved the hands slowly, pointing out each event, “And here’s the time I took your mother to see the Titanic. She hated it. We’ll have to do it some time. Do you see what I mean? She’s in your memories.” I weighed the wooden piece in my hands. I had no use for it. “If you want me to put it in your room so that you can remember her, I can do that,” I suggested. Maria didn’t say anything. She simply hugged the timepiece close to her chest and rocked for a few moments like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. I wasn’t sure how many events Maria would really remember as she grew up, but it couldn’t hurt to reinforce them while they were still fresh.

My daughter left it on the bed as she stood up to return to her room. The spring in her step made it clear to me that she had left a good portion of her grief wound up in the springs, “Keep it. I think you need it more than I do.”

And in that moment, I couldn’t argue.

One Man

Hector the Unkillable stood at the window of his tower in Leviathan City. This city was his and his alone. This whole planet was his. The power and respect and awe that he had earned in the past ten years were astounding, but he was troubled. He knew how it would end. That’s why he picked this planet out of all the others.
Because ten minutes from now, an earthquake was going to rip through this city, and it was going to claim his life. He knew this, and although he had spent the past week very tense, snapping at everyone who would try and speak to him, and even crying in private, he was ready now. Some things were just too good to last...

Fifteen years earlier, and the year is 2701. The natural evolution of mankind has been forwarded by selective breeding, and many varieties of human exist. Hector Jot-Anne was of a breed that was known for its extremely advanced neural development. They were called ‘Hiltons’, after the scientist initially in charge of breeding them. Hiltons were short and pale, and their hair was always the colour of straw, but out of all the evolved breeds, they resembled Homo Sapiens the most. Humanity has also spread across space, but planets naturally capable of sustaining life are rare and terraforming is necessary. There hasn’t been so much as a protozoa of alien life discovered as of yet.
Hector was bred to be a test subject; an illegitimate child of a scientist and another test subject. He was educated and treated with basic human rights, but only to improve results. Hilton’s that were bred purely to be test subjects weren’t protected by the same laws that kept civilians and citizens safe.
One day, they decided to test the result of a strong electric current through his sixteen year old brain and what effect that had on neural activity. They clamped his hands and feet to stop him struggling, attached the electrodes to his temples and applied the current, he screamed in pain as his whole body tensed and spasmed. And then he saw it.
He never figured out the science behind it, but he then saw a vision. A vision of him, as an adult, in a fine purple crushed velvet tuxedo, standing at a window in a large tower in a very cosmopolitan city, when all of a sudden, the very earth groans, and splits apart. The tower he’s in begins to lean. There’s the noise of snapping. The view from the window begins to blur as gravity kicks in and the wall becomes the floor. As Hector plummets to the wall, the tower plummets into the earth, swallowed up by the rocky abyss. He dies before he can hear or see the tower hit anything.
Back in the testing facility, he’s sweating, and the scientists are in frenzy over the results, but all Hector could think was ‘I have just seen my own death! And I didn’t even look that old!’ He was silent for days after that test, expect when asked to speak by a scientist. ‘I shouldn’t be stuck in here. I should be making the most of this!’ he thinks. ‘I can’t spend another second in this place wasting time!’
Two days later, he broke out. People still haven’t figured out how, but there are plenty of theories. Eventually he got the idea in his head that he couldn’t be killed as, his death was a fixed point in time. The power of this belief was incredible. Within one year, he was in charge of the military operations of that whole star cluster. But that wasn’t enough. He took those that were loyal to him and began conquering smaller settlements, gaining a larger army in the process, and earning the nickname ‘Hector the Unkillable’. Nobody ever knew about his vision of the future, just that he could not be killed by anything the enemy threw at him. Assassins would fail. Poisons and toxins wouldn’t take. Explosives powerful enough to take out seven blocks would leave him alive but those around him dead.
He was also a massive playboy, engaging in many delicacies, much drinking, and a lot of women. He made the most of every second and lived large, even if there was a darker reason for it. His empire expanded and he put particular interest in making Leviathan City is residence, as his army reached across the galaxy. There were many planets who feared the name ‘Hector the Unkillable’. In ten years, he changed the face of the galaxy, and became one of the most important and infamous humans to ever exist. His influence was felt by the galaxy for centuries to come. And if it were not for that one piece of information, the knowledge of how he was going to die, he would have remained a test subject until the day he died of old age or fatigue, and the galaxy would never have known the name ‘Hector the Unkillable’.

Theme & Components Provided By:

Brovo, Kagamine, Jorick & Contra Fates.

General Guidelines For All:

Writer Of The Month: Guidelines & Rules (updated)

_________________
Banner Thanks To: Rose Swan.

[Kagamine]

>.> Come on, guys. Seven people voted. Surely at least one of you can, at the very least, explain why you chose the one you voted for?

[Silver carrot]

Kinda feel sorry for 'One Man'. Only entry with 0 votes. Wasn't even that bad. I liked it.

[Altered Tundra]

I read all of them, and One Man stood out the most to me, so that's why it got my vote. So yeah, there it is. >.>

[Kaizen]

I liked Clockwork well enough. The idea of correlating cerain times to memories is wonderful and well done.

However, the poem gets my vote. Something I got dinged for in my first entry in the contest; it needs a title. The idea that time is an invention of man is something that I've heard somewhere else before and it struck a chord with me. It is thought provoking which is something I like very much. I think poems are more challenging to write well compared to a story, entry #1 gets my vote.

[PlatinumSkink]

Why, that’s a nice little rhyme. It rhymes on all except a few occasions, and the subject is a nice little one. I can imagine singing this to a tune. I have nothing I can really comment on, but good job. Really.

Thirteen years old!? Th-that’s way too early! Even if she thought herself ready, it should be bloody obvious that is just the immature child unable to make reasonable decisions talking! They shouldn’t have allowed that! Her parents if anything should have been able to tell her just how stupid if anything it would be to have a child at that age! … And it seems that the idiotic decision of the past played badly on the future. And those parents. Geesh. She’s their responsibility. They can’t just… blame her for their own wrongdoings. She’s the friggin’ result of their wrongdoings, and their undoing. This does not mean she’s guilty at all, it is the responsibility of those who were wrong to do their best to make sure their daughter doesn’t do the same ones. Not that she seems likely to. She’s had pleeeenty of examples what not to do…

If your intention was to make me angry at this situation you described, you succeeded. I do not see any specific errors in this text, though I may comment that if this text has anything to do with time it is that bad decisions will affect your life way further into the future than what you can imagine, and that seems like just a slight bit of a stretch. I guess it was well written otherwise. Psh.

Well written. This text conveys probably pretty exactly what it was supposed to convey. I have very few things to say about this piece. It was not the most exciting of pieces, but it was never made to be. I was slightly confused in the beginning because you refused to give us the wife’s name so I thought the daughter was the wife until a specific moment that I realized that wasn’t the case. I really don’t have much else to say. It conveys exactly what it is supposed to.

Knowing the future, huh? For no apparent reason he knew how he would die and figured he couldn’t be killed any other way. That’s pretty logical, really, but… heh. I have a slight problem with ‘no apparent reason’, but I’ll buy it for now. I think the greatest problem this piece has is that it tells a possibly epic story on such a small space. We don’t have the time to immerse ourselves in its greatness. He conquered an entire galaxy (or something), and all we can do is read that he in fact did so. It isn’t particularly exciting or interesting to read on it. It is like you’re just introducing the character, who was just introduced to die. It doesn’t feel as grand or impressive that it is supposed to feel. Nevertheless, well written. It took me a little while to catch just what I felt off about this piece.

I'll vote for Entry #1, because it was the piece I enjoyed the most out of these. As simple as that.

[WOTM]

Congratulations Teen Idle and FoxLeFay!

A shoebox in the closet,
battered, bruised and worn.
What once was thick and sturdy,
now is ripped and torn.
But, despite the damage,
its contents remain.
Wrapped in velvet pouches,
so that they stay the same.
I pick one out at random,
a weighty little thing.
Hidden in its parcel,
bound by a drawstring.
The string is old and frayed,
the thread is dry and hard.
But still it serves its purpose,
and the contents it must guard.
I pull the string so gently,
to open up the bag.
And peer inside to see,
what prize is to be had.

I remember now,
though, 'til now I had forgot.
A relic of my father,
his grandpa's pocket watch.
And, though it has not rusted,
and still retains its shine.
The watch has lost its function,
and it cannot tell the time.
No longer does it tick,
merrily on its way.
No longer does it differ
between the night and day.
It is a thing of beauty,
this pointless pocket watch.
For, though its hands have tired,
time has yet to stop.
Still, the Sun comes in the morn,
and still, the Moon at night.
Still, ends the dark at dawn.
and still, dusk ends the light.

I have a little theory,
that I hope makes sense to you.
Time does not exist, you see.
Clocks do.

Clockwork

For the past year, whenever I entered the stuffy back room I was greeted by an iridescent layer of dust and the dull ticking of that invisible clock. I hadn’t bothered to rescue it from the junk that constantly threatened to swallow and silence it. Today, however, since Maria had decided to “clean” every inch of the house with a fervor that only meant spring was on its way again, I was shocked to find that neither of the mainstays persisted. She had pulled the clock from its hiding place and urged that I fix it as its hands had frozen having lost the fight against the insufferable silence.

The truth was, I couldn’t. My wife left me the clock with no instructions and no key, probably figuring that I would junk it the first moment that I was able or perhaps naively believing that it would continue on long after her exit.

I took the heavy wooden timepiece in my hands and sat on the bed, balancing it on my knees as I briefly looked it over. There was nothing I could think of to do. Calling a repairman seemed like a waste of time if I didn’t know what make or model it was. I was also somewhat convinced that without the key, nothing could be done. I dreaded breaking the news to Maria, but she was logical and intelligent. She would undoubtedly understand.

However, instead of tossing it back to the pile, I absentmindedly spun the hands around the face several times, feeling the slight resistance. I positioned them at 2:00, smirking slightly. That was the time that her favorite soap opera aired every weekday. She’d watch attentively as I sipped on coffee if it was a day off that I spent with her, and she always mentioned how she hated soaps and her mother for getting her hooked on this one. I couldn’t even remember what it was called but she once looked over to me and told me that she intended to watch it with Maria someday so I’d never have to do so again. I had snapped back at her and told her that our daughter wasn’t going to turn into a housewife with an addiction to cheesy daytime drama and she smiled only with the corners of her lips. I had struck a nerve but she had no intention of fighting me over it. I thought then that if it was truly a big deal, she would have said something to me.

Shaking off that particular memory, I rotated the arms further so that they stood straight as palace guards at twelve. Midnight, to be exact. Our first date in high school came to an abrupt end when I escorted her out of my car on the way back from prom and kissed her on the front steps, with every intention of getting her through the front door before her midnight curfew. The clock in my wheezy old sedan was apparently close to ten minutes slow and her parents gave me the sternest talking-to of my life as well as grounding her for a month. I visited nearly every day, scaling the playset built for her when she was a kid, and threatened to serenade her until she promised she’d go out with me the next time she was allowed out of the house again. More than once her father met me chased me off with the threat of a rifle that he could never produce.

Another quick turn of the clock and it was 4:15. Countless 4:15s past for the both of us, several of mine were spent grading horrendous papers and more than a few of hers were spent missing Maria when she was hard at work. The most important one of both of our lives was the 4:15 of October 7th, 2005 when we were married. The priest grew sick and fainted just before I could say “I do”. The whole wedding party crossed themselves in unison as they went to revive the poor old man. They said our marriage was doomed.

Fast forward to 9:28 AM, and cue my wife’s screaming and the birth of a beautiful, healthy baby girl. She told me time and again that no moment would ever surpass that day for her. It was her happiest and in a roundabout way, truly one of the saddest she’d ever know. What possessed a woman to think that one day, no matter how special, could be her finest? I always assumed that the day Maria got married would be the greatest moment of my life. Now, I’d be the only one to see it... and I’d make sure it was joyous enough for the both of us.

“Daddy?” her voice floated through the small room and caused me to jump. I had to grab for the clock as it lurched from my knee. Maria climbed her way onto the bed and bounced a few times before she looked up at me. Her big blue eyes were starting to get puffy around the sides. She was allergic to dust, she really shouldn’t be in here. I went to pick her up but she crawled across my lap and took the timepiece in her arms. “It’s broken. She’s not here anymore now. Can you fix it?”

I scrunched my face together into a quick smile, “What do you mean, sweetie?” I thought I’d made it clear that Amelia wasn’t coming back.

Maria didn’t say anything for a long while, but her tiny fingers circled the face of the clock and she sighed, impatiently, as though she was the parent explaining the mysteries of death to me, “I know that mommy’s gone to sleep. I came in here when I was sad, and I was sad a lot at first like you were. But the clock was mommy’s way to say goodbye. I could come here and listen... and it sounded like her.” She thrust the clock back at me with somewhat of an accusatory pout, “I’m not ready for her to be gone. You have to keep her going.”

I gently ruffled her hair, pushing her bangs from her eyes and sighed. “Maria,” I shook my head at her, “I know you know that this isn’t going to bring her back. You’re a smart girl.” I removed the clock from her weak grasp. I pointed to the hands, “See this? 9:28 AM. Do you know what happened then?” She bounced enthusiastically. “That was the happiest I had ever seen your mother.”

“Was she even happier than when she married you?” Maria giggled a little into the back of her hand, fighting back a few tears. I nodded back at her.

“But look, there we are in the hospital. There you are at your first piano lesson,” I moved the hands slowly, pointing out each event, “And here’s the time I took your mother to see the Titanic. She hated it. We’ll have to do it some time. Do you see what I mean? She’s in your memories.” I weighed the wooden piece in my hands. I had no use for it. “If you want me to put it in your room so that you can remember her, I can do that,” I suggested. Maria didn’t say anything. She simply hugged the timepiece close to her chest and rocked for a few moments like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. I wasn’t sure how many events Maria would really remember as she grew up, but it couldn’t hurt to reinforce them while they were still fresh.

My daughter left it on the bed as she stood up to return to her room. The spring in her step made it clear to me that she had left a good portion of her grief wound up in the springs, “Keep it. I think you need it more than I do.”

And in that moment, I couldn’t argue.

Idle and Fox: Please PM Contra Fates about your custom user title.

I now encourage all writers who participated this month to use the next couple days to reveal themselves and respond to comments/critique given before the next Guidelines thread is up.

[Silver carrot]

I wrote One Man. This wasn't my best month...

[Teen Idle]

Congratulations Teen Idle and FoxLeFay!

A shoebox in the closet,
battered, bruised and worn.
What once was thick and sturdy,
now is ripped and torn.
But, despite the damage,
its contents remain.
Wrapped in velvet pouches,
so that they stay the same.
I pick one out at random,
a weighty little thing.
Hidden in its parcel,
bound by a drawstring.
The string is old and frayed,
the thread is dry and hard.
But still it serves its purpose,
and the contents it must guard.
I pull the string so gently,
to open up the bag.
And peer inside to see,
what prize is to be had.

I remember now,
though, 'til now I had forgot.
A relic of my father,
his grandpa's pocket watch.
And, though it has not rusted,
and still retains its shine.
The watch has lost its function,
and it cannot tell the time.
No longer does it tick,
merrily on its way.
No longer does it differ
between the night and day.
It is a thing of beauty,
this pointless pocket watch.
For, though its hands have tired,
time has yet to stop.
Still, the Sun comes in the morn,
and still, the Moon at night.
Still, ends the dark at dawn.
and still, dusk ends the light.

I have a little theory,
that I hope makes sense to you.
Time does not exist, you see.
Clocks do.

Clockwork

For the past year, whenever I entered the stuffy back room I was greeted by an iridescent layer of dust and the dull ticking of that invisible clock. I hadn’t bothered to rescue it from the junk that constantly threatened to swallow and silence it. Today, however, since Maria had decided to “clean” every inch of the house with a fervor that only meant spring was on its way again, I was shocked to find that neither of the mainstays persisted. She had pulled the clock from its hiding place and urged that I fix it as its hands had frozen having lost the fight against the insufferable silence.

The truth was, I couldn’t. My wife left me the clock with no instructions and no key, probably figuring that I would junk it the first moment that I was able or perhaps naively believing that it would continue on long after her exit.

I took the heavy wooden timepiece in my hands and sat on the bed, balancing it on my knees as I briefly looked it over. There was nothing I could think of to do. Calling a repairman seemed like a waste of time if I didn’t know what make or model it was. I was also somewhat convinced that without the key, nothing could be done. I dreaded breaking the news to Maria, but she was logical and intelligent. She would undoubtedly understand.

However, instead of tossing it back to the pile, I absentmindedly spun the hands around the face several times, feeling the slight resistance. I positioned them at 2:00, smirking slightly. That was the time that her favorite soap opera aired every weekday. She’d watch attentively as I sipped on coffee if it was a day off that I spent with her, and she always mentioned how she hated soaps and her mother for getting her hooked on this one. I couldn’t even remember what it was called but she once looked over to me and told me that she intended to watch it with Maria someday so I’d never have to do so again. I had snapped back at her and told her that our daughter wasn’t going to turn into a housewife with an addiction to cheesy daytime drama and she smiled only with the corners of her lips. I had struck a nerve but she had no intention of fighting me over it. I thought then that if it was truly a big deal, she would have said something to me.

Shaking off that particular memory, I rotated the arms further so that they stood straight as palace guards at twelve. Midnight, to be exact. Our first date in high school came to an abrupt end when I escorted her out of my car on the way back from prom and kissed her on the front steps, with every intention of getting her through the front door before her midnight curfew. The clock in my wheezy old sedan was apparently close to ten minutes slow and her parents gave me the sternest talking-to of my life as well as grounding her for a month. I visited nearly every day, scaling the playset built for her when she was a kid, and threatened to serenade her until she promised she’d go out with me the next time she was allowed out of the house again. More than once her father met me chased me off with the threat of a rifle that he could never produce.

Another quick turn of the clock and it was 4:15. Countless 4:15s past for the both of us, several of mine were spent grading horrendous papers and more than a few of hers were spent missing Maria when she was hard at work. The most important one of both of our lives was the 4:15 of October 7th, 2005 when we were married. The priest grew sick and fainted just before I could say “I do”. The whole wedding party crossed themselves in unison as they went to revive the poor old man. They said our marriage was doomed.

Fast forward to 9:28 AM, and cue my wife’s screaming and the birth of a beautiful, healthy baby girl. She told me time and again that no moment would ever surpass that day for her. It was her happiest and in a roundabout way, truly one of the saddest she’d ever know. What possessed a woman to think that one day, no matter how special, could be her finest? I always assumed that the day Maria got married would be the greatest moment of my life. Now, I’d be the only one to see it... and I’d make sure it was joyous enough for the both of us.

“Daddy?” her voice floated through the small room and caused me to jump. I had to grab for the clock as it lurched from my knee. Maria climbed her way onto the bed and bounced a few times before she looked up at me. Her big blue eyes were starting to get puffy around the sides. She was allergic to dust, she really shouldn’t be in here. I went to pick her up but she crawled across my lap and took the timepiece in her arms. “It’s broken. She’s not here anymore now. Can you fix it?”

I scrunched my face together into a quick smile, “What do you mean, sweetie?” I thought I’d made it clear that Amelia wasn’t coming back.

Maria didn’t say anything for a long while, but her tiny fingers circled the face of the clock and she sighed, impatiently, as though she was the parent explaining the mysteries of death to me, “I know that mommy’s gone to sleep. I came in here when I was sad, and I was sad a lot at first like you were. But the clock was mommy’s way to say goodbye. I could come here and listen... and it sounded like her.” She thrust the clock back at me with somewhat of an accusatory pout, “I’m not ready for her to be gone. You have to keep her going.”

I gently ruffled her hair, pushing her bangs from her eyes and sighed. “Maria,” I shook my head at her, “I know you know that this isn’t going to bring her back. You’re a smart girl.” I removed the clock from her weak grasp. I pointed to the hands, “See this? 9:28 AM. Do you know what happened then?” She bounced enthusiastically. “That was the happiest I had ever seen your mother.”

“Was she even happier than when she married you?” Maria giggled a little into the back of her hand, fighting back a few tears. I nodded back at her.

“But look, there we are in the hospital. There you are at your first piano lesson,” I moved the hands slowly, pointing out each event, “And here’s the time I took your mother to see the Titanic. She hated it. We’ll have to do it some time. Do you see what I mean? She’s in your memories.” I weighed the wooden piece in my hands. I had no use for it. “If you want me to put it in your room so that you can remember her, I can do that,” I suggested. Maria didn’t say anything. She simply hugged the timepiece close to her chest and rocked for a few moments like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. I wasn’t sure how many events Maria would really remember as she grew up, but it couldn’t hurt to reinforce them while they were still fresh.

My daughter left it on the bed as she stood up to return to her room. The spring in her step made it clear to me that she had left a good portion of her grief wound up in the springs, “Keep it. I think you need it more than I do.”

And in that moment, I couldn’t argue.

Idle and Fox: Please PM Contra Fates about your custom user title.

I now encourage all writers who participated this month to use the next couple days to reveal themselves and respond to comments/critique given before the next Guidelines thread is up.

Thank you so much! I am so surprised to have drawn against such an impressove entry as FoxLeFay's - or to have been ranked above Entry #2 and One Man. I was so impressed with the quality of all three of my contemporaries that as soon as I read them I thought I was doomed. I'm sorry for ranting, but I'm really very shocked - in the best way, of course.

Well done FoxLeFay! You were infinitely more deserving than I, and it is an honour to tie with you on my first time in the competition.

I would also like to thank everyone that voted for me - particilarly Kaizen and PlatinumSkink for their critique, which I have taken on board. Thanks you guys, it means a lot.

Now, to decide upon a user title...

[Kagamine]

I wrote One Man. This wasn't my best month...

I wouldn't say one can have a 'bad month'- not as long as they learned a bit along the way, and most importantly enjoyed it.