The world of words, reading and writing

The Clocks (Part 1)

I wanted to share another piece I wrote. This is a little abstract but there’s definitely still a structured plot going on. I was experimenting with some different styles and forms, and found something I’m happy with. It’s fairly long for a blog post so I’ve split it into two posts. Two posts for the price of one! You lucky duck!


Because the second is quick to pass our past is but a memory

Because the minute is soon to pass our present is immutable

Because the hour is yet to pass  our futures can’t define us


They chime in perfect unison, the clocks.

An atonal crescendo that builds in force, spilling out tumbling notes, choking the air with their delicate fingers, resonating one final note until they can withstand the pressure no longer.

They are of a volatile nature, the clocks.

Rosemary stands for remembrance, but nobody remembered that Delia’s first name had once been Rosemary. She had lost it somewhere in the pursuit of that romantic yearning to become a writer. Delia sounded much more stylish on paperback. It had been her dream to capture beauty in a web of silvery ink, to breathe life into a single page. Alas, people don’t want to read about dreams. Words are words are words. Delia had quickly learnt that what she wanted didn’t necessarily align with what the public wanted, so she gave them what they wanted. Ten years on and Delia’s heart has set cold. The beauty no longer visits her. She had lost more than her name by the time her first book was published.

Once she had danced only to the music within her. Now it is a different tune. The hands of the clock force her own. She submits to its eternal rhythm. It is easy to be seduced by mechanistic beats, as their pulse so perfectly matches your own. One thousand and one chests rising and falling in precise mechanised thumps. Delia sits and waits for the tide to wash over her, to be stimulated, to feel as if all this is worth something. Time gently trickles across her body. Shouldn’t you be writing?

None of this seems right. She should be able to feel something. She searches the room for where Delia could be hiding. She looks into the mirror and sees only a trick of the light. She could have sworn she had just seen…

Rosemary for remembrance

A mirror for resemblance

The clocks found humour in this but did not laugh. They cannot, for they are clocks.



Shaken from their reverie, the clocks join one another in blissful harmony: a sycophantic symphony. For six seconds they revel in companionship and then fall silent. It will be another fifteen minutes until they can meet again. This does not deter the clocks as they soldier on in gentle concordance. Softly, but surely, they march in perfect rhythm.

Tick    tick      tick         tick          tick

The darkness whispers to Delia as she gently plucks a soft white daisy from the corners of her mind. A gentle caress brings forth further whispers. Wandering souls drawn with some ethereal beauty. She must not let them fade. She flicks the tip of her fine brush and traces the contours of her memories. Letters slide and glide to shape her thoughts and as the tumbling piles of foam wash over her, like crashing waves over a silken sea, she creates. Beauty.

The clock chimes midnight as time flows gently across her skin like ripples on a star-stilled lake. It floods the room and stains her pages: those carefully crafted dainty pages. They cry rivulets of tiny tears as the lashing rain and flashing light beats beneath her tired lids. The pressure builds, bending the book to crack its spine and strip the blackness of its inky words. Once again the beauty has escaped her. All that’s left are words, as the hours pass and the water rises.


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