A random prompt? The passage of time? What was I thinking!? But there it was. A challenge. How could I pass it up. So I set my timer and started writing. Tick… Digital timers do not make tick tocking sounds, but I could still hear it in my mind. Tock. Talk about annoying. Tick. Then I realized… Tick. The tick tocking was real. Tock. And did I mention that it was annoying? Tick. I searched where it was coming from. Tock. Not in the den. Tick. Not in the study. Tock. Where could it be? Tick. I wondered if it might be under the floorboards. Tock. Like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart. Tick. Was I too going mad? Tock. Then, much to my relief, I found it. Tick. A mechanical wind-up timer. Tock. In the kitchen, just tick tocking away. Tick. And then, my writing task was done. Tock.

I sit still. I’m always still.

I watch as the waves move in and out.

In.

Out.

Like a steady breath.

The leaves above me change from green to yellow to orange to red before falling off their perch. They rot by my feet as the winter winds bristle by me.

Wicked cold and winter storm with crashing waves.

When it’s quiet, you can hear the crickets sing with the waves.

In, chirp.

Out, chirp.

In, tick.

Out, tick.

Time’s running out. And yet I still stay still.

Watching the world pass by.

The clock ticked once.

“I want to see other people.”

The clock ticked again. There was a defeaning silence all around, a vacuum, in which time didn’t exist. But it did, and the clock ticked once more.

“For how long?”

“For however long it takes.”

One more tick.

“I don’t want that. I want to be with you.”

“I’m sorry, then. I need something new, something fresh.”

“You feel we’ve been stagnant?”

Three ticks.

“Stagnant? Our bed of flowers hasn’t been watered in years.”

A tick.

“I don’t feel that way. I still love you.”

Another tick. And another.

“Do you love me too, still?”

A tick, accompanied by a shake of the head.

“I know this hurts you, and I’m sorry. But I have to go meet someone.”

The clock ticked many more times, the only other sound in the room.

Time, relentless in its passage, Marches forward, forever in different, Leaving in its wake a trail of memories, Once ever so vibrant, and full of life, Now tinged with the stains of regret.

For it is in the wake of reflection, That the heart weighs the burdens of yesterday, The could have’s, the if only’s, And the heavy load of days gone by.

These are the quiet moments, When the scale is often tipped, By choices made, by words unsaid, Thus desolate and baron is left the heart.

For the cruel hand of time spares no one, It obliterates whatever’s in its path. Leaving only shadows in its wake, And a silent tear to fall for all that’s lost.

The clock is a thief, with a tricky art, And with every monotonous tick, Opportunities shrivel into the shadows, Slipping away, like quicksand, Through the grasp of our eager fingers, To be carried away with the wind.

Regret is the haunting refrain, Of a beautiful melody cut short, Teaming up with time, the deadly duo, To wash away the face of all we love.

And as everything we love fades away, Far, far away, Into the mist, To mingle with the dust of what once was, And the ashes of the dreams that we once dreamed,

All that we once held so dear, Is swallowed by the hungry void, Scattering the vast expanse, like stars, To see, but not to hold.

But the cruelest, most clever trick of time, Is not in what it rips from our grasp, But in all of the wisdom it bestows, Much too late to be of any good.

Couldn’t we just stay ‘Stead of turning the tides? Watching it fade away Til the end of our lives?

They’re pictures, not mirrors Couldn’t we just stay? The mist’s growing clearer And blurs what they say

Our ties are all frayed With this time-driven sorrow Couldn’t we just stay And try again tomorrow?

The future is calling But keep it at bay Before we go falling Couldn’t we just stay?

I held out my cup For a drink From the fountain of youth And watched As the water Flowed over the sides I could see My reflection Peek up from the pool Waiting For a change To appear in my eyes

Somehow I had thought That the curse of old age Could be cured With a sip From a fountain’s clear pour But the fog Faded fast It was all a mirage That left me More thirsty Than ever before

Death is a necessary evil I can admit that much is true The world gives and takes at random There is not much you can do

Though maybe the most unfair of all That makes the strongest cry How many lives are snatched away Without a chance to say goodbye?

She passed away in the dead of night Her room deserted, completely bare He overdosed in the hotel tub And no one else was there

Two cars colliding in a blaze of smoke Not even enough time to scream The bullet piercing through their chests Leaves nothing behind but bad dreams

How many closed their eyes not knowing It would be for the last time? They couldn’t have predicted How fast things can turn on a dime

Now their friends and family feel lost Without the closure they deserve A life taken in a single blink How could fate have such nerve?

I don’t believe that death is wrong Or that man should never die I only wish that every person Had a chance to say goodbye

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust Dirt to dirt and rust to rust No matter the value of human life In the end we all harden, cold as ice The wealthy in his mausoleum The beggar decaying in the slums Each have their final resting place To sleep in honor or disgrace But inside caskets carved from trees And bodies thrown into the seas Each man becomes terrestrial trash We are all nothing more than ash

How was the world created? As I asked myself this question, I looked around at the things surrounding me. There was only one person, a young lady wearing a pink cardigan.

Why was the world created? Why..? The lady in the pink cardigan still there, slowly sipping her coffee. My eyes burning from not blinking, tears running down my face.

I wiped them away, and stared off into space again. This happened to me a lots of times my mother said ‘you just have a creative imagination!’ I always felt it was much more than that though. I would spend hours on end, wondering why and how the world was created.

I would also wonder how I fit into this world, mother says everyone serves a purpose but what if I feel like my only purpose is to take up oxygen?

I looked back up, and the lady with the pink cardigan was no longer there, the table she was once sitting at cleared. I looked around and noticed I was the only one left. I went to take another sip of my coffee, but it was empty. Going back up to the counter, I got a refill on my coffee. Looking down at the time, how much time had passed I asked myself? Did I check the time before?

Guess not. I sat back down, not drinking any of my coffee before going back into my own little world. Maybe I do serve a purpose- maybe there’s too much coffee so they need me to get rid of some of it. I chucked at myself a little, before falling asleep.

In the heart of a quaint little town, nestled among towering trees and cobblestone streets, there stood an old clock tower. Its sturdy structure, adorned with intricate carvings, had witnessed the ebb and flow of time for centuries. As the sun began its descent, casting a golden hue upon the town, the clock tower came alive with a symphony of ticking and chiming.

The hands of the clock, like ancient dancers, gracefully moved in a delicate waltz. Each tick resonated through the air, echoing the passing seconds. The rhythmic beat of time reverberated through the streets, as if whispering secrets to those who would listen.

As the evening wore on, the colors of the world began to change. The leaves of the towering trees, once vibrant and green, transformed into a tapestry of fiery reds, oranges, and yellows. They danced through the air, twirling and spinning, as if caught in a never-ending waltz of their own.

The sky, once a canvas of bright blues, transformed into a breathtaking masterpiece. Shades of pink and purple painted the horizon, blending seamlessly with the fading sunlight. The clouds, like wisps of cotton candy, drifted lazily across the sky, casting shadows upon the town below.

Amidst this enchanting display, the clock tower stood tall, a sentinel of time. Its chimes, like ethereal echoes, marked the passing of each hour. They resonated through the night, a gentle reminder that time waits for no one.

As darkness enveloped the town, the stars emerged, twinkling in the velvety sky. They seemed to mirror the ticking of the clock, each one a tiny luminary in the vast expanse of time. The moon, a radiant orb, cast a soft glow upon the town, illuminating the cobblestone streets and casting long shadows.

The night wore on, and the town fell into a peaceful slumber. The clock tower, ever vigilant, continued its timeless dance. The hands of the clock, now bathed in moonlight, moved steadily forward, marking the passage of time with each tick.

And so, the scene unfolded, a symphony of ticking clocks, changing leaves, and celestial wonders. It was a reminder that time, like the ever-changing colors of nature, is both fleeting and eternal. In the heart of that quaint little town, the passage of time was etched into the very fabric of existence, a tapestry woven with the threads of moments that would forever be remembered.