Twenty Minutes of Action

A flash fiction from the perspective of a watch.

I cracked. My hands couldn’t move, stuck on the wrist of your family, family friend, your best friend, a drunken stranger. If I couldn’t move, time couldn’t move, and you were stuck in the present. All you and I could smell was the peppermint, rolling out from their mouth, touching your skin.

            I touched your skin, and you tried to stop them, stop me, broke me.

            It was a hot day, a sweaty day, and my body stuck to their wrist, and your body stuck to their hand. And you said something, said, “stop,” said nothing, and you fought, and you were passed out. You were all of those, and it was all wrong.

            They wrote you holiday cards. They wore a wolf mask at the same party as you. They didn’t know you. They knew you since birth. They had the same class as you. They were all of those, and it was all wrong.

            They were rough, gentle, and I cracked, while you shattered. All of us were stuck in the present with the smell of peppermint, their heartbeats in your mouth, and your body in their fist. My glossy face, concealed by cracked glass, watched the hug that went too far.

            They fixed me, much later on, and time moved forward once again. They went back to school. They went back to their family. They carried on, and they, too, moved forward. But you.

            You.

            Still you could smell the peppermint.

Reviews

[Hebe]

Interesting perspective..... a watch with a voice...love it!

[Neal S]

Wow! This is amazing! Every line is just so poetic. Looking forward to reading more by you.

[Alyssa Jensen]

Thank you! I'm glad you liked it!