Gervic in Wonderland

[F-2] A Mad Tea-Party :: The Mad Hatter

F. A Mad Tea-Party
The Mad Hatter

Forever stuck in time! Write a story (or short poem) where your character is always stuck at 3 p.m. (<1000 words or < 40 lines)

Time's Unfinished Story

Gervic slammed his fist on the desk, scattering half-written notes like fallen leaves in a sudden gust. The clock on his desk, a cruel digital tyrant, displayed 3:00 p.m. in blazing red. Every day, with the punctuality of a serial killer, this hour stole his muse, leaving him with the literary equivalent of a crime scene – a jumbled mess of plot threads and character sketches that once held promise.

This wasn't writer's block, not in the conventional sense. Gervic's mornings were a symphony of creative energy. Stories would erupt within him, characters clawing their way to existence, plots twisting and turning like a runaway roller coaster. He'd race to capture it all, fingers flying over the keyboard, weaving tales of adventure, heartbreak, and fantastical worlds. But then, the clock would hit 3:00 p.m., and with a sickening snap, his narrative would unravel. Vivid details would blur, sharp dialogues would turn into nonsensical murmurs, and the once compelling story would collapse into a pile of disjointed sentences, mocking his efforts.

It had become a cruel joke, a literary purgatory. His bookshelf groaned under the weight of unfinished stories – a detective eternally puzzled by a half-solved mystery, a love confession forever suspended on a lover's lips, a hero frozen mid-battle in a forgotten fantasy realm. Each manuscript was a painful tombstone marking the burial of a vibrant story at the hands of the 3:00 p.m. reaper.

Gervic had become a desperate man. He'd tried everything: writing through the night fueled by gallons of coffee (only to succumb to sleep deprivation before dawn), traveling to exotic locations seeking a change of scenery (the clock, it seemed, was a persistent travel companion), and even consulting a flamboyant hypnotist who promised to unlock the secrets of his subconscious (the only revelation being a past life as a clockmaker, which, while interesting, wasn't particularly helpful).

Today, however, a spark of defiance ignited within him. He wouldn't let the 3:00 p.m. monster win this round. He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, a defiant act against the approaching hour. This time, he wouldn't chase grand narratives or intricate plotlines. Instead, he captured the raw emotions swirling within him – the dread that tightened his stomach with each tick of the clock, the frustration that gnawed at his resolve, but also, the flickering ember of hope that refused to be extinguished.

As the clock hand crept closer to the cursed hour, Gervic pressed on, channeling his turmoil onto the page. And then, the moment arrived. The clock chimed its familiar afternoon knell, the red colon blinking mockingly. But something was different. The world didn't drain of color. The characters in his story, though still undefined, didn't dissipate into thin air. A single line hung suspended in his mind: "But even a broken clock is right twice a day."

A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of Gervic's lips. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't perpetually stuck at 3:00 p.m. Maybe, he could use these stolen moments to tell a different kind of story – a story of resilience, of the tenacious ember of hope that could weather any storm, even a time-devouring curse. He looked back at the clock, the red colon once again a malevolent eye. The mockery remained, but the fear was gone. Today, the clock hadn't stolen his story. Today, Gervic wrote a new one – a story about himself, a story of defiance, a story that would continue, one stolen hour at a time, and this story that you are currently reading.

This newfound perspective became his anchor. He started each day with a fervent hope that maybe, just maybe, today would be different. But even when the clock struck its dreaded hour, Gervic wouldn't surrender. He began to see the stolen moments as a challenge, a chance to experiment with form and voice. He wrote flash fiction, poems fueled by frustration, and even scripts for plays that could be performed in the stolen time itself – short, intense bursts of storytelling that mirrored the way his own narratives were ripped away.

Slowly, a new kind of collection began to fill his shelf – a proof to his perseverance, a chronicle of his stolen hours. It wasn't what he had envisioned, but it was his own, a testament to the human spirit's ability to find meaning in the face of absurdity. And perhaps, someday, when the clock finally chimed a different tune, Gervic would be ready to weave his grand narratives once more. But until then, he would keep writing, one stolen hour at a time, a covenent to the flickering ember of hope that burned brighter than any digital clock.

WORD COUNT:
776 Words

GERVIC 🐉 WDC Dragon Vale
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