Escape From Time

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic


What can my family sacrifice for me?

Submitted: November 22, 2017

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Submitted: November 22, 2017

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ESCAPE

 

The only real friend of time was the clock. Finally, it's gormless presence could be thrust deep beyond the burning, co-agulating vines that intertwined the universe. Time could shoot straight through the eye and be swallowed whole by the subconcious. The two left alone gave birth to a grim relation. Sombre numbers painted on it's face, 5,6,7,8, so literal, so empirical, disturbed the commotion of chaos. Instead it bred a bleak amendmant. My numbers, my rules. Servitude and boundaries now blighted the fools. With every tick, with every tock, Time snapped it's fingers.

 

Time needed an antagonist for it's own story. Time needed a metronome. To maintain and sustain it's relentless heartbeat. It chose Creation. Creation was naive , buyouant as the brisk jouney of a pink balloon across grey asphalt. It had become an emblem sown onto the stretched fabircs of the universe, and there lay Time, fingering the pattern with the gigglying glee of a teenage girl left to be.

 

My parents Creation was a sordid, lowbrow affair. The hurling and smashing together of atoms had sculpted itself something quite grotesque. Their seed had burst from the ground, only to find itself starved and mucky. The soil around them was of poor quality, like quicksand. Such poor produce gave Time a sinking feeling. Regret boiled with Sadisim. Time picked my parents off the long trodden ground and glared at their frail, rubbery bodies. Time winced. There was no starring movie role for them, just a bankrupt soul. Time left no stamp on them that day. If they never knew the day they were born, then why would they care about the day they died?

 

My parents had a mission. The thought lingered soon into their Creation. A tree grows tall because it wants the Sun. It was decided. They would be my roots, I would be the shoots. The soil of England was rich. Time would afford me pleasure, if they could measure up to Time's standards. They would tempt Time to give me a break, to be free, as long as there was no mistake. The deal was built. They had sold themselves to Time.

 

Every day, like clockwork, Time would scream five. Five O Clock. Five O Clock. From the clock's shrill echoes, the bones would creak, take a leak, make up on the cheek, it would be a difficult week. A square plot was drawn onto the land. From here, the universe eminated. Buzzing neon signs around the square had the public humming. Far and wide, the public collapsed in on our square. Gleefully they would enter. Stood before them were a couple, adorned in white and black pre-packaged shirts forged by those with an even sicker Creation than my parents. My father's balhead reflecting the scar Time scraped across his head with it's sullied fingernails. The public had come for respite. Sqaure lines were filled with other sqaure lines, tobacco boxes, milk cartons, chocolates and newspapers delivering their knockout lines; “Oh they've only gone and done it again!”. The public would spill out their coins, silver as the hairclips that hid my mothers balding head. My parents, hand held out high and ego kept in low, they would collect. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. The public had come in to escape Time, the long drawn toke of a ciggarette, a gentle sip of cola by a bench, the guzzling of beer cans. The oblivion that waited for them sent them spinning away from of Time's punishing regime. Free in the oddest sense.


© Copyright 2018 Shiva Parbhakar. All rights reserved.

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