Ace of Wands
J. Newman Pritchard
Nothing ends in a beginning except a clock. As it ends, it is beginning again - so long as I keep winding it. And why wouldn’t I keep winding it?
I need to know how long it has been since the end and how long I have until the beginning.
I wind the clock again - twist twist - careful not to break the little knobs.
I wonder what it feels like to be a clock not wound? Would it feel like drowning, or would it feel like finally lying down? Would it feel like an end or like a beginning, as the gears slow to a stop?
The clock’s got branches for hands. They wave at me every time the seconds tick, shaking little leaves away.
They fall at six o’clock and fly away at noon.
The hands have the bark of a cinnamon tree and smell like lilies. I reach out and scrape at the hour hand when it passes three, peeling the bark with my fingernail. It tastes terrible.
This time, I won't wind it, just to see what will happen.
It ticks l e t h a r g i c.
Something is weighing it down and holding it back. I can give it strength with a little twist, and I will, but not at first. I wonder if the branches will stop growing and if the leaves will dry away. I wonder if it needs to spin to live, like I need water. I wait a bit more.
At half past ten, it skips like a record.
The leaves don’t turn orange, like I expected. The branches keep growing up and to the left, never slowing down.
Odd, how this hurts.
I finally twist the knob and the branches shake, roots grinding up into smoke, smelling like burning rubber tires. I have learned my lesson. I will keep winding.
I’m supposed to do this, even though I will lose a little sleep.
The branches have thorns. Thorns that smell like jasmine and taste like sulfur. They scrape against my tongue and peel flakes that flutter away like wood shavings.
They fall at six o’clock and fly away at noon.
It’s painting a picture on my tongue in blood, round and round with the hands of the clock, but I can’t see the picture. I try to cross my eyes and look around my nose, but all I can see is red.
I wind the clock again, as is my duty. No need to drown it or let it fall asleep, even though it hurts. The branches will keep on growing.
They have been since the end and will be until the beginning.
By a quarter til five, I’m all wrapped up in it. Couldn’t even say my own name if I tried. Can’t articulate my caged tongue around the vowels and can’t close my lips for the consonants. Sounds crawl out of my mouth still but they aren’t worth anything on their own.
By one o’clock my throat is clogged with leaves and blood, like a sewer after a rain. I wonder if it will feel like falling asleep or if it will feel like the clock stopped winding me.
I let the time wind away. The clock shakes my jaw and my skull with each shuddering tick. I swing round and round, anchored through the vines that grow down my spine.
I bend down at six o’clock and swing back up at noon.
Round eleven, I slip into something more comfortable.
There’s not much left of me now. Just the branches, leaves, and thorns. They did their job winding me up and winding me down, peeling me away until I smell like bergamot and can’t taste a thing anymore. My bones are all caged up like my tongue.
They clatter down at six o’clock and rattle up at noon.
I can’t reach the tiny little gears. The clock slowly stops turning, unwound. The branches keep growing, though I have pretty leaves in my skin.
I don’t know what time it is anymore.
J. Newman Pritchard
J. Newman Pritchard (Jake) is a writer living in Chicago, IL. He has a love of stories that smell like petrichor and taste like black tea. When he isn’t writing, Jake can be found at the movies, on a hiking trail, or attempting to dissolve into a haunted twilight fog. His writing can be found at jnewmanpritchard.com.