I Have This Clock, See

It was part of my Christmas loot. It's nothing fancy. It requires manual winding every couple days. Its tick tock is incredibly loud; the hollow sound echoes through the air between my desk and the rest of the house.

Still, I've decided there's something I really like about this clock. I could explain it in some profound way, like that it's a reminder that my time is what I make it. Or that time stands still for no one.

I think it's something simpler.

The clock makes me think of my maternal grandpa. He was a man I hardly knew; an alcoholic with whom I shared no bond. My most prominent memory is of trying to sit on his knee and, because he was snockered, wobbling to the hard concrete floor of his garage.

But when I hear the ticking of my clock, a vision of his bedroom, blanketed in beige and warm with sunlight, comes to mind. And I hear his clock, there on the headboard. It's a clock just like mine.

And I feel an ever-so-slight connection. It's not overwhelming, it's not tangible. But it's there.

I think it's why I like my clock so much.

The First of Prompts

Yesterday I asked my readers to supply me with writing prompts. I've gotten several good ones (feel free to add your own if you've not yet had the chance), and look forward to the exercises. I thought I'd get started and, so as not to pick and choose unfairly, I'll just take 'em down the line.

The first was from Barbara, whose prompt was: "You're Never Too Old For Koolaid." And so here we go...



Timmy is nervous, and his tummy won’t stop flip-floppin’ around. It’s because he’s never been to the nursing home before. But Mama said he could come this time, and so here he is, standing outside Grandpa Charlie’s room. 2-0-8, the plastic plaque says.

In one hanging hand Timmy holds Buster, his worn and loved teddy bear; in the other, his Spiderman thermos, full of Kool-Aid.

“Come on, Timmy,” calls Mama from inside the room.

Timmy follows her voice, listening to the quiet squeak squeak his right shoe makes as he crosses the linoleum.

When he sees Grandpa Charlie sitting upright in a rocking chair, looking just like he always has, Timmy feels a grin spread across his face. His feet pick up speed, and before he knows it he’s standing at Grandpa’s side.

“Timothy, my boy!” Grandpa says, reaching for a hug. “I’m so happy you came to see me today!”

Timmy, always shy, returns Grandpa’s hug but says nothing.

“And what do we have here?”

Timmy holds Buster aloft, letting Grandpa get a good look, then drops the thermos into the spotted, arthritic hands.

“Is this what I think it is?” asks Grandpa, a bushy eyebrow raised high.

Timmy nods, a proud look upon his face. “I helped Mama make it.”

“Grape?”

The boy nods again and, when Grandpa can’t grasp the lid between his bent and awkward fingers, Timmy twists the cap open.

“We can share,” says Timmy. He pours some into the lid-turned-cup, careful not to spill, and offers it to Grandpa. “Just like we always do.”