As the Hours Turn to Minutes

A strange clock strikes an unforeseen hour

Ulster used to look at the clock for hours. But on his fiftieth birthday, he covered it with a thick sheet, strangely unsettled by its quiet omniscience. He no longer saw it...but it disturbed him nonetheless.

On the night of his seventieth birthday, he stood with his back to it. There had been a wonderful dinner party, nostalgic stories swapped all around. But in the midst of the gaiety, his mind kept drifting to the clock...

Now, as he stood alone contemplating the subtle ticks and clicks, the clock rang out in deep, discordant crashes. Ulster let out a scream. The clock had never chimed—not once. Now this jagged cacophony!

He turned; to his horror, the sheet was gone!

"Simpson! Where is it?!" Ulster asked in a panic.

The butler looked at him stoically. "Sir?"

"The sheet—it was here a minute ago! I told you this clock was never to be uncovered!" He looked up at the clock's face and froze.

Now exposed, it reflected back at him a tired old man. Then, as Ulster watched, the image relaxed. The skin grew smooth, and the hair seemed to grow back. And as his reflection grew younger and younger, the hands of the clock moved closer and closer to noon. No, he thought. Midnight.

Ulster was eighteen and strong; then he was ten, giggling with the family dog; three, toddling along beside his father. He was newborn, still attached to his mother as she held him and the doctors cleaned him. He was—

The dissonant tones stopped abruptly. The clock face went black. It tipped forward, fell against Ulster...and took him into its timelessness.

From far away he heard Simpson say, "Good form, sir. Bloody well done."

In the sudden blackness, the old clock began to tick once more.


NOTES: ▼

Word Count: 300
Submitted for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Use the words phone, rest, and door