3 minute read
THE CLOCKTOWER
from Kiosk 62
THE CLOCKTOWER
Drew Windish
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The Clocktower Had read 4:32 at 7:48 that morning. the suspension of The City’s Timekeeper Had meant one, or both, of two things: The Clock’s Machinery was under repair, or the Caretaker and his apprentice had been fighting again.
in the instance of last night’s events, both applied.
A PROMOTION? the Caretaker said to the apprentice still chewing on His dinner in the side of His mouth.
sixteen years flattening and selling scraps. sixteen years living off scraps and crumbs. sixteen years it had taken the apprentice to finally take initiative with the Caretaker. yessir i believe i — i have some ideas that could really change how we run this place
He said that He couldn’t afford to make changes to The Clocktower in their current state. He said that their situation was bad enough. He said no and that his decision was final.
this and more He spat, interrupting the apprentice at every spurn. He raved on until a crack and flurry of flying splinters from the apprentice’s chair demanded the full attention of the Caretaker. with reposed poise, the Caretaker stood up to meet the apprentice, who stood defiantly among the debris. a clean, wet slap across the boy’s face resounded throughout The Impassively Ticking Clocktower.
poorly concealed tidal waves accumulated beneath the eyes of the apprentice as he stood in a stoical trance. he stole the loaves of bread from the table and left the Caretaker alone in the dining room.
later as He slept, gales of metallic gnashing teeth and shrieking boiled steam sent bolts of panic down the spine of the Caretaker, forcing Him out of bed. He thought himself naïve to think that the apprentice wouldn’t retaliate again.
the next morning, the Caretaker stood on a lofty platform in The Tower, Picking out the breadcrumbs and metal scraps from The Clocktower’s Gears while the apprentice worked below, flattening what scraps there were left with a sledgehammer.
with grooved eyes and a heavy chest, the apprentice struggled to lift his instrument repeatedly. he lifted the hammer behind his head for one last swing but stumbled behind himself and ran into The Clock’s Pendulum. as the apprentice fell, The Tower Roared to life with cog and ignition.
so too did fall the Caretaker. hand caught between the gears; the Caretaker pulled too hard in an effort to release himself. from platform to ground he fell intact, save for a right hand whose supporting arm now served as the fountainhead to the red sea in which he now lay.
unbelief consumed the apprentice. with what resolve there was left to conjure, he suppressed a squall of impending shame and looked into the fading eyes of the caretaker. but, to his surprise, the old man’s demeanor manifested an aura of peace and pride.
IT’S Okay, my Boy.
sixteen years the caretaker himself had been an apprentice sixteen years he had waited to displace his caretaker. sixteen years he had waited for his apprentice to complete the same cycle. the Apprentice stared into those sentencing eyes coming to a stark realization, now transparent within the shroud behind His mind. He was always meant to displace the caretaker. and so too would He find another apprentice to replace him in due time. the head never mattered. no matter how hard He tried to fight from within, The Clocks Would still run the same as before.
You Rat Bastard.
