Flash Fiction: Write a short story about a clock.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The sound could be heard but not seen.
Tick. Tock. There it was again. Where was it coming from?
She slowly turned her head, glancing over her left shoulder. There was nothing out of the ordinary. She shifted, looking forward again.
Tick. Tock. What was causing this incessant noise? Slowly, she shifted her head to peer over her right shoulder this time.
There was nothing there she did not already anticipate to see. Again she shifted, this time looking to the ceiling.
Hoping a change of environment would eliminate the ticking, if only for a moment, she stood up and walked out of the room. She began to pace the hall.
One-step, two-steps, three-steps – counting her steps as she moved up and down.
The hall was narrow with barely enough room for two people to pass without touching. The floor was worn after many years of use. The light fixture needed replacing.
Tick. Tock. There it was again. She stopped. She looked left. She looked right.
Quickly, she spun around to see what was behind her. Tick. Tock.
The door at the end of the hall clicked open.
“What is with all of the pacing, Nala?” asked the resident.
“Don’t you hear it?” Nala asked.
“Hear what?” responded the resident.
“The ticking,” she answered, exasperated.
“Does it sound something like this?” replied the resident.
The resident began to unbutton his shirt – one button at a time, slowly revealing what was concealed underneath.
A second sound could be heard, only muffled.
As the buttons came unfastened and the shirt became lose, she stared in awe of what was exposed. The muffled sound continued to grow louder; beginning to out do the one she continued to hear.
It was as if he had a looking glass to the inside of his heart, but instead of a heart sat a clock. Almost as if someone had replaced his heart with a pocket watch but somehow a timer of sorts too.
“This is my clock.”
“Your clock?” she asked. “But where is your heart?”
“They are but of the same,” he explained. “When you begin wasting your time, your heart transforms, in hopes of making you aware that your internal clock is ticking.”
One button, two buttons, three, four, five. Nala hastily unfastened her shirt, ripping it open.
She stared down at her chest.
There was no clock. There was no timer. There was no looking glass to the inside. Her time was not wasted!
Bolting awake, Nala fell to the floor, entangled in her heap of blankets. She lay there for a moment, heart racing, sounds of a ticking clock haunting her memories.