Consistency: 08/07/2022

Octavian Dascalu could truly have never seen his life taking this direction. Really! Of all the things he wanted to be, all the possibilities that came and went that he so dwelled on, this was never one of them. He wanted to be a great many things, too -- he wanted to be a writer, a professor, a scholar, he wanted to go to space, he wanted to see the world and the sea and the stars and *everything* the universe had to offer -- but one life can only last so long, and it surely can't fit everything. He never once, never *once* considered that he was going to grow up and find a job in horology. Octavian didn't even know what that was for the longest time. But fate is funny like that. Yes, that's him, someone who kept time for a living and “dealt professionally with timekeeping apparatus,” according to one site (with its infamy for inaccuracy and unreliability, I'll admit, but the description sure sounds cool!). He's not bad at his work, not by any stretch of the imagination; Octavian has had years to practice and hone in on his craft, and truly perfect his work, and the ability to display that hard work and craftsmanship with pride is a joy like almost no other. He knows every little bit of the makeup of a watch, which isn't something most people can say for themselves, and when, say, a bigger clock malfunctions or breaks, if there is anything left to salvage, Octavian can salvage it. But he couldn't tell you how in the world he ended up doing this professionally if his life depended on it. Nor could he say for sure if he actually enjoyed his job. It's definitely interesting, very much so, but the concept of timekeeping and the tools used to do so are very ... very uniform. The practice grows old. Monotonous. Repetitive. And there isn't much, really, that Octavian can do about that. Perhaps, he considers as he finds himself once again recalibrating a chronograph watch (not the worst thing in the world, but still quite annoying), he can still change career paths. He can't be stuck here, can he? He brought this upon himself if he is, but he still hopes that surely, there's a way out ... Maybe if he could write about it, things could be different. If he just found that passion again, if he just found that *spark,* if he just -- A snap sound causes him to snap out of his thoughts. He realizes upon looking at his hands that it came from the watch. Something ... broke? Is that it? Did he break something in here? He sighs, exasperated. Why can't he ever pay attention? Octavian is ... is fine with this outcome, though. Yeah, yeah! It'll be okay! He'll just- he'll take a small break and then come back, and he'll see what was wrong. Then he can fix it like he always does. If there is anything left to salvage, Octavian can salvage it. Octavian can ... can ... ... He puts his head down on the desk. His head is starting to hurt. He wanted so much more than this.

((I should probably start putting the word counts SO

WC: 539))

My father made time.

From the shaded and callous fingertips of his, he created a device that surely tracked the movements of both the sun and moon.

He looked at his latest piece, a wooden framed wall clock, as he called it, with numbered markings on each side, and three lines that skip through it one by one.

Every moment, the smallest one moves. It's almost rhythmic in its precision, like a beat without a tune, a tempo without a song.

Every sixty taps, the slightly thicker one moves. It's slow, but much more daunting when it changes. Father calls them minutes.

The biggest line moves the slowest, having the minute line make a full roundabout before it touches another number, the smallest one going through tens more.

I realize that the sun sheds its light when the the minutes hit a place between numbers five and six, and sets around the same time. Number twelve marks the peak of the sun during the day, and the moon during the night. I think it wise of my father to have placed it at the top of the invention.

It's one of the most reveled items in our home, and all who enter tend to drift their eyes to it, guest or resident.

One day it may be lesser significant, but right now, it is above a great hope, to tell time, and to waste time in telling it.

[WC: 238]

“Sand-timers and sundials are obsolete, and pocket watches are on their way out too. Grandfather clocks are just for decoration, and cuckoo clocks, are, well, considered cuckoo. No, what everyone really wants are wristwatches, digital clocks, clocks with blinking semicolons and changing numbers in the ghost of an 8, that’s what everyone really wants these days.”

My mentor smiled softly as he watched the speaker on stage, quietly tapping his finger on the edge of a chair.

“Any questions?”

My mentor raised his hand, and stood, legs shaking every so slightly as someone passed him the microphone.

“But we tried to imbue digital clocks and watches with magic, and they rejected it. The time travel doesn’t work, it doesn’t stick. You end up glitching through the time-space fabric, and end up a few seconds or minutes off where you want to be. No, magic only works well with traditional clocks, pocket watches to be precise, and I’m sure any time traveler here can tell you that they agree.”

The speaker smiled at my mentor. “Our scientists are currently working on improving our technology, so that we can have digital time machines as well. The melding of magic and science, that’s still a large field that can be vastly improved, no?”

Someone else called out: “Just slap a clock on a car, and bam! You have a time machine that only moves forward, no?” and laughter rippled through the crowd. I took the microphone from my mentor’s hand and stood, clearing my throat.

“But you know, if magic doesn’t like the taste or smell of your clean, sleek, modern technology, it will reject it. Maybe it enjoys the way the gears fit together, how a pocket watch fits right into your palm, and must be wound up before it can go anywhere. There’s a magic to it, I swear, even just making regular watches and clocks. There’s something about the way that we measure how time goes, the way it flows, the way that we measure space in light-years and measure time in minute seconds. In this space-time continuum, space is ever still, and time flows through it, changing it constantly, but the fact that we can capture it with our work, that’s magic to me. Digital clocks simply don’t work the same way, don’t carry the same feel. They already know what time it is, and they’re never off. So, even if it’s just the time travelers who want it, I will still continue making traditional clocks and watches, until the day time takes my last breath from me. Thank you.”

When I sat down, the watch in my pocket seemed to tick just a little faster than before.

Word count: 437 🕰️ I gave him a name so I guess this random wizard is a guy now 🙃

It wasn’t common knowledge that chronomancy wizards still existed. There were other kinds of magic around – illusionists, bards – but chronomancy? That was rare. Tales of the past told of its (exaggerated) danger: how so-called ‘corrupted mages’ used their skills to cause havoc and heartbreak. People feared it, so it wasn’t wise to display it lightly.

That’s why Ildor took commissions as a clockmaker. It was the perfect cover: if he was surrounded by clockwork, acquaintances he didn’t fully trust would never suspect that there was any deeper reason for his impeccable punctuality. He enjoyed his work, too. The ticking of his creations never bored him and only helped to improve his magical abilities.

It also paid well. That was always nice.

He owned a renowned shop in the city with his twin brother, who made jewellery. Occasionally they would work together to create wristwatches, but Ildor preferred working at his own pace. His main business was in stylish pocket watches – he was a firm believer that they were the best timekeeping device – but in terms of construction, his favourite projects were elaborate freestanding clocks. With the additional space the case provided, he could afford to be more creative with his internal designs. Coming up with new, more efficient configurations for keeping time was incredibly satisfying. To say he loved his job was an understatement: he was obsessed with it.

By the time he zoned back into the rest of the world that evening, his brother had already left the shop long ago. He’d mentioned going to visit his child in the forest, seeing as it was the Solstice. Ildor sighed. Exhaustion finally hit him after hours of non-stop working. The moon was high and bright in the sky.

Perhaps he’d sleep on the roof tonight. He didn’t want to journey home.

He made a pathetic attempt to tidy up the messy desk, then put on his cloak and climbed up the ladder to open the skylight. He pulled himself through and lay against the incline of the roof. The cosmos was another fascination of his: time was based on orbit, and every orbit was different. Did life in each star system have their own measurement of time? If chronomancy was possible, was there truly an absolute measure, or was it all subjective? Was time more akin to rubber, able to be stretched and moulded, or was it like a line you travelled along, changing the speed based on perception?

“Hey, Mr Ildor! Time Guy!”

Ildor’s recognition of the voice of the jester from earlier that week snapped him out of his thoughts.

So they came after all.

I hope this counts haha Golden rays reached through the gaps in the forest, coating the ground in a hazy tint as the sun slowly descended into the mountains below. Galena sat on the porch, sipping on a cup of hot water with herbs. A foreign delicacy in her time.

The faint sound of the door creaking open took her attention and she looked over to find Tae stepping outside, squinting at the sudden light.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Gal said casually, taking another sip of her drink.

“Was, actually. But I got bored” he laughed as he came over to stand beside her only to find another chair right next to Gal’s so he sat down. “You got me a chair?”

“Made it,”

“For me? Aw, thanks” he grinned, earning himself an eyeroll from the tired immortal. “Oh, right– I got you something too!” he reached into his hoodie’s pocket, pulling out a small black box and handing it to her.

Galena eyed the box for a moment before setting her cup down on the floor and taking the object given to her. “What is it?”

“Just open iiiit” Tae responded with a pout.

With a hesitant grunt she opened the box to reveal a small object wrapped around a tiny cushion. Its centre was circular with a thin sheet of glass shielding away all sorts of numbers and two needles, one long and one short. Gal took the object carefully in her hand, inspecting it with a weary look.

“It’s a watch!” Tae announced impatiently. “It won’t be invented until like…” he paused for a moment to think. “Give or take three-hundred years. But it tells time!” he took the object from her hand, gently placing it over her wrist and tying it in place with the two leather straps. “You see, one needle moves every minute, one full turn and it’s an hour which also moves the shorter one to mark the hour passed–!” he beamed up at her, taking in a quick breath before continuing with his rambling. “And look– it’s aligned to mine, that way you can always tell what time it is for me” he held out his own wrist, placing it beside hers to show a very similar looking watch, though his looked more modern if she had to guess.

Gal looked at his watch then at her own, tilting her head in confusion. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it” she gently traced her finger over the glass.

“I made it to blend with present-day aesthetic so that it’s easier to hide”

Galena paused, blinking widely at him. “...You made this?”

“Mhm!” He nodded. “I learned how to as a kid. My grandma is one of the only horologists left in my time since everything is digitalised, but I found that modern technology isn’t really reliable when one travels through time– But this? This’ll last” he tapped the device on his wrist proudly.

Galena looked from him to his watch then to hers, continuing to lightly trace the rim of the clock. “Thank you…”

“Don’t mention it! Think of it as a thank you for making me a chair” he giggled, rocking himself back and forth on it.

The future boy sure was something. Every time Gal thought she had him figured out, he somehow managed to throw her off entirely. She supposed that caring about time made sense for a time-traveller, but that he’d bother to make her one of these strange time-telling machines… now that was unexpected. WC: 583

“You, over there! What are you here for, do you have an appointment?” A guard called out for me.

Hastily searching for my phone, I drop my bag. It clangs loud, loud enough that other guards look my way. My face turns red. Praying to every god that’s out there, I pull my phone out and open the invitation. The guard looks at it skeptically, frowns and sends me in.

I stumble through the luxurious hallways, filled with Maruthan tapestries, Eelam-styled murals of the gods and Nilae’s infamous carpets. It felt illegal to even walk on them. It took me too much time to follow the map on the invitation. The palace was bigger than the temple in the city’s center.

Soon enough, I find myself in front of large doors. I knock tentatively. “Come in, clockmaker!” A commanding voice calls from inside the room. Without making haste, I open the doors and step in. I realized too late that this was Her Majesty’s personal office chamber. A revolving throne was perched behind a table filled with papers and documents.

“Your-your Majesty, I apologize, I am not the clockmaker you wished for. I am his granddaughter, Gayathri. Please don’t be offended, my grandfather couldn’t make the journey, he’s fallen sick.” I say careful, assessing each word.

“You’re not the only one. I’m not the Queen, either. I’m the Princess.” The chair turns around, revealing the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I feel my face go red and quickly bow. “Don’t worry, I care about these formalities. The clock is there. It struck true for millennia until last week. It simply stopped! See what you can do, please.”

I knew how clumsy my tongue gets around beautiful women, so I nod rigidly and rush to the clock.

I open the lower door and remove the pendulum. It comes off loser than it should. Flipping it over, I see the obvious signs of carelessness — rust. “Your Maj- I mean Princess, who cares for this clock? Because it seems they’re not doing a good job. There’s rust behind the pendulum, the weights. Gods know how bad it is.”

“You're telling me the Commander is doing a bad job? Do you suggest I fire him? Because it sure does sound like you do.” A chill crawls down my spine. Oh, what have I done?

“My Princess, that is not what I—”

“I was joking! The clock’s caretaker has been on vacation for a few months, which is not the commander, mind you. You seem to know a lot about clocks, that’s cute.” The last part almost slips past me.

WhatdidshejustsayohmygodIneedsomewate— I start to panic-think, but the Princess changes the topic.

“Do you think you can fix it now? Mother wants it done as soon as possible and doesn’t mind paying for the damaged parts, if necessary.”

Putting my work mask back on, I answer without any hitch. “Yes, my Princess, I’ll send for the list and return tomorrow. If that's alright with you?”

From my periphery, I notice the princess smirk. “Yes, of course. I’ll have it all bought tomorrow. You know, there’s also a broken clock in my chambers. Check it out tomorrow, as well. I’ll pay for both.”

“Of course, my Princess, if that is all, may I leave?” Thank the gods, the redness on my face disappeared by the time I stood up. The Princess was short, I realized. She nods and I bow before quickly rushing out.

Before I close the door, I hear the Princess say something to herself: “She really doesn’t remember me, huh?”

The labour was easy at first. The gears were well-oiled and shifted easily under his push. Every nudge to get the gears turning was a nudge to keep Earth turning, to keep time moving, to keep the seconds flying.

The Time Master never questioned his work; his job was entrusted solely to him and he would do it, and well. He never needed to eat or sleep, only to keep the gears turning.

His work was a bit hard. Every time he moved a gear, he’d have to be careful not to push it too far too quick, or too little too slow; if the Time Master did the former, time would speed up, and if he did the latter, time would slow down, and neither could be accepted. Time was delicate; it affected what was fated.

Luckily, no mishaps had occurred. Yet.

Everyday, as he did his work, a voice from no place discernible spoke to him. It would tell him things. About the world, about people. The Time Master never knew who it was who spoke, but he was grateful. The job would’ve been a lonely one without them.

The Time Master liked to consider himself a horologist—because, in a way, he did make clocks. Without time, of which he was the keeper, clocks wouldn’t have anything to measure! And so he technically made clocks.

He didn’t necessarily like clocks. Humans thought they had to race with it, so they were constantly rushing things. However, without clocks he supposed humans would lose awareness of how precious every minute was, and the awareness was necessary.

He cared about this because he cared about humans, though he’d never seen one. He liked to hear the stories about them and what they did. And he was fairly certain the voice used to be human…

But the voice had never said anything about that.

Over time, the cogs began to become harder to turn. The horologist had to put some muscle into his pushes. And gradually, it became harder and harder.

The Time Master, one day, found he had to use all his strength to turn a cog. By now he had developed strong, admirably so, biceps. Still he had difficulties. Something, he was sure, was definitely wrong.

He worried. What if one day he was unable to turn time? What if time stopped? What if he wasn’t able to start it again?

That day came sooner than he thought. The voice was talking to him as jovially as usual when he paused mid-sentence. “Time Master,” the voice addressed him, serious. “I should tell you…a meteor is about to hit the earth. The people on the news say they can’t stop it, and that it’s going to kill everyone.”

He froze. Everyone…dying. “No, no no no,” he protested. “That can’t happen, it can’t, you’ll…?”

“Die with them, yes. I’m sorry, friend, but I’ve lived a number of good years. Now they must come to an end. I’m sorry to leave you,” he said with a sob.

Surely, he thought as he shoved the gears with all his weight, there was some way to stop the meteor. But he suspected that just as a meteor was fated to wipe out the dinosaurs, this meteor was fated to wipe out mankind.

Tears filled the horologist’s eyes. “Then don’t leave.”

But he knew then that his friend couldn’t hear him; he’d stopped pushing. He just couldn’t anymore.

He hoped with time that another species would be, and he’d learn to love them. But there was no more time and so they wouldn’t come along.

WC: 594

Brett brushes her index finger over the golden rim of the large clock, admiring her brother’s old craftsmanship. When she lifts her hand back, dust lays on it. She brushes it off onto her long magenta skirt, looking around at the clock shop around her. Her whole life, she wasn’t interested in her brother’s workshop whatsoever. But now it seems to be even more dull. She’s been sitting at the front desk of this damned shop for hours now, only a few customers stopping by.

Her brother is on his honeymoon, assigning Brett to look after the shop. She doesn’t have to make any repairs, thank God (and her brother), for those are to be left to him as soon as he returns. For now, she only has to help a few people. But seeing as there are digital clocks all over now, she hardly sees why the clock shop manages to stay in business. Yet it does, even if it feels abandoned.

The shop is rustic and dusty, the stained wallpaper peeling off of the walls, the chair Brett sits upon creaking from every little movement as well as the desk she’s behind. There’s an old speaker releasing the sound of saxophone music into the air, her brother’s favorite instrument to listen to. Before he left, Brett had asked why he liked to play that sort of music instead of something more popular, but he just laughed, patted her shoulder, and boarded the plane.

Needless to say, he’s an odd man, yet a lovable one at that— sort of old-fashioned and naive. He sits up straight at restaurants, grows his own roses to send to his loved ones, and has an interest in the waltz.

Brett, on the other hand, is the opposite. Her posture is terrible, sends emails weeks late with bad grammar, and spends her time watching Grey’s Anatomy on her couch while eating barbecue chips. This isn’t because she’s lazy or whatever— she just doesn’t know what to do. Seeing as she’s a teacher now on summer break with the next year all figured out, there’s not much to do. And she really can’t read another book.

She’s always wondered how her mom raised two kids so different from each other.

Suddenly, a tall, tall man with grey eyebrows so bushy that they overshadow his brown eyes walks in, wearing a top hat and suit strides in. He looks as if he sprung out of a Charles Dickens novel. The man’s legs are long and skinny, just like the rest of him, his nose especially. Brett notes the pocket watch in his left hand.

“Hello, are you the sister Mr. Charles told me about?” he says, his voice dull and booming as he leans over the counter. So this is a regular customer.

Brett replies, “Yes, I am. My name’s Brett Trinity.” She gulps, cringing at how uptight and prissy her voice sounds.

“The name’s Timothy Carter,” Mr. Carter responds. “I’d like to give this to Mr. Charles, if you would please save it for him.” He hands her an envelope sealed with red wax.

She nods, takes the package, and he leaves without another word. Was he that silent and mysterious with Charles? Perhaps you have to know him to get along well. What a strange man.

But when Brett listens to the saxophone music around her, rubs the golden clock’s rim once more, and looks at the store around her, she knows that Mr. Carter isn’t the only strange part of the rusty and old Charles’ Clocks Shoppe.

In the room that was musty and foul, Rosa picked up the hourglass she worked on. Her table filled with broken watches, lit by a candle lamp, beside it were matches. Clocks all around her were hung, and the owner of them gently sung.

“Patience, Kat,” she whispered, measuring the sands. “We’re so close…so close to that.”

Kat meowed, rubbing himself on her black dress. She would’ve wiped away his white fur, if not for the stress.

“Hm.” She closed her eyes, hands resting on the time map she tamed. “Hmmm…” She opened them, and traced the right corner, frustration clear in her when she said, “Where are you..?”

More cats were trying to reach her table, their claws scratching on her witch hat.

“No,” she said, waving away her cats. “No!”

They all retreated with a whine. Wearing her precious hat, she sighed. “Silly cats.”

Kat meowed, tilting his head at her. After a bit, he pressed himself to her with a purr.

“I know.” She stroked him, speaking gently. “Don’t worry.”

But she had reason to worry. With her gone, she had been left suspicious and lonely.

Her worries were added when a cat knocked over the lamp. The darkness emerged, filling her view.

The threat of the dark had already made its mark in the past. She would not allow it again, even if the fear still crept up and made her gasp.

Unseen hands reached to grasp. She ran to her stock, and quickly lit a lamp. Soon, her unseen enemy retreated, and Rosa slid down to the ground, feeling beated.

She got up. “Time to work again.”

Repeat and rinse.

…..

WC: 276 What I listened to while writing this: B(2)TSM - 'Duh Duh Duh Dum': https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MomYN46jnVs&ab_channel=TwoSetViolin Fun fact: You can arrange Rosa's name into a word that means 'time' in my language, try finding it out! :eyes:

if only ignorance existed

Word Count: 600

Summary:

Unable to fall asleep, Akira decides to tire himself out by tinkering away at his watch on his desk. Morgana would disapprove of him staying up, but with November nearing his calendar, he figured it would be understandable.

The plan would be a success, it always has been, but none of them was without the dread of death.

Archive of Our Own Link

Akira didn't know what time it was, but he was sure that the clock had ticked its way past midnight.

The only sound in the attic came from his hands maneuvering the tools he used. Only his lampshade in front of him illuminated the room, although faint as it blended into the shadows before reaching his window behind him. It created a soft glow on his face, more in shadow because of the tilt of his head.

His hands tinkered at the small mechanical parts of his watch. He had long finished making his infiltration tools for the next expedition, he was masterful at the craft at that point. But even so, his hands craved to move, to ease the tension in them.

It didn’t take a second thought for Akira to grab his watch and dissemble it. He was certain he could improve it, despite many of its parts being a few years old.

Every now and then, Akira caught glimpses on the watch’s crystal of his eyelashes fluttering with lingering thoughts in his head. He had been sitting in front of his desk for hours, and it made listening to the ticks and tocks louder than they should.

However, it only made the reminiscing worse.

He remembered a different time, as he moved the hour hand to the eighth number. Akira suppressed a shudder. It was a time of pain, when he could barely keep his eyes open because of the mixture of substances injected into his body. He remembered the prosecutor yelling at him, demanding answers once his story had dragged the entirety of her hours with him. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. He couldn’t risk everyone he held close to be implicated.

Akira couldn’t tell if he missed that kind of rush, filled with fear yet numb to all the pain. A voice in his head told him some of it was beautiful. Like the sound of a sole gunshot echoing in the room, and when a crimson hue splattered where he sat. But most of it was drenched in anxiety and sorrow; reminding him that no love was without sacrifices.

Akira pulled away his hands from his watch, leaving only the crystal to be secured over the case. It became the easiest thing in the world to do it without needing a machine. With the crystal over his watch, he tossed it next to his phone at the corner of his desk.

That day in late November wasn’t for nothing. It’s a month from now, but Akira felt the dread that came with it. His sacrifice was pivotal, the only thing that would be convincing enough to catch the traitor. The man who caused numerous deaths and pinned the blame on their name.

Akira wanted to protest it. He remembered being unable to sleep for days after, constantly needing to empty his stomach. The aftermath always left him alone.

Yet he reminded himself the pain, however crushing, wasn’t forever. Despite how harsh some days were on him, when the sunlight was too bright for his restless eyes, he clung to that reminder.

He wished he could change it, he wished he didn’t have to constantly chant that reminder, but fate fled before he could grasp it.

He knew he shouldn’t have memories of his past lives, or his numerous different outcomes. And now, it still felt new to him, like every day was a dream. But nonetheless did he yearn to finally go home to his parents a few months later.

As tears began to well in his eyes, Akira cursed to himself.

Twisted time or twisted dials,

Fixing either takes a while.

Springs, gears, screws, hands

Piled high wherever the eye lands.

Tiny screws into tiny notches,

Tedious work as my hands pass through all the watches.

Time passes, a tick tock sounds,

A melody that brings a smile all round.

Slowly I continue to assemble the parts,

Fixing what many have tried to take apart.

In this life, precision is my lot,

Gained over years, after much education I sought.

Shaking hands seek to mock,

My next work was to create a bejeweled clock.

My time seems to run out as I fix time’s tools,

I suppose no one can escape destiny’s rules.

Impassioned mind tries to resuscitate,

Hands weakened by the work of fate.

Feeling around slowly, I grasp the tiny screws,

Fitting them into place, my success possible from the skills I did accrue.

Fixing the last hand in place, the clock dial now complete,

This masterpiece becomes the source of my conceit.

My last work, my magnum opus,

Forever marking time, my tribute to Cronus.

[WC: 177]

Time rested his head against the workbench with a frustrated sigh. He was tasked with creating unique clocks per planet that Life and Death worked together, alongside Fate, to craft. The worse their end went, however, the worse he did. A pile of broken clocks lay scattered across the floor at his feet, showcasing a myriad of failures. The clock that sat before him now, open and in pieces, shimmered like amethyst in the low light. The metallic sheen of the gears glinted with each minute adjustment of their placement. His hands were shaking. He’d never struggled this much with one of these before, but it seemed that this planet eluded him. Time rubbed at his eyes as he rose to his feet and paced the floor. It felt like a fruitless task to continue to attempt this but he had to finish it. This wasn’t something he had a choice in. It was crucial to the very existence of this new world, and Gods, did he fucking hate it. Falling back into his chair, Time lifted the small screwdriver he’d abandoned earlier with a careful hand and set to work once more. He tightened each screw one by one and slowly added the gears as they came, coating them in an oil meant to aid in their movement. Each piece slipped together seamlessly now, and Time couldn’t help but wonder what revelation the trio had had that led to this. After all, something must have happened, for this wouldn’t have been possible without their success. Brows furrowed in concentration, Time eased the clock shut, tightening any loose ends and sitting it up. It ticked steadily before him and he smiled to himself. The amethysts that lined it’s outer casing shone brightly now, contrasting wonderfully against the pale silver interior. Each and every gear was visible through the perfectly clear glass, moving as the seconds passed. Sweet perfection, finally.

Word Count: 596 words

Time never stopped, not even for respite. This was one of Reminiscence’s first lessons as a living concept. Ever in motion, Time didn’t stray from their path—always, always set on chasing the pavements built by Lord Present. In their perpetual chase for the elusive Destiny and their daughter Future, Time was persistent in their ways and consistent in their steps.

Sometimes, Reminiscence traveled alongside them. On occasions, Time would converse with her and she would muse about Time’s eloquence and ability to multitask.

But this hour was one of many where she wasn’t to accompany Time’s flow.

Away from the milky, star-studded pavements of Lord Present, Reminiscence blinked her eyes open to an infinite expanse of bookshelves. Above her was a glass dome—beyond was night—seemingly bending and expanding whichever direction she turned. Below her feet were rhinestone floors, constantly changing from dull gold to brilliant midnight.

As always, Reminiscence didn’t know why she was there. Always at the mercy of Mistress Fate, she moved as compelled to—past the bookshelves on her left, following the painted flecks of marigold on the floor seemingly pointing towards…

A door.

With no visible knob.

Black as the fabric of the night with a sleek, varnished sheen, the door stood. Unsure, Reminiscence reached for where doorknobs usually were, only for the door to fall towards her.

Gasping, Reminiscence stepped back. The door fell forward still, sinking into the floor into an inky black blob that enveloped the floor, the shelves, the walls, and the dome.

The next second, the blackness faded.

Walls of countless ticking clocks replaced the books, filling Reminiscence's ears with a constant rhythm she found somehow comforting.

“Why, I believe this is our first time meeting, little one,” said an old, cheery voice. Turning behind her, Reminiscence came face to face with an old concept she had only seen in the Mistress’s scrolls.

The Writer, master of Time, Fate, and Destiny. The oldest concept in her universe. Reminiscence never thought she would ever be honored to meet him.

“I suppose it’s my turn, then.” He laughed, his eyes shining in childish innocence, before motioning her to the biggest clock. Its ticking rang lowest within the room. If wisdom had a sound, Reminiscence supposed it sounded like them—childish laughter contrasting one’s age and a low, strong, determined heartbeat. “Come, I’ll show you what I do.”

Was she going to study the birth of worlds? The weaving of Fate’s threads? The construction of Present pavements and the treadlines of Time? Excitement, an emotion Reminiscence rarely felt, blossomed within her.

Her body glowed in sparks of white and gold. Seeing this, The Writer chuckled. “Child, let me show you how time between worlds are interwoven.”

Reminiscence blinked. “They are?”

“Yes,” he said as he touched the second hand of the big clock. “And though their heartbeats differ in the speed they tick, all worlds run in harmony.” Reminiscence could hear that harmony in the comforting beat of the clocks around them. “All according to design.”

And with his words, the walls gave way to a landscape of mountains and beings and life.

“This clock is the clock of Terra.”

Ah. Reminiscence recognized the beings that walked around and through them, never noticing their presence. The world of humans. She would know; after all, she had multiple times glimpsed life through these human eyes before.

“And the small clocks around us are the clocks of humans.”

Reminiscence smiled. This hour would be one she surely wouldn’t forget for her next thousand hours.

Tick Tock, the clock haunts my every move.

please give me a little more time,

it trickles like sand through my fingers,

the hours not worth a dime.

I can no longer sleep,

knowing time moves on,

always trying to keep up,

but need more to rest upon.

you say you make clocks,

can you fix the one in my head?

I need more space to breathe,

dreading the days ahead.

suffocating under the sands of time,

gasping for in want of some air.

I need to retrace those steps ,

but how do I prepare?

I need a clock maker,

who can reset my brain;

let me live in the happiest hours,

But help bury the pain.

so much time that I wasted,

so much time spent doing

anything but what I love,

what was I really pursuing?

I know this is a lot to ask,

but it’s all going so fast.

the future is too scary,

So can I fix the past?

I made a clock. Yes, I made a clock.

Great innit?

I'm gonna make another clock.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

More and more.

Another.

Another.

Another.

I must not stop.

Another.

Yet another.

More.

More.

A new clock.

A new watch.

A new piece of living time.

Another one.

I must keep making them.

Or they'll get me.

Another one.

I'm getting better at this. Faster.

More.

More.

More.

More.

They need more clocks.

They need more time.

I must make them some more.

Another one.

Another.

Another.

Tick tock.

Tick tick tick.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

I need to make more.

I make another.

I'm getting tired. I must make more.

I make one.

A second.

A third.

A fourth.

A fifth…

I nod off. I've been getting tired more often lately.

Nonetheless. I must make more. They still don't have enough.

I make another.

And another.

And another.

And…

The last one stays unfinished. The man falls into a deep slumber.

Perhaps someday he'll be woken up.

But for now, he sleeps his time away.

The ancient clock ticked loudly on the verdant hill. A path climbed through water, stone and trees up to a small entry. Tick and Tack had taken the long journey through the landscape for one purpose: to set the time.

Currently, Tick was comparing his smaller footprint to one on the door. A bag rested to the side.

"But how can a footprint last five years?"

"Does it matter? Let's just get this job done with."

"How can you be this cold, Tack? We're repairing THE ancient clock! Millions of people rely on it to keep their time!"

"So what? Good riddance. If I were not the only one with experience, I'd never have taken this one up."

Tick took out a knife and tried to carve in his footprint. The knife made no dent.

"What are you doing? That's Eemee you're trying to dent."

Tick blankly stared at the knife, then realization sunk in.

"The whole tower?"

"Well, yes, that's the clock."

"Woah, amazing!"

Tick stared up and tried to see the top of the tower. He stumbled backwards; Tack caught him before he stumbled down the hill.

Tack opened the door, then motioned at the sack.

"Come."

Tack, embarassed, took the sack and carried it inside. The light switched on. He almost dropped it when he saw how big it was on the inside. All the parts were an angry neon green flying around. The furious ticking of the clock echoed through the interior. Tick was uneasy; Tack showed no reaction.

They climbed the stairs up to the main spring. It consisted of a tightly spun foil. On the bottom, jewels were bouncing.

"Take it out and give the sack to me."

Tick took out a green shimmering jewel, much like the other mechanical parts, and placed it in a case built in the pipe. It closed with a hiss, and sent the jewel down with the others.

"Great, now we only need to make it tick faster."

Tick fidgeted as they walked through the path connecting to the balance wheel. The ticking was getting louder, and transformed into more of a surring. Tack stared at Tick. Through their travels up till this point, Tack found Tick as easy to read as a clock. Obviously, Tick was burning with a question. Tack was simply unwilling to entertain — ah whatever.

"What's your question."

"What?"

"What's your question. What's on your mind."

"Oh, uh? We need to make the watch faster?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"... The clock never breaks. It works, ticking at a constant rate. But they want more time in our day, so every five years they add an hour to the day."

"That sounds stupid."

Tack shrugged. Tick thought he understood a little why Tack was always this grumpy.

They arrived at the balance wheel. Tack dumped the sack into a case built in the pipe.

"What, that was the weight?"

"Yeah."

"That's funny."

"It's very delicate. The ticking rate is a fraction of a second."

Tick stayed quiet, feeling squeamish at the noise.

Quietly they left.

"What are you up to now?" Tick asked.

"I'll just travel down the villages, make some easy money fixing their watches. You?"

"I don't know, honestly. I've always wanted to see the inside of the ancient clock. I guess I'll go back and visit my family."

"You could accompany me. We'd make a good team."

Tick turned to Tack. "I thought you didn't like me."

"I dislike everyone. You can do the talking, and I'll do the fixing. The smaller clocks are also interesting. What do you think?"

"Hm, sounds fun."

Word Count: 584

The study of time… Now, that doesn’t make me a sorcerer, does it? Because I certainly can’t do magic. I don’t even believe in magic! I grumble to myself as I make my way to my chambers. The gracious King Joshua has just commanded me to entertain him and his guests at tomorrow's banquet. What the hell am I even going to present?! A bunch of clocks and watches?!

As I’m mumbling, I don’t notice the shadow following me until I feel a hand landing on my shoulder. Now, I am not very proud of what I did next, but it’s enough to say that my shriek could be heard from very far away, as well as the beating of my heart. I rapidly turn and put my hands up in defense. The only sound in the deserted hallway were of the books I was carrying tumbling to the ground, followed by an awkward silence.

Only after I was done with all those embarrassing acts, did I notice who the dangerous shadow was: My assistant, Jessica. Who, granted, was quite dangerous and scary.

“Fucking gods Jessica, you gave me a fright!”

“I noticed. But it’s not my fault you’re such a chicken.” She stoically replied while arching a brow.

Brushing off the invisible specks and drying my already sweaty palms on my tunic, I pitifully reply with- “I’m not chicken, you are.”

“Of course not, dear.” Jessica then proceeded to mess with my hair while I fought for my life.

Jessica and I have always been friends, you see. Ever since we found each other as children, she has treated me like I’m her younger sibling, always making fun of me, as well as protecting me with teeth and nails. She also likes to tell me daily how she sharpens her nails, just waiting for an opportunity to try them out on real flesh. Ew.

We finally arrive at my bedroom slash office and the sounds of machinery came alive around us. While many people find it irritating to have so much noise all day long, I love it. Because it means nobody has ever been able to support them for too long and therefore, disturb me for more than a few moments. Jessica has been the only one I’ve ever turned them off for. And I do exactly that as we step inside.

Sighing with relief, Jess sat down on one of the chairs and looked at me with her bright grey eyes.

“So, what has got you all worked up?”

“The King wants me to be his private jester when I could be doing much more than making him and his spoiled friends laugh.” I pick up one of the watches lying around and look at the pointer marking the seconds passing by. “I’ll probably just show them a bunch of these machines and to hell with it, it’s not like I can control time”.

Right then we hear a bang from up above and a huge bell came crashing down. I see Jess sitting below the shadow the bell cast. In my terror, time seemed to slow to a crawl as I ran to her and crashed into her, throwing both of us out of the bell’s destructive path. One second after, the ground split where the bell fell. What the fuck just happened?!

Me and Jess sat up and stared gaping like fishes at our almost death.

“I guess I now have something to entertain the King and his guests.”

Edit: OMG I FINISHED THIS SO CLOSE TO THE DUE TIME AAAHHH the end was so rushed :((

WC: 323

Today Stephanie and I are at the clock store. My watch busted up the other day when I tripped and fell on my morning run, and Steph owed me a favor, so she decided to take me here. How kind of her.

“See anything you like?” asked the old man behind the counter.

“I was wondering if you could help fix my watch, sir. It has a lot of emotional significance and I don’t want to lose it.”

“Let me see it,” said the old man. I gently placed the shattered clock into his wrinkly hands and watched the man eyeball the device for a minute or so. “The glass is shattered, and there may be a gear in the internal mechanism that got loose. If you give me a day or two, I might be able to get it fixed.

I turned to Steph and gave her a bright, toothy smile. “You hear that, Steph!? He said it was doable!”

Steph rolled her eyes. “He said it might be doable. Don’t get your hopes up.”

The old man chuckled. “The little lady has a point. The pieces for this particular model don’t come cheap. Depending on which ones we’re talking about, a repair for this could possibly cost you three or four figures.”

“Three or four figures…” I asked. “You mean, like hundreds to thousands of dollars!?”

“This is a [insert watch model here that I don’t have time to look up], and these tend to be around the three-figure price tag on the market, now that I think about it. I think $500 tops should be a reasonable estimate.”

“Sir, I don’t have that-” I began, but I was cut off by Stephanie smacking the counter with her hand.

“Do you want it all upfront, sir?”

“Steph!?”

Steph turned to me and smirked. “Don’t you remember? I owed you a favor. You’d better start saving up to pay me back, though.”