Wren's Submissions n' Stuff
Sept 5, 2019 13:29:01 GMT -8
Beta Violet, Hunter Moose, and 2 more like this
Post by Alphess Wren on Sept 5, 2019 13:29:01 GMT -8
From above, I watch a single room. In the surrounding emptiness, this open-topped cube is my only focus. Its decor is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. A large floor rug and a weathered ball are yellow and grainy, as if they were stolen out of a 1930’s photo. It is clear that color used to decorate these pieces, but no longer do they accent the room. Curiously, a small terrier has the same grainy appearance. It was like there was a filter of grunge despite its spotless pelt. Looking towards another wall, neon blasts of the seventies assault the eyes. A highlighter orange landline hangs on the wall. It’s spiraling cord hangs limply when not in use. A gas stove carries an over-boiling pot of spaghetti and a saucepan that merrily simmers away. Turning my gaze once more, I spy an ancient paisley armchair sitting at the corner of the rug. Its only friend is a small table stacked high with weeks of daily newspapers plastered with current headlines. Upon the table is one photo. It's old and worn - Child proudly holding a cloth ball with the year ‘1936’ scrawled along the bottom. It’s a cherished memory for Elder. Years of daily use faded the light blue cloth of the chair into a pale grey. To anyone else, it would be offensive to the eyes to see all these aspects simultaneously. To me, it is beautiful.
Child is small, maybe five or six, and he blazes around the room. He also seems yellowed and foggy, but doesn’t seem to mind. Child and the dog are only blurs while they practically bounce off the walls. As they slow down for a break, I can barely, just barely, catch the ghost-like outline of dark leather and a metallic face on Child’s wrist. As the pair begin to play once more, my arms spin with the vigor of a propeller; how I was staying together was truly a mystery. Time really does fly when you’re having fun! This is how I know Child. As a memory. He and I didn’t meet until he was much older. Because I exist in Elder’s memories, I have access to Child. Child and the dog finally grind to a halt. Playtime is over. Child lays on his back and kicks his feet at the wall, his movements slowing sluggishly with every passing… second. A distinct mud-puddle birthmark behind his ear lays exposed by clipped brown hair. Now I tick much slower. For Child, time is relative. If he’s having fun, it disappears, but if he’s bored it never seems to end.
Switching my focus, I can see that in the kitchen, Adult is juggling the responsibility of cooking dinner, making a call, and caring for the baby cradled in his arms. She’s wrapped lovingly in a pink blanket. Adult and Child share the same eyes, but Adult’s have wizened with age. The same birthmark behind Child and Adult’s ears is only visible for a moment as Adult turns to rock his baby. His face is slightly crinkled. Child’s baby fat melted off him decades ago. While Child toys with time, Adult is intensely focused on his life and the waning seconds. I sit solidly on his wrist, leather polished to perfection, face shining like a newly minted nickel, and ticking steadily. Adult and I had just met here. His colleagues gifted me to him as a present before his daughter was born. With Adult’s wife out having a ladies day, he is learning just how difficult caring for a baby will be. The highlighter landline is pressed between his shoulder and his ear. He’s trapped walking in circles in the kitchen by the taut spiraled cord. She’s whimpering. Child and the dog are back to racing around the room, but they never stray too close to Adult. Perhaps they aren’t allowed to touch? I’ve never seen them interact. These periods of one life never overlap, both out there and in this room. Adult curses under his breath as the dinner he is making spurts water onto the stove. He drops the phone hastily and turns his body to protect his daughter from the geyser he once hoped to eat. I wasn’t spared the same luxury. It hurt Adult more than it hurt me when spittle from the raging pasta water met polished leather. This wouldn’t be the last battle he and I faced together.
Seemingly oblivious to the chaos, Elder shuffles towards his armchair. Fluffy slippers, an oxygen tank, and shaky hands clutching a cup of tea are constants for Elder. Those, and me. I remain proudly on his wrist, faded and bleached from use, but always there to keep him company. I tick faster for Elder, constantly trying to remind him that his time is running out. He doesn’t care. Elder moves slowly towards his chair. The birthmark behind his ear, still resembling mud, remains firmly unable to be washed even after all these years. Wrinkled hands crawl towards papers he must have read three times already, but he plucks one from the pile anyways after getting comfortable. That is the life of Elder. He keeps track of world events, but has no means to participate. Some may see this as a waste of time - that Elder is ignoring my warnings. I don’t mind. After nearly four decades of minding me, he’s earned a break from worrying about time.
A door opens. As Adult tries to calm his fussing daughter, a woman walks him cloaked in pink. She shares Adult and Elder’s eyes, but it is clear that her looks are from her mother. She and Elder embrace. The pair are seemingly unaware of Child and dog playing fetch mere meters away, or of Adult throwing an over-cooked noodle at the wall to test if it’s done, despite them being in the same room together. Elder smiles as he talks with his daughter, his hands reaching around to fiddle with me. As I become unsecured, I fade from Child’s wrist further. This time is different. This time, Elder and I are parting. We’re breaking apart from one another fully. Not abandoning, but moving on. All the memories I can see are affected by this. I clatter to the ground off Adult’s wrist, just to add to his chaos. As Elder extends his hand out to his daughter, the corners of the room begin to darken. It’s as if the whole scene is falling asleep.
As I fall into her hands, I finally see how Elder’s wrist has adapted for me as we’ve aged together. It’s discolored - paler - and slightly pinched around where my leather has taken up too much space. With a final hug after hours of chatting, his daughter leaves. I sit solidly on her wrist. From above, I shuffle over to peer into another room. The box formed instantaneously as I clasped around her arm. This one begins with the youngest, Child, cradled in her father’s arms, wrapped in a pink blanket in a seventies kitchen next to an over-boiling pot of spaghetti. I know Child in this room. I was there alongside her as she grew up, just as Adult and eventually Elder were. On her wrist, my ticking resumes a normal speed. She’s fully conscious of the time she has left, and intends to use it wisely. I’ll hold the memories of Elder forever. His history is in one room filled with moments I can access anytime. For now, Adult and I have just met. I have another story to record.
Child is small, maybe five or six, and he blazes around the room. He also seems yellowed and foggy, but doesn’t seem to mind. Child and the dog are only blurs while they practically bounce off the walls. As they slow down for a break, I can barely, just barely, catch the ghost-like outline of dark leather and a metallic face on Child’s wrist. As the pair begin to play once more, my arms spin with the vigor of a propeller; how I was staying together was truly a mystery. Time really does fly when you’re having fun! This is how I know Child. As a memory. He and I didn’t meet until he was much older. Because I exist in Elder’s memories, I have access to Child. Child and the dog finally grind to a halt. Playtime is over. Child lays on his back and kicks his feet at the wall, his movements slowing sluggishly with every passing… second. A distinct mud-puddle birthmark behind his ear lays exposed by clipped brown hair. Now I tick much slower. For Child, time is relative. If he’s having fun, it disappears, but if he’s bored it never seems to end.
Switching my focus, I can see that in the kitchen, Adult is juggling the responsibility of cooking dinner, making a call, and caring for the baby cradled in his arms. She’s wrapped lovingly in a pink blanket. Adult and Child share the same eyes, but Adult’s have wizened with age. The same birthmark behind Child and Adult’s ears is only visible for a moment as Adult turns to rock his baby. His face is slightly crinkled. Child’s baby fat melted off him decades ago. While Child toys with time, Adult is intensely focused on his life and the waning seconds. I sit solidly on his wrist, leather polished to perfection, face shining like a newly minted nickel, and ticking steadily. Adult and I had just met here. His colleagues gifted me to him as a present before his daughter was born. With Adult’s wife out having a ladies day, he is learning just how difficult caring for a baby will be. The highlighter landline is pressed between his shoulder and his ear. He’s trapped walking in circles in the kitchen by the taut spiraled cord. She’s whimpering. Child and the dog are back to racing around the room, but they never stray too close to Adult. Perhaps they aren’t allowed to touch? I’ve never seen them interact. These periods of one life never overlap, both out there and in this room. Adult curses under his breath as the dinner he is making spurts water onto the stove. He drops the phone hastily and turns his body to protect his daughter from the geyser he once hoped to eat. I wasn’t spared the same luxury. It hurt Adult more than it hurt me when spittle from the raging pasta water met polished leather. This wouldn’t be the last battle he and I faced together.
Seemingly oblivious to the chaos, Elder shuffles towards his armchair. Fluffy slippers, an oxygen tank, and shaky hands clutching a cup of tea are constants for Elder. Those, and me. I remain proudly on his wrist, faded and bleached from use, but always there to keep him company. I tick faster for Elder, constantly trying to remind him that his time is running out. He doesn’t care. Elder moves slowly towards his chair. The birthmark behind his ear, still resembling mud, remains firmly unable to be washed even after all these years. Wrinkled hands crawl towards papers he must have read three times already, but he plucks one from the pile anyways after getting comfortable. That is the life of Elder. He keeps track of world events, but has no means to participate. Some may see this as a waste of time - that Elder is ignoring my warnings. I don’t mind. After nearly four decades of minding me, he’s earned a break from worrying about time.
A door opens. As Adult tries to calm his fussing daughter, a woman walks him cloaked in pink. She shares Adult and Elder’s eyes, but it is clear that her looks are from her mother. She and Elder embrace. The pair are seemingly unaware of Child and dog playing fetch mere meters away, or of Adult throwing an over-cooked noodle at the wall to test if it’s done, despite them being in the same room together. Elder smiles as he talks with his daughter, his hands reaching around to fiddle with me. As I become unsecured, I fade from Child’s wrist further. This time is different. This time, Elder and I are parting. We’re breaking apart from one another fully. Not abandoning, but moving on. All the memories I can see are affected by this. I clatter to the ground off Adult’s wrist, just to add to his chaos. As Elder extends his hand out to his daughter, the corners of the room begin to darken. It’s as if the whole scene is falling asleep.
As I fall into her hands, I finally see how Elder’s wrist has adapted for me as we’ve aged together. It’s discolored - paler - and slightly pinched around where my leather has taken up too much space. With a final hug after hours of chatting, his daughter leaves. I sit solidly on her wrist. From above, I shuffle over to peer into another room. The box formed instantaneously as I clasped around her arm. This one begins with the youngest, Child, cradled in her father’s arms, wrapped in a pink blanket in a seventies kitchen next to an over-boiling pot of spaghetti. I know Child in this room. I was there alongside her as she grew up, just as Adult and eventually Elder were. On her wrist, my ticking resumes a normal speed. She’s fully conscious of the time she has left, and intends to use it wisely. I’ll hold the memories of Elder forever. His history is in one room filled with moments I can access anytime. For now, Adult and I have just met. I have another story to record.