Excerpt from: The Clocks
By Thomas Smith
She winds clocks to remember. A symphony of second hands echoes throughout her house like metronomes. Clocks of all shapes and sizes cover the walls, hanging from carelessly driven nails and cluttered, dust covered shelves. She sits on her living room carpet, encircled by antique timepieces, winding each one and setting it carefully aside before moving on to the next. Each clock she associates with a lost memory. Each unique chime grasps a fleeting moment from amidst the silent clamor, filling her with a surge of emotions she craves like a fix.
An ornamental clock strikes from down the hall and she finds herself back at her college graduation. Her degree is crisp in her hand and the smell of the recently cut stadium grass permeates the bright, summer day. She finds her father and sister waving at her from amidst the sea of gathered friends and relatives and breathes a happy sigh. Caps are released into the air with tassels trailing like kite tails. She hesitates only a moment before freeing her own auburn tinted tassel to the wind. The sky grows dark and cold as her cap reaches its apex before falling back to the earth like a hailstone. Standing suddenly alone, she looks across an empty stadium as frost descends upon the field. Before she can react, she finds herself back in the shelter of her isolated living room.
Unopened mail overflows onto the laminate floor from the basket attached to her front door. Dust coats the doorknob and plants wither in the corner. Her answering machine blinks "37" through liquid crystal and is filled with the voices of phantoms she can't bring herself to erase. She leaves the living room, approaching a bedroom door at the end of the hall. Reaching out to twist the knob, she is stopped by the chiming tone of a mantle clock. The door opens to a crowded church. All eyes turn to face her but the only ones she sees are her fiance's, separated from her by the length of the aisle. Her father whispers into her ear, "Your mother would be so proud," before linking arms and escorting her forward. Her sister, Elisa, beams from among the bridesmaids, barely able to contain her excitement. She turns to face her husband but her breath becomes short and panicked when she sees the lacerations across his face and the stream of blood descending from his temple. She tries to back away but is frozen in place as he collapses to the ground in front of her. Her eyes agape in horror, she blinks and finds her hand still gripping the bedroom doorknob.
Originally published in the 2017 issue of the Calaveras Station Arts & Literary Journal.
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