Killing Time

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death, enjoy, fiction, flash, killing, man, men, shadows, story, thump thump thump, time, Writing

Not exactly what I was promising, but my project with the game has come back up and I felt like writing this. Hopefully you enjoy this little flash fiction and take something away from it.

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11:50 p.m.May 17, 1886.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

He listened. Ten minutes. His heart beat to the hand of the clock…his clock.

His name? There was no longer such a thing to him. Long ago had he forgotten that silly little thing. Forgotten to his quest. What quest? Why, to live forever, to find Time and…well…there are some things that can go without being said straight out.

The night air brushed its fingers through the man’s coarse brown hair. His dark eyes took in the scene before him; an old squat shop made of brick and a roof made of wooden shingles. The windows were shuttered on either side of a solid wooden door. No light peeked through the cracks, leaving the store in complete darkness. It gave the illusion that it was vacant, but he knew that people lived in there. His experience told him so.

He shivered with glee, he could hear the ticking from where he stood on the street. His silhouette cast dancing shadows in many directions as he stood in the candle-lit street lamp’s light as if they were mimicking their owner’s feelings.The sound of a man whistling in the distance faded away, lost to the night.

The man took a look at his watch and then buried it in the pocket of his dingy leather trench-coat. 11:51 p.m. May 17 1886. He would have to act quickly.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

He listened. Nine Minutes. His heart beat to the hand of the clock…his clock.

Swiftly, like a shadow, he rushed to the door of the small brick shop. He could have easily battered down the door if he had a mind, but no, that would have been too much noise and too much time that he did not have. Soon he would have it. He picked the lock in exactly two heartbeats.

Sound exploded in his ears. The hundreds of clocks within the shop ticked away the seconds. Right in time with the damnable mechanism on his wrist. They were of one mind and he cursed them all.

Closing the door behind him, he rushed upstairs. His fingers itched to wrap themselves around those ticking things and cast them to the ground. For now he had to wait. The stairs were solid as well and he was able to climb up silently, soft as a maiden’s breath. He moved methodically, checking each room for the inhabitants.

The man took another look at his watch.

11:52 p.m. May 17.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

He listened. Eight more minutes. His heart beat to the hand of the clock…his clock.

The man opened the door at the end of the hall. There, inside, was another man. A time-worn face drooled quite unceremoniously into the pillow that his long, graying hair had suffered a ruffling from. No clocks dwelt here. The sleeping man must find the silence to be a sacred thing.

A knife was pulled from the man’s old dingy coat. It was long and sharp, the surface unmarred by time, use or rust. It was a sort of ritual. After each kill -yes, he had to kill them, the clock-makers- he would go and make a new blade from the pieces of clocks. Melt them, fuse them, and sharpen them. Each one an atonement for what he did here.

To kill time, he had to -must even- kill them.

The knife slid into the man’s neck without the slightest resistance. The sleeper opened his eyes and locked with the man holding the knife. They held each other’s gaze and then as if resigning, the sleeper slowly closed his eyes and went without uttering a noise, the knife left in his throat, blood spilling and collecting in the sheets of the bed.

The sleeper would be better for this. Everyone would.

The man looked at his watch again.

11:53 p.m.May.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

He listened. Seven more minutes.His heart beat to the hand of the clock…his clock.

Once downstairs again, the sounds of ticking and gonging and tweeting was deafening. Each a resonator, a counter of seconds. Constantly reminding, reminding, reminding that he was running out of time, time, time.

Rage, pure filthy rage enveloped the man. His dark eyes grew wet with tears. The absurdity, the fact that a mere object could cause him so much pain, pain, pain, pain, pain.

He shakes his head. His heart is still beating, he is still alive.

He does not need to look back down at his watch.

11:54 p.m.

Tick…tick…

Thump…thump…

Listening, ooh listening. Six more minutes. His heart beat, beat, beat to the damn hand of the clock…his damn clock.

Hungry fingers, long awaiting this moment, grab the first contraption and cast it to the floor. Then the next, the next and the next. Each losing its parts, each falling to the ground. This was merely procedure now. He knew how they all worked, all counted, and how they could be stopped. Time was desperate. Some of these were harder to destroy than most, he knew that he was close to victory. He could live, would live. He laughed as he worked.

Tick…thump…

Tick…thump…

Tick…thump…

11:55

Listening, listening, that’s all he could do was listen. Five minutes, more clocks. His heart beat to the clock…his clock, the one tied to his wrist, counting away ‘till his time was to close.

More and more clocks fell victim. Silenced forever, never to tell others just how much time they had left. He would escape time, outsmart it. Time had enslaved humanity, all they could think of was just how much time they did not have.

Thump…thump…

Tick…tick…

11:56

Listening.Four more minutes.

More clocks thrown to the ground.

11:57.

Listening…

11:58.

And…a sigh.

Thump…thump…thump…thump…

Two minutes left.He had even destroyed the watch that had sat on his wrist. The store was a mess with pieces of clocks lying on the floor, certainly a scene to behold. However, it was beautiful. The most beautiful thing that the man had ever experienced. Thump…

He smiled.

Thump…

Faltered.

Thump…

And then frowned.

Thump…

His heart. It still beat…beat…beat…beat…

Time was still very much alive. He was alive, therefore time was alive.

“NO!” He shouts the word, as surely causing the silence to flee into recesses unknown as if he had poured a bucket of water over fire.

11:59 p.m. May 17, 1886.

He knew exactly when he was. His heart, his damned thumping, ticking heart. Keeping time, reminding him of just how much time was left. A single, solitary minute was left.

He fell to his knees, feeling about for something, anything. He sobbed, tears blinding him, making him curse. It was unfair. Here he was, trying so hard to help, but time would not let him. If only he had more time!

He stopped. More time. He needed…more.

“No escape.” The words barely escaped from between clenched teeth. His shaking hand furiously cleared tears from his eyes and then fell onto the hand of a clock.

Cleverly carved into the shape of a pointing finger.

Thump…

He could not escape.

Thump…

He glanced down at the hand, the one that pointed.

Thump…

Picked up the piece.

Thump…

And drove the piece into his damned, ticking,thumping, counting, laughing heart.

12:00 a.m. May 18, 1886.

He fell forward and instead of silence greeting the new coming day, or the gong from a clock, it was the passing breath of a man who only wanted to live forever. Time counted on…on…on…

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Shattered Chapter 3: Part 1

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Chapter 2: Part 2

That entry that I promised more than a month ago. Apologies, but schooling has been keeping me under its heel. That, and I purchased a new computer, so I’ve been playing with that for a bit. Enjoy and please let me know what your initial reaction is. Coming slowly but surely.

The first thought that came to Wrath’s mind, was his family’s safety. This strange man with strange powers was scary and could not be trusted. If he could duplicate objects and merge them back together and then sit on a dusty chair and leave the dust undisturbed, what else was he capable of?

Obviously the man couldn’t be trusted, that much was apparent. Those who dabbled in the dark arts should never be trusted. They were necromancers, and those who cavorted with that sort were always dead in the end. Wrath tried to think of any possible reason why this man – if man he be- would want to target his family. Money, obviously being the first reason. However, sometimes these kinds of men were after something darker. The blood of a child, a dear wife, or even the whole family. Always to worship the evil Dark. Yes, Wrath had to destroy this man. This…necromancer.

Wrath bolted out of his room with the force of a thousand stampeding horses 8, breaking a hinge on his way out. The halls were a blur, his hair flying about in his eyes. His feet stomped, not caring how much noise they produced. His family would be in the dining hall eating like they had said. Inside his chest, he felt a scream of frustration welling up and forcing its way out. Eventually it came, and it echoed off the walls and marble floor. He screamed and screamed and screamed. Madness, anger. Hundreds of years of fear was pouring out of his throat as if he were on the front lines of an army. A thousand souls outside screamed with him, sharing his frustration.

The necromancer could not kill his family, must not. They were his happiness, his joy. A scum of society, a demon, was not about to take that away. Else he would die. He would burn the city, kill his god and bring about a new kind of pain to the world if that happened.

Wrath pushed his legs harder, screaming all the louder, cursing them for not being able to go faster. The palace was too damn big!

There! The dining hall. He could hear his family laughing, oblivious to the danger that they were in. He stumbled into the dining hall and was greeted by a wonderful, if surprising, sight. Relief flooded and Wrath felt himself grow weak with it. No one was being butchered, everyone was safe. It was a sight of his family happily spending time together. Let the strange man steal his gold, his jewels. He could get those back if that was really what the man was after, it was his family that was irreplaceable. His wife was spooning pudding generously into each child’s bowl. All were smiling and laughing, and a fire burned merrily in the enormous hearth. Servants stood by the doors, straight faces all with laughter flowing in their eyes.

Yes. They were safe. All safe. No blood magic here. No one was lying on the floor with their throat slashed open like some goat.

Wrath watched them. A smile spread on his lips. Happiness, yes. This was why he continued to dwell. Did not turn to the madness that lurked in the streets of the city. Did not give himself up.

A while passed. Maybe even days, again, time here did not matter very much. Wrath thought of it as both blessing and curse. The children played, their mother bouncing their youngest on her knee and singing over and over to the giggling child:

Come sweet Mocking Jay.

Do not be shy.

We want to see thou play

And listen to thee sing to the sky.

Come sweet Laustic.

Do not be shy.

We wish to hear music from thine beak

Until dawn dost fly.

The child would sing the words back, often putting his hands to his face, making a beak and then laughing afterward at his own cleverness. Servants stood diligently, never blinking, but watching their masters play with enthusiasm. The hearth burned eternally, always bright, cheerful. If Wrath could ask for heaven, this would be it. Now he remembered happiness.