I want a conversation-

not its shadow, communication.

Clockwork

Blair sat in the living room, attempting to read the newspaper. Above the mantelpiece hung a recently inherited clock. The clock ticked mercilessly, reminding him of the eternal wait for death. The pendulum inside waved back and forth, incessantly fighting and accepting the pull of gravity. Gears driven my inevitability, culminating in that maddening tic-toc. Blair gave up on reading his newspaper and stared at the antique. A gift to the family via his wife's father. It had been in their family for what was now six generations. Won in a bet against a traveling gypsy in New York, it had moved from a poor immigrant tenement to a respectable apartment to a penthouse on the Upper East side over fifty years. Stella's grandfather inherited it the year he decided to find his future out west. He only made it to Omaha, and it was there the clock found itself moved. From there it had bounced around various Midwest suburbs until this last week, when Stella's father had died and bequeathed it to her and Blair. And so there it sat, unaware of the last hundred years, only knowing the back and forth of motion and the twisting torque of gears. The gears stopped for a moment and Blair decided to pick up his paper. Barely opening the pages it chimed noon and started ticking once more. The paper found itself crumpled up in the fireplace as Blair stormed from the room looking for another distraction.