Tuesday, 3 September 2013


Like a butterfly emerging from a shadow, my multi-coloured plated clock came out of a local auction and contained a story of love...
It was hand crafted. Frequent washing made it a menace in hot summers because each time the clock struck twelve, the sun burnt a little further into the hour hand.
In the middle of July, 1952, the hand snapped, like an angry poppet and more than half of it dropped off. I let out a quiet murmur, and part of me wanted to cast it into the nearest passing submarine so that it could be taken to the depths of the Atlantic.
But because English was only my second language, the admiral didn't understand me. He was laid back about the intended decimation, whilst I didn't dare blink my eye, in case the clock's red polish, that wasn't kind or valued, began to smear before even entering the ocean.
A flicker of the admiral's eye had me wondering whether I could actually let go this precious time-piece. Before finally casting the clock into eternity, I read some passages from the frequency gospel.

The copyright of this post belongs to Daniel Fishel

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