# October 2013 - LM - When The Clock Stops



## Fin (Oct 1, 2013)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​When The Clock Stops​



The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


*The judges for this round are:*

*Leyline*; *Lasm*; *Pluralized*; *InkwellMachine*


*Rules*


*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn't a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*No liking entries until the scores go up.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.




*There are a few ways to post your entry:*


If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.


Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

*This competition will close on:*

Monday, the 14th of October at 11:59 PM GMT time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## Staff Deployment (Oct 1, 2013)

A Nice Wide Smile


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## Dictarium (Oct 3, 2013)

Faulkner's Clock & Watch Shoppe (642 words; Language Warning)


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## WechtleinUns (Oct 3, 2013)

*Demons & Witches* (637 Wds) (Language Warning)

Sergey drew his slither blade and raised it high above his head. The winds of Alcalde plains held their collective breath as he slowly lowered it towards Hidalgo Mezclan and his crew. The rock people lumbered forth, cascading down the slope like a Tsunami.

Garret Mezclan sucked the smoke from a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, and held a .9 mm glock with his other hand. They had only small arms, except for Bugsy and Fatso, who each held one round of heavy ordinance. Maria Debe was their marksman and demolitions expert, but she was down to 5 merc shots and half a stick of boom.

"So much for the direct route." Hidalgo carved an orange from his pack as the thunderous march bounced the ground sideways. "All right. It's five man's morris against that idiot swordsman, his undressed shaman, and a horde of stoners. Two of those are dumber than dirt, and one of them's dead the second her clock stops. Whaddya say we help it along?" kneeling down close to Maria, he whispered,

"Think you can hit the slut's clock tower?"

"That tower's got to be more than half a kilo, Hil. No way I'd hit it with this angle."

"What if you reached the top of the slope?" Hidalgo pressed. Maria thought for a moment, but then nodded. The rock slide blasted into the barricade. Garret climbed the munitions tower and slapped two shots of lead into a stone-man's head.

"Bugsy! Fatso! Left Morris!" Hidalgo shouted. Fatso grunted, scooped up the girl, and made a mad dash up the slope. Sergey leapt off his rock-man mount and brought the sword down to bear on Hidalgo, who countered with his Machete and threw the demon off balance.

"Sergey... don't be so sloppy. You parry like _this_." Hidalgo stepped inside the demon's swing and ran his machete into its chest. It staggered backwards. Hidalgo pressed the attack, but Sergey caught his wrist and swung him to the ground, smothering his head in the dirt and grass. "Anytime, Bugs!"

"Yeah, yeah..." Bugsy locked and fired, and the rocket fwooshed out of its casing, yellow sparkies laughing all the way to Sergey's chest. 12 yards up the slope, the demon dug in, and grabbed the tip of the war-head, swinging it to the side with one hand. That's when it detonated.

Hidalgo got to his feet and rubbed his jaw. Maria and Fatso were up top, but that crazy undead priestess witch was charging them in a blind bum rush. Maria had 2 tips left. Fatso was holding his against the priestess, but the firing pin was broken, and the witch knew that. Maria eyed through the scope, adjusting for cross-wind. The witch's hands crackled with red lightning. She mumbled her words...

Two loud shots rang out through the valley of death. Moments later, the evil tower gonged off tune, and the witch looked up in abject horror. A symphony of gears and chimes cackled cacophonically as bits and pieces of the tower sloughed off of the sides. The priestess could do nothing, except stand and scream.

"No. No... No!!!!"Her skin turned cracked and pale. Her hands grew bony. She stumbled forward, crawled on her hands and knees and grasped at Maria's throat. "Bitch! Bitch! I'll kill you, you little bitch...!" She screamed. The rockmen's bodies fell to pieces, while the witch slowly crumbled into dust.

A full minute passed before anybody spoke. Garret and Bugsy joined them, while Fatso and Hidalgo breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well. That was fun." Hidalgo said. Maria laughed and threw her arms around him. She kissed him, and he kissed her back.

"Hey, I thought you were going to cut my balls off?" He said.

"Oh, I am, Hil. Just as soon as you go to sleep."


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## Smith (Oct 3, 2013)

A Letter Never Sent (640 words; Language)


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## dakota.potts (Oct 4, 2013)

Hypnagogia - 634 words


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## midnightpoet (Oct 6, 2013)

Click, Click, Click (513 words)

The clock stopped at one minute until 12 o’clock.  High noon.  I laughed when I remembered the movie with Gary Cooper.

_“Do not forsake me, oh my darlin’…”_

Well, I’ve been forsaken by life itself.  I didn’t want to do this at first, but they convinced me, it was God’s will.  Well, Allah.  Same difference.  It was their entire fault, of course.  The infidels, people who wouldn’t believe. 

Sarah would have understood, but they killed her.  They found her by the river last week, throat slashed from ear to ear.  The corrupt police have done nothing, paid off I’m sure by the government agents, the same ones who Sarah had worked for, the same ones who betrayed her. 

I have seen them near my house; I knew they are observing us.  Men and women, dressed like normal people, watchers all.  Our phone was obviously bugged.  I kept hearing voices in the background as I talked.  I ripped it out of the wall and began using a cell phone. 

I met the first ones of the new order just days ago at a small coffee shop.  We conversed in quiet tones at an outside table, wary of the observation cameras that were all around us.  They explained how the government was warping our minds, making us be like willing sheep led to the slaughter.  How it must be stopped before all mankind is enslaved.  I would get my reward, they said, by my sacrifice.

They explained this act would be one of many in the weeks to come, until the infidels were brought down and the new order would begin.  They convinced me that this was the only way, for the enemy would never listen to the truth.

I thought about how I lost my job, how my evil managers manipulated the accounts to show how I stole from them.  They lied.  I thought about how I evicted from my apartment, how I couldn’t pay the rent because I lost my job.  I thought about the evil bankers, who denied my loan request simply because I had no money and no job. 

I would see Sarah again, they said.  My reward would be eternal bliss.  And so it must be.  My parents had died, I knew, killed by doctors who didn’t care.  I grew up lonely until I met Sarah.  She was beautiful, and we had such good times together, walking along the beach, picking up sea shells.  When I found out she was an agent, it crushed me at first.  I gradually knew what I must do, and the new order people showed me the truth.  It greatly saddened me, then, when I slashed her throat.

So here I sit, here in this crowded, busy airport terminal, with enough bombs strapped to my chest to level three blocks.  I watch the infidels as they gather around me.  I see a pregnant woman pushing a baby carriage; the old man chewing on a cigar; the group of excited children and their teacher.  I turn the timer back on.  Click, click, click.


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## Sunny (Oct 6, 2013)

The Quick Ascent  
(650 words - Language Warning) ​
The stars fight with the sun, both wanting the sky. They gleam under my belly, between each claw, as we skim across the surface of the sea. The sun begins to rise, its heat throbs through my bones, mocking me. Shit, don’t change. Not yet! 

I grip her ankles, pulling her legs around my waist. She groans under her breath. Oh christ, did I pull too hard? I hate these damn dragon arms when I need to be gentle with her. I whimper an apology. 

The mountain comes into view and it seems larger than usual. Mist crawls out of the stone at every corner. 

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she reminds me. She squeezes her tiny fists around the soft folds of my ears. How scared is she? 

I twist sideways and flap my wings. We point upward like a jet plane on take off. Her small heels dig into my thick skin; she always hates this part. 

“Am I brave?” she asks. 

My silence is expected. I hate my deficiencies to form words. I comfort her with a gentle caress of my wing to her thigh. Does she understand? Ash coats my throat from my earlier fight with the hunters. I hope I killed at least one. 

The black sky fades into a lighter shade of grey with each passing minute. Old netting litters the human paths below us. Fire washes over my tongue, but I swallow the flames. I can’t chance a breath through my mouth with her so close. I wish I could tell her I’ll protect her, keep her safe, but I can’t mutter a damn word. Can the hunters hear us? Will the sun rise before I get her there? I pull my wings closer to my ribs for smaller, faster, strokes. 

An arrow flashes over my shoulder. Olivia grunts from what I can only imagine is pain. Shit, did that slice her? I inhale for the scent of her blood and grimace with the thought of her being hurt. 

The air is clean. Thank God. 

Another arrow flies straight toward us, hissing through the air. I do a quick barrel roll, and immediately regret my decision. Olivia squeals. Her grip isn’t enough and she falls straight for the archers below. 

Drop fast. You’ve got to get her. 

Sixty feet. Fifty feet. Forty feet and she’s still falling. Why aren’t I falling as fast? The sun warms my empty back, the clock ticking with each heated ray. Jesus, her spine is lined up to snap on those rocks. I tuck my wings and dive straight for the impact of earth. If I were human, would that accelerate my fall? 

She makes no sound. She doesn’t panic with frantic kicks. She doesn’t swing her arms, but lays completely still. Her stare screams at me with a million silent pleas. They pierce my chest with the heat of a branding iron. Is that the reflection of the sun in her iris? Is that why she’s terrified? She’s always worried more for me than herself.

Rocks are only a moment away. Do it now you fool. 

I stretch out my neck and slip my arm below her. She violently spins in a full circle, facing the ground. Her backpack doesn’t tear when I bite at it with my thrashing jaws. I swing her up and behind, tossing her over my shoulder with a swift twist of my head. She knows my back like I know the curves of her hips, but can her tiny hands hold on tight enough? 

She lands between my wings and nestles in for the quick ascent to my cave. 

The mountain is no longer hidden by night. The sun rises with morning. It eats at all my hopes of fighting these hunters with dragon strength. Already, I’m shrinking. Fuck. Don’t crash too hard. These weak human arms are all I’ll have defend her.


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## escorial (Oct 7, 2013)

1888 .....(582.words)
He sat on the bookcase with a few dusty titles leaning against each other, Alice in Wonderland, Firmin, standing side by side. Looking up at the books he twitched his nose then sniffed the air for company. Moving on he came across a broken dolls house and moved inbetween old victorian furniture and a tall slim Barbie doll lying in one of the bedrooms who was much to big for the bed. Off he went past the cobwebs and many tiny eyes watching his every move.

Daylight came through the skylight and over the course of the day the beam of light moved from one place to another. No matter how bright the light was there was always a dark space filled with discarded items left to gather dust for years at a time. Some broken, some in need of repair but all containing a piece of history or a memory of a person living below the ceiling. Again the mouse appeared travelling the same route as every other day and stopping in the same places  to get a feel for his surroundings.

As his nose twitched another beam of light appeared, one from the skylight and the other from a lightbulb that meant one of the creatures from below was arriving to search  for  an item or to add to the collection yet again. One piece was found  and removed. Once again it would be used and working again, doing the thing that it was designed for and would now become an object of desire and not a hidden away piece left to gather dust on the floor.

Gone was a very old clock that had two wooden Ravens facing eachother both holding the face of the clock, that had only told the right time twice a day in all the years it remained in the attic amongst all the other bric a brac. It was a  clock that  had been in the family for two generations  and was kept because of it’s age provenance and likely worth.

Soon after leaving the attic the clock was dusted and wound up to make it start ticking again and follow the hours, minutes , seconds of all the days ahead. The clock was valued and sold to a visitor to the house and taken away, were  it was left in the capable hands of a clockmakers shop. While there it was going to be given a thorough clean and given a new lease of life before it was placed in the antique shop window with a brief description and a price tag.

As the screws were removed from the back of the clock, the clockmaker expected to find everything in good order and requiring minimum repair, if any at all to set it’s wheels and cogs working perfectly again. Inside the casing was an old piece of brown paper, possibly the bill of sale for the clock from all them years back. As the clockmaker unfolded the paper she could see the year written in what looked like red ink..1888

“To whom reads this I would like to confess my sins before my life is soon to expire from the terminal illness that I am inflicted with. I was the most famous celebrated murderer of my time and will take the secret to my grave and not until somebody opens the back of this clock and reads this , will it be known that it  was once the property of Jack the Ripper.”


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## Gavrushka (Oct 7, 2013)

*A Moment in Time.
*(619 words)

I never felt a thing.  Had I just died? The familiar world about me was still there, yet changed beyond recognition. Broad daylight became twilight. The people around me were gone, but equally disturbing was the absence of any noise. Confusion, perhaps even panic, turned to disbelief when a small stand of trees just vanished. Over the course of a few seconds, several buildings grew in their place. It was like watching a film in fast forward, but this was no movie theatre. This was still my world, but I no longer played any part in it.

For me now, there was neither day nor night, just a perpetual murky gloom somewhere between the two. You see, time runs so slowly that my day is a thousand years of normal time. Well roughly at least, for I reckon I see four sunsets every second.

I am unsure what happened, but I do know the scientific world had been excited by an upcoming test of the Hadron Collider. Perhaps this was the day they had carried out their experiment. Doomsayers had predicted black holes and temporal anomalies would result. Maybe they had been right...

I have come across nothing living other than trees and the grass, the latter of which appears as a mere blur of colour beneath my feet. I’d found a fountain and tried to take a drink, but the water was as granite to me. That’s when I realised I would die in a few days, as I could not interact with the evolving world around me.

A few hours ago, a statue appeared close to where I’d been sat when it happened. Beneath it rests a plaque, ‘_J. Kent. Saviour of Mankind, 4417AD’_. It is one thing to know time is fleeting, but when I saw the year etched in bronze, I thought my mind would unhinge.

That’s when I had the crazy idea of trying to communicate with the normal world. As soon as the notion was in my head, I felt a sense of urgency. Every two seconds another week passed, and so I raced back to the statue and knelt down before it. I had nothing to write with, and I’d learned the futility of trying to pick anything up off the ground. With no other option, I tried scratching the plaque with my fingernail. The metal discoloured where I touched it, but within a couple of seconds, it was clear again. I tried again, but it disappeared. Weeks were passing as I stared in confusion at the bronze sign.

Someone must be cleaning it. As fast as I could, I wrote ‘_Help me_’ with my finger tip, but it disappeared almost immediately. I tried a dozen more times, all in less than a minute, but it just kept on disappearing. I was ready to give in, when the letters finally remained. I was elated. I’d not really planned what to say next, but I wrote ‘_Each of my days_,”... I got no further as the message ‘..._is twelve hundred of our years. We know. Do not move_,” appeared beneath my words.

I’d no sooner read the words than a metal room appeared around me. It was featureless apart from an analogue clock set in one wall. There were no hands on it, but the face was comprised of two concentric grey circles, the centre one the darker of the two. As I watched it, the centre circle resolved into a rapidly rotating hour hand. It slowed, and then the outer circle resolved into a minute hand.

And then the clock stopped.

A section of wall opened and in walked a man. “You are safe,” he said. “The year is 4822. Welcome back.”


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## Candervalle (Oct 8, 2013)

Time's Up (643 words; Language)


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## Folcro (Oct 8, 2013)

KAYLIE, FROM THE STARS (646)


I hugged her hard when she saw me off, afraid I might hurt her.

"Why you crying, daddy?" Barely three, and she had the mind to wipe a tear from my face.

"Because I love you so much, sweetheart."

We didn't tell her. We couldn't. It wasn't as if I wouldn't be with her... not really.

"Like an angel?"

I smiled. "Even better."

The ship launched. I left Earth's embrace. But it wasn't until the Hendrik Thrusters ignited, taking us to near-light speed, that the separation occurred.

My kiss goodbye was now forever.

It was time to work. But I had to contact her.

I opened my computer, prayed the warp signal function like they said.

"Hi, sweetheart."

The second I pushed send, a page of text appeared. My Kaylie was starting preschool.

_Not so bad,_ I thought.

I replied with haste, strained for the words, the right advice; deleting, retyping.

As quickly as I sent, she replied that she had finished, told me all about it.

I was called to the lab. Frustrated, I wished her a good vacation.

I returned as fast as I could, asked about her summer.

Two had passed. First grade had begun.

"Having fun??"

"I aced everything!"

The signal broke. I almost went mad. When I got it back, a message was waiting for me.

"Merry Christmas, daddy!"

There were five of these.

I rushed a long letter to her, cursing every moment I spent to wipe the sweat from my eyes, cursing every error I didn't have the time to fix.

Kaylie's instantaneous response informed me that she had the talk with mom about my mission; that she understood; that she admired me.

I couldn't read it all. We didn't have the time.

"Mark, let's go!" the others called to me. "We've all got families, pal!"

I sent her as detailed a response as I could... two lines... kicked myself every time a new thing I should have said came to mind. Now she was a young woman. And there was so much more I could have done. Every strike of my wrench was another exam. Every fixed coupling, a semester.

I found a moment to steal away, grateful for the timing: her boyfriend had just proposed.

"Congratulations, sweetheart! What's his name?"

"Ryan. We're naming our son Mark!"

My grandson was entering preschool by the time I responded.

In my pride, she sent again--- trouble with her marriage.

"I know this will have been resolved, one way or the other, by the time you get this, dad. I know it will probably be a memory by the time you read the first word. It's okay. It doesn't matter. I just want you to know."

"Mark! Come on!"

I grew more bitter by the moment as they held me in that lab for hours; so bitter that they let my useless ass out early. I didn't care.

"I've waited so long to hear from you, dad!"

Kaylie was a grandma. I'd missed her retirement, but I was there for her now, hitting send every month.

"Sometimes I worry your messages will stop."

But they didn't. I chatted with her until bedtime. Until the big-eyed girl I was holding in my arms this very morning turned eighty-seven years old. And was lying in bed, barely strong enough to type.

"I'll be with you soon, dad."

So much went through my mind on hearing this. And so quickly. A panic attack ending with peace: an acceptance I didn't understand. I had changed, but I didn't know in what way.

I typed--- quickly, but calm--- "I have to sleep now, baby girl."

"Me too."

"Goodnight, pumpkin."

A pause. There had never been a pause. Not a second. Ever. I knew the day was over.

I turned from the monitor, faced my empty bed. 

The sound. 

I turned again.

"Goodnight, daddy. I love you."


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## Kyle R (Oct 8, 2013)

*Stalking The Lion
*(650 Words - Language Warning)
​

He has a knife to her back, but nobody can see it.

The train station’s jammed. Travellers jostle against each other, their winter clothes bulging. I shove into them, wedging my way between a European couple. 

The woman gasps. The man grunts. I scatter their luggage like a deck of cards.

Any day but this one, I’d apologize. Any day but today, I’d stack their bags into a replica of the Tower of Piza. Any other day, I wouldn’t be such an asshole.

But right now, I’m minutes from losing her. When the clock strikes four, that man will board the train with my wife. He’ll whisk her into a sleeper car, press a knife to her chest, and rape her. When he’s done, he’ll slit her throat and stare into her eyes as she chokes to death on her blood. 

He hasn’t told me this, not directly. He doesn’t have to. I see evil before it surfaces, like a newsreel flickering through my mind. This is my ability. My power. Whatever you want to call it. Right now, I call it a curse. 

It’s _my_ fault he has my wife. 

The police didn’t believe me. Said they’d “contact me” if they ever find this “murdered woman who’s not murdered yet.” When I persisted, they told me, “Get lost.” Said they had “real crime” to deal with, not some “buoyancy bullshit.”

“Clairvoyance,” I corrected, flexing my jaw. They threw me out the door.

So, I went to find him. To stop him. Like an antelope stalking a lion, I strolled right into the bastard’s den.

Now, he has my wife. My wallet’s empty. The ropemarks on my wrists burn like napalm. The wound on my chest squirts with every breath. As I stagger along the crowded platform, even the optimist in me has grown silent.

The train whistles, last boarding call, and the sea of humanity around me surges toward the cabin.

Standing on the ladder, a man pulls tickets from a row of waving hands. He clamps his gloves around one ticket. It comes away, perforated and stamped.

It’s these gloves I’m watching as I barrel over a young Asian man.

His briefcase rips open, contents scattering. Checkbook. Papers. Polaroids of some topless blonde riding his lap. He curses me in Japanese as he sprawls over the tiles, grasping at the photographs, the silver band around his finger glinting.

It’s amazing how clear everything becomes when you’re in panic mode. I am the looking glass. The world is my window. Nothing can escape my gaze.

Nothing, that is, but the one thing I’m searching for: my wife’s hand, reaching up to have her ticket stamped.

As I claw my way through corderoy and polyster, through coats and scarfs and toppling hats, hand after hand reaches for the man’s gloves. Hand after hand comes away, ticket marked. Hand after hand, none of them Remy’s.

The last couple boards, dragging their luggage like legless pets, and it hits me.

I’ve lost her.

The platform’s packed with businessmen, tourists, homeless Joe’s haggling for change.

Had they gotten on the train while my view was obstructed? Could _he_ have been the one reaching with the tickets? Had I seen his hand and dismissed it while looking for my wife’s?

There’s only one hand to look at now, the second hand of the clock on the center platform. It flicks up. The train lets out a shrill blast.

The gloved man has retreated inside, snapping the door shut. The train chuffs out a steamy plume and the gears begin to turn. 

Is she on the train, with him? Is she on the platform, with him? Is his hand over her mouth while they watch me, his narrow eyes peering over the shoulder of some oblivious backpacker, her wide eyes filled with tears?

Do I get on the train? Stay? 

God, what do I _do?_


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## rockoo315 (Oct 12, 2013)

Up to this moment, the day would’ve been like any other.   Mrs. Franks would’ve gotten up in her white gown, made the coffee a little too strong, and gotten the newspaper in front of her humble dwelling.   She would’ve made sure Joe, her husband of 30 years, would be up in time for the 7 o’clock news, knowing it was the only activity they could enjoy together before the medication took effect.   Mrs. Franks would’ve enjoyed the simplicity of life that seemed to have eluded her for mostof her life.   But this day wouldn’t belike any other. 
                           A knock on the door woke Mrs. Franks up, and noticing the clock displayed 4:30 am, she knew something was wrong.   “Who could it be at this time of day,” she thought.   “My closest neighbor lives two miles away.” Putting her fragile glasses on her face, she walked to the door despite her hesitation.
                           When she opened the door, Mrs. Franks took a step backwards not wanting to see what was before her.   This was only the second time in her life when time stood still, where the clock failed to move.   Wanting to be strong, she only allowed a single tear to go down her cheek instead of the river that wanted to rupture her eyes.
                          “Ma’am, are you Misses Franks, the mother of Specialist John Franks,” he asked.   Receiving notification that she was from the head nod, and the overwhelming shock on her face, he went on. 
                         “My name is Major Hunt, and I regret to inform you that your son was killed in action last night,” the Major said.
                          Her head was spinning, her stomach was wrenching, and a harsh chill went throughher body.   Finally, her eyes gave way to the overwhelming stream of tears.  Despite the Major continuing to talk, and her husband waking up and trying to reassure her, she sat down on her couch.
                          All Mrs. Franks could was recite the prayer her mother taught her at young age:
 _Let your heart ache, allow yourself to doubt, don’t fight against the disbelief. For all of these of human emotions, a gift given to us from God as a learning instrument.   He understands your pain, but knows the joy you have and will experience is much stronger.  As long as you have loved and never lost your faith, He will always have a guiding hand in your darkest days._
She thought back to the day John was born in this house, an unexpected birth but a gift nonetheless.  Holding him in her arms, she looked at his bright blue eyes and instantly got the feeling of love, an unrivalled force that she never knew could exist.   Exhausted but comforted from the bundle of joy, she looked over to her husband whose eyes said that everything would be okay…not just in this moment, but from here on out.
                         Mrs. Franks thought of Julia, John’s fiancée who lived down town.   For a moment, she forgot about her own pain, and sobbed for the soul that was about to become lost, who would never speak another word to her soul mate or hear his reassuring laugh.    Losing a son is one pain, but losing the love of your life, your other half, is a devastating pain no one could possibly imagine.
                         And so for this moment, in this plain white house on the outskirts of a sparsely populated Wyoming town, time stood still.


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## spartan928 (Oct 14, 2013)

Cuckoo (649 words)


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## Fin (Oct 15, 2013)

*The Clock Bearer
Anonymous Entry​*

Note to judges from Fin: I thought it might be needed for me to judge the competition so I never opened the anonymous PMs. That's why these are posted late. They aren't disqualified.


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## Fin (Oct 15, 2013)

Note to judges from Fin: I thought it might be needed for me to judge the competition so I never opened the anonymous PMs. That's why these are posted late. They aren't disqualified.

*I can remember the smell; lemon and blood. 
Anonymous Entry*​
Tangentially from my life there is a park. I only see it from a passing bus as I wend my weary way to wage slavery. Amidst the grass and trees, joggers listen to pounding music pumped directly into their ears as they 'go for the burn.' 

There is also a sixty something gentleman dressed in an out-of-date pinstripe suit who doffs his pork pie hat and waves a cane when saunters past the seated middle-aged women who pop out of their respective offices for some carbon tainted air, lattes and expensive sandwiches. 

Even the omnipresent pigeons look dispirited and are only begging for crumbs out of habit.

What did Olson say? 'There is no such thing as time, only the ever-present now.'

Clocks that stop are right twice a day. Humpf Space is elastic. Twanging space will get God's knickers in a twist. 

Every day I make this journey is one more day closer to the grave. Time may not exist but I do, and my existence in this plane of existence is finite. Then I make my exit. What come next? The great adventure? 

All this potential: Big thoughts and warm feelings, hope and love all buried under a wall of indifference and petty misdirection. Spending my limited amount of time pushing buttons and toadying up to a boss who makes himself feel better by making other peoples lives worse.

If time does not exist, then what am I remembering? What do clocks measure? When did or shall I meet my wife? How come children grow up? 

Individual raindrops start zigzagging their way down the bus's window, which will win? And without time how will I tell?

He has to die. No matter what I think, I know he has to die...


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