The house on twenty-second Maple Street was a house of time where time did not exist. It was a house where clocks were more numerous than the dirty dishes in the sink, or pictures on the walls. The war conference room for clocks, where instead of battle plans and maps that line the walls, there were clocks. Or a typical college student’s dorm room, where the posters that litter the walls make the wallpaper. Here it was clocks. There were clocks on the walls, desks, tables, widow-sills, and clocks sitting against the walls patiently waiting to be hung. Over sixty clocks total, all different and distinctive from one another. Here the clocks lived, but did not breathe.
Where one expected there to be a hum of perpetual ticking, chiming, and ringing, droning like a swarm of bees, not a single bee flew, and not a single clock ticked. The clocks were frozen and petrified at 2:51, or 9:25. In the house on twenty-second Maple Street, time did not exist.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Chapter 1: The Plainest Clock in the House
The simplest clock in the house was the oldest clock in the house, a plain wall clock with an ordinary brass rim that badly needed to be polished. The hands had stopped spinning in their glass case years ago, and now the ingredient of time had forged the hands in a way so that they would never be able to move, but would always remain fixed at the time 11:21.
11:21 was the time on July the 24, 1996 that Mrs. Murray’s black cat had chosen to take an interest in the Jones’ fishpond. The garbage man was pulling away from number twenty four on Maple Street. The newspapers had already arrived at the homes and had been taken indoors. The new newspaper boy, Derek, was more efficient than his predecessor Allen, and was always prompt. Mr. Stanley had the day off, and was sitting at his kitchen table reading the newspaper which Derek had delivered while Mrs. Stanley was making toast for their afternoon brunch on the patio.
It was an ordinary day on Maple Street and an ordinary day for Rachael, the freckled girl who worked as a bank teller in her parent’s bank. She had gone to work, worked the morning shift, and then gone home. At 1:00 she would go back and work an afternoon shift until 6:00.
The radio was blasting Queen, and she was singing along to “I want it all” at the top of her lungs in the wrong key. Nobody heard her. Her parents were both still at the bank, and the only person who might be there to here was the mailman. On that particular day, however, the mailman was running late after an argument he had gotten into with his oldest daughter over the clothes she was wearing, so he did not hear Rachael’s off-key singing.
The song ended and a commercial came on. Rachael flicked the radio off, not wanting to hear the anchor’s supposed ‘great joke.’ The whistle of the tea kettle filled the void of empty silence. Rachael removed the kettle from the burner and poured herself some tea.
She was nineteen years old with sandy brown hair and grey eyes. She was the kind of girl who the boys had referred to as having a ‘butter face’ back in high school and did not have a whole lot going for her. She knew it also. She knew that the slacks that she was wearing were not exactly form fitting, and that even if they had been a size smaller they would not show off a flattering figure. She was aware that her button-down yellow collared shirt, although her favorite color, was not the most flattering color on her. She had put a light amount of makeup around her eyes just to remind anyone who might look at her that her eyes were there. Her lips were small, her eyebrows thin and her nose normal.
The tea she was sipping was black, and it would have been too hot if Rachael had not added milk.
Rachael looked up at the old antique clock to check to make sure she would not be late for work, and then remembered that the old antique clock had never worked, and that none of the clocks in the house worked.
She finished her tea and left. That summer would be the last summer where anything normal would happen; where the breeze would float in something a little less than mundane, and the most interesting thing would be Mrs. Murray’s cat which had given up trying to catch a fish. Rachael felt that her life would remain stationary like the old antique clock that never ticked. She was unaware that the hands of her life were about to begin to spin into motion.
11:21 was the time on July the 24, 1996 that Mrs. Murray’s black cat had chosen to take an interest in the Jones’ fishpond. The garbage man was pulling away from number twenty four on Maple Street. The newspapers had already arrived at the homes and had been taken indoors. The new newspaper boy, Derek, was more efficient than his predecessor Allen, and was always prompt. Mr. Stanley had the day off, and was sitting at his kitchen table reading the newspaper which Derek had delivered while Mrs. Stanley was making toast for their afternoon brunch on the patio.
It was an ordinary day on Maple Street and an ordinary day for Rachael, the freckled girl who worked as a bank teller in her parent’s bank. She had gone to work, worked the morning shift, and then gone home. At 1:00 she would go back and work an afternoon shift until 6:00.
The radio was blasting Queen, and she was singing along to “I want it all” at the top of her lungs in the wrong key. Nobody heard her. Her parents were both still at the bank, and the only person who might be there to here was the mailman. On that particular day, however, the mailman was running late after an argument he had gotten into with his oldest daughter over the clothes she was wearing, so he did not hear Rachael’s off-key singing.
The song ended and a commercial came on. Rachael flicked the radio off, not wanting to hear the anchor’s supposed ‘great joke.’ The whistle of the tea kettle filled the void of empty silence. Rachael removed the kettle from the burner and poured herself some tea.
She was nineteen years old with sandy brown hair and grey eyes. She was the kind of girl who the boys had referred to as having a ‘butter face’ back in high school and did not have a whole lot going for her. She knew it also. She knew that the slacks that she was wearing were not exactly form fitting, and that even if they had been a size smaller they would not show off a flattering figure. She was aware that her button-down yellow collared shirt, although her favorite color, was not the most flattering color on her. She had put a light amount of makeup around her eyes just to remind anyone who might look at her that her eyes were there. Her lips were small, her eyebrows thin and her nose normal.
The tea she was sipping was black, and it would have been too hot if Rachael had not added milk.
Rachael looked up at the old antique clock to check to make sure she would not be late for work, and then remembered that the old antique clock had never worked, and that none of the clocks in the house worked.
She finished her tea and left. That summer would be the last summer where anything normal would happen; where the breeze would float in something a little less than mundane, and the most interesting thing would be Mrs. Murray’s cat which had given up trying to catch a fish. Rachael felt that her life would remain stationary like the old antique clock that never ticked. She was unaware that the hands of her life were about to begin to spin into motion.
Chapter 2: The Pocket Watch
The pocket watch had once lived in the pocket of Rachael’s great-grandfather, now it hung in a spherical glass case on her parent’s mantel piece. When her grandfather had carried it, the gold back of the watch had fewer scratches and the hands still ticked and the dials still spun. Spinning like Derek’s bicycle spindles as he made his way along Maple Street and onto Bridge Street that Monday afternoon. His legs were barely worn out because he had yet to have to climb the hill on River Road. His own wrist watch reminded him that he was on time and that he was more reliable than Allen.
When he had first started, being the newspaper boy had proved to be more troublesome than he had suspected. It turned out it did take a lot of effort to throw that newspaper to the exact spot it was supposed to land, while staying balanced on his bike, while he was balancing his bag which held all the newspapers on one shoulder. The job was certainly not worth $6 an hour.
However, in the few weeks he had been doing it, Derek’s endurance had gotten better, and his physic had improved. His legs were slightly more muscular than they had been when he had started off, and his stomach was starting to become slightly more defined. Only three weeks had passed, and odds were to anyone else there was no difference, but in Derek’s eyes the slight improvements on his own body were magnified.
He was a decent looking boy. Dark hair, even darker eyes, not the type of guy you would see on television, but pleasant enough to catch any girl’s attention while he was seated on his bike. His build was wiry, making him look more of a boy and less of a man. Derek despite his deceptive appearance was beginning to gravitate towards being more of a man. Nonetheless, he still bore the title of a newspaper ‘boy,’ and this held him back from maturity.
He had not bothered to assume an actual summer job, and had not even intended on one, even at his age, until Allen had thrown a newspaper and informed him that he was moving on to bigger and better things.
“Want the job?” He had asked, “Its decent pay, and you only have to work the mornings. You get to be outside; it’s almost like getting paid to have fun.”
Fun was what the High School jock who loved the outdoors had told him. Derek was not a High School jock, or much of anything for that matter. In short he was lazy. Too lazy to work out to get the body he desired, too lazy to get a job unless one fell into his lap. He was perfectly content to live under his parent’s roof and soak up their income like a sponge until, when a few years down the line they would get tired of him and kick him out.
However, despite his record for inefficiency and his negligent behavior, Derek had proven himself on this job to be remarkably efficient, and not the slightest bit lazy. His wheels spun at a consistent rate, and a little sweat on his brow did not discourage him to continue to push the peddles into motion.
Derek reached into his bag and flung the newspaper at the last house on Maple Street and crossed onto Bridge Street.
Bridge Street was aptly named for the bridge which stretched over Corner-field Lake. In contrast to the wide and deep lake, the old bridge was extremely small and narrow. There was barely enough room for two cars to cross the bridge at the same time, leaving no margin on the side of the road for Derek to safely peddle.
However, it seemed that no cars ever came on Bridge Street. There were very few houses on the street; the street’s main purpose served as an access between the two larger routes, River Road and Maple. Derek went on Bridge Street because he liked it. He liked to ride his bike on the bridge and to lean over from his halted bike to look into the lake. Some of the time he saw fish, most of the time he didn’t. It wasn’t the fish he was looking for, it was more the tranquility that Corner-field Lake provided, and the motivation it allowed before he had to attempt the deadly hill on River Road. No cars ever came so it was alright for him to stop on the bridge.
However, on that particular day a car was on Bridge Street. A black BMW which belonged to the owners of the town bank pulled onto the street. There was an unexpected detour in town because of a fallen tree-limb. It had forced the black BMW to take the irregular road. The car was driving ten miles faster than the speed limit ordained in order to make up for the time lost at the detour.
The black car turned the corner quickly and veered into the oncoming lane for a second before scampering back into its own lane. The car was beginning to approach the bridge.
The man who was driving the car reached down to grab his coffee he had purchased minutes earlier at Starbucks. His wife seated next to him, had without him knowing removed the lid from the cup to allow the beverage to cool faster. Unaware, the man’s fingers entered the scalding hot coffee.
Derek heard something, a car. He fumbled to replace his foot on the peddle. He struggled to jerk the kickstand up horizontal. The peddle caught on the side of the bridge just when the bike was starting. The additional weight of the newspapers was too much for Derek’s amateur experience with a bike and he and the bike tumbled, skidding in the sand.
The man in the BMW cursed. He took his eyes off the road, placing them at the source of his injury. He cursed again, looking frantically around for something to wipe his hands off with, something to ease the pain. The woman sitting next to him apologized. She fumbled around herself, as he fumbled around himself.
The bank owner looked up.
Derek looked up.
Derek saw the black BMW racing ten miles too fast towards him on the ground, his newspapers scattered around him.
The driver saw Derek, in the middle of the road on the bridge; inches from where the grill on the face of his car would be in seconds.
Derek fumbled to get up.
The man fumbled to get his right hand on the wheel.
It was too late.
The man swerved hard to avoid Derek, slammed his foot on the break to stop.
But it was too late.
The car was going too fast, and the inertia was too great, and the distance the man needed to stop was too small.
The car swerved from Derek seconds before impact and into the railing of the bridge. The car broke though the flimsy metal which should have been replaced years ago and over the edge. The head of the car breached the surface of Corner-field Lake and the rest followed.
The woman screamed. The man shouted. The coffee that didn’t have a lid spilled everywhere. The windows were open slightly, and the water poured in. Their screams turned into gasps, and the car filled with water faster than thought feasible. The water was rushing down on their heads, pressing down on their lungs, and shutting off their source of air. Their hands were panicked and couldn’t undo their seatbelts, unlock the doors. Their hearts raced, and their eyes dashed, panicked looking for an escape.
Derek panicked also. He wasn’t athletic, he didn’t know how to swim; he only knew how to bike. He picked himself and his bike up swifter than he ever had and pumped his legs on the peddles, running the wheels up the hill on River Road and towards help.
Help would not come soon enough for the man and the woman in the black BMW. Their lungs were running out of air, and their motions were slowing down.
The lake looked practically serene, feigning it’s captivity of two people. The birds were still singing, and only a slight ripple swam the surface of the lake. Derek’s newspapers still littered the bridge.
Soon the air for both the man and the woman ran out, and their heads lolled in relaxation and the tension in their bodies was released. All rushed became languid. The pulse, pulse, pulse under their skin had ended. Their lives had ended.
The pocket watch was broken too; it had also ceased to be. It laid dead, the wheels never again to be spun in motion, and never again to pulse with the ticking beat which it lived; held caged in the glass case. It didn’t breathe anymore, and no repairman however brilliant, could make it so that that pocket watch would someday again pulse with time.
The people were now held like the pocket-watch in the glass case; lifeless prisoners of the lake, never permitted to once again tick.
When he had first started, being the newspaper boy had proved to be more troublesome than he had suspected. It turned out it did take a lot of effort to throw that newspaper to the exact spot it was supposed to land, while staying balanced on his bike, while he was balancing his bag which held all the newspapers on one shoulder. The job was certainly not worth $6 an hour.
However, in the few weeks he had been doing it, Derek’s endurance had gotten better, and his physic had improved. His legs were slightly more muscular than they had been when he had started off, and his stomach was starting to become slightly more defined. Only three weeks had passed, and odds were to anyone else there was no difference, but in Derek’s eyes the slight improvements on his own body were magnified.
He was a decent looking boy. Dark hair, even darker eyes, not the type of guy you would see on television, but pleasant enough to catch any girl’s attention while he was seated on his bike. His build was wiry, making him look more of a boy and less of a man. Derek despite his deceptive appearance was beginning to gravitate towards being more of a man. Nonetheless, he still bore the title of a newspaper ‘boy,’ and this held him back from maturity.
He had not bothered to assume an actual summer job, and had not even intended on one, even at his age, until Allen had thrown a newspaper and informed him that he was moving on to bigger and better things.
“Want the job?” He had asked, “Its decent pay, and you only have to work the mornings. You get to be outside; it’s almost like getting paid to have fun.”
Fun was what the High School jock who loved the outdoors had told him. Derek was not a High School jock, or much of anything for that matter. In short he was lazy. Too lazy to work out to get the body he desired, too lazy to get a job unless one fell into his lap. He was perfectly content to live under his parent’s roof and soak up their income like a sponge until, when a few years down the line they would get tired of him and kick him out.
However, despite his record for inefficiency and his negligent behavior, Derek had proven himself on this job to be remarkably efficient, and not the slightest bit lazy. His wheels spun at a consistent rate, and a little sweat on his brow did not discourage him to continue to push the peddles into motion.
Derek reached into his bag and flung the newspaper at the last house on Maple Street and crossed onto Bridge Street.
Bridge Street was aptly named for the bridge which stretched over Corner-field Lake. In contrast to the wide and deep lake, the old bridge was extremely small and narrow. There was barely enough room for two cars to cross the bridge at the same time, leaving no margin on the side of the road for Derek to safely peddle.
However, it seemed that no cars ever came on Bridge Street. There were very few houses on the street; the street’s main purpose served as an access between the two larger routes, River Road and Maple. Derek went on Bridge Street because he liked it. He liked to ride his bike on the bridge and to lean over from his halted bike to look into the lake. Some of the time he saw fish, most of the time he didn’t. It wasn’t the fish he was looking for, it was more the tranquility that Corner-field Lake provided, and the motivation it allowed before he had to attempt the deadly hill on River Road. No cars ever came so it was alright for him to stop on the bridge.
However, on that particular day a car was on Bridge Street. A black BMW which belonged to the owners of the town bank pulled onto the street. There was an unexpected detour in town because of a fallen tree-limb. It had forced the black BMW to take the irregular road. The car was driving ten miles faster than the speed limit ordained in order to make up for the time lost at the detour.
The black car turned the corner quickly and veered into the oncoming lane for a second before scampering back into its own lane. The car was beginning to approach the bridge.
The man who was driving the car reached down to grab his coffee he had purchased minutes earlier at Starbucks. His wife seated next to him, had without him knowing removed the lid from the cup to allow the beverage to cool faster. Unaware, the man’s fingers entered the scalding hot coffee.
Derek heard something, a car. He fumbled to replace his foot on the peddle. He struggled to jerk the kickstand up horizontal. The peddle caught on the side of the bridge just when the bike was starting. The additional weight of the newspapers was too much for Derek’s amateur experience with a bike and he and the bike tumbled, skidding in the sand.
The man in the BMW cursed. He took his eyes off the road, placing them at the source of his injury. He cursed again, looking frantically around for something to wipe his hands off with, something to ease the pain. The woman sitting next to him apologized. She fumbled around herself, as he fumbled around himself.
The bank owner looked up.
Derek looked up.
Derek saw the black BMW racing ten miles too fast towards him on the ground, his newspapers scattered around him.
The driver saw Derek, in the middle of the road on the bridge; inches from where the grill on the face of his car would be in seconds.
Derek fumbled to get up.
The man fumbled to get his right hand on the wheel.
It was too late.
The man swerved hard to avoid Derek, slammed his foot on the break to stop.
But it was too late.
The car was going too fast, and the inertia was too great, and the distance the man needed to stop was too small.
The car swerved from Derek seconds before impact and into the railing of the bridge. The car broke though the flimsy metal which should have been replaced years ago and over the edge. The head of the car breached the surface of Corner-field Lake and the rest followed.
The woman screamed. The man shouted. The coffee that didn’t have a lid spilled everywhere. The windows were open slightly, and the water poured in. Their screams turned into gasps, and the car filled with water faster than thought feasible. The water was rushing down on their heads, pressing down on their lungs, and shutting off their source of air. Their hands were panicked and couldn’t undo their seatbelts, unlock the doors. Their hearts raced, and their eyes dashed, panicked looking for an escape.
Derek panicked also. He wasn’t athletic, he didn’t know how to swim; he only knew how to bike. He picked himself and his bike up swifter than he ever had and pumped his legs on the peddles, running the wheels up the hill on River Road and towards help.
Help would not come soon enough for the man and the woman in the black BMW. Their lungs were running out of air, and their motions were slowing down.
The lake looked practically serene, feigning it’s captivity of two people. The birds were still singing, and only a slight ripple swam the surface of the lake. Derek’s newspapers still littered the bridge.
Soon the air for both the man and the woman ran out, and their heads lolled in relaxation and the tension in their bodies was released. All rushed became languid. The pulse, pulse, pulse under their skin had ended. Their lives had ended.
The pocket watch was broken too; it had also ceased to be. It laid dead, the wheels never again to be spun in motion, and never again to pulse with the ticking beat which it lived; held caged in the glass case. It didn’t breathe anymore, and no repairman however brilliant, could make it so that that pocket watch would someday again pulse with time.
The people were now held like the pocket-watch in the glass case; lifeless prisoners of the lake, never permitted to once again tick.
Intrigued? Hooked? This is the end for now!
More will be posted of Racheal and Derek and the Clock House in roughly two weeks, so don't forget to check to find out how it all plays out!
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