On the Clock

This story was originally written when I was 18 years old (13 years ago), and recently rediscovered in a filing cabinet. First time typed out, aside from some very minor tweaks, it appears here as it was originally written. I took out over 2 pages worth of material that wasn’t really relevant to the plot, mostly dealing with the initial sighting, and Matthew’s relationship with his ex-wife. For a short story written by an 18 year old, it isn’t bad, hope you’ll agree…

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ImageON THE CLOCK

The rain from the storm beat down harshly upon the shingles of the roof, sounding like tiny soldiers marching in chaotic unison over a volatile battlefield.

Matthew sat and smoked his pipe while skimming through the newspaper which he’d read nearly in its entirety earlier in the evening. The radio buzzed strangely, the static of the storm was almost getting the best of his broadcast. He pulled a puff through the wood tip of his pipe, looked at the clock above his fireplace and exhaled a whiff of vanilla-cinnamon swirl.

It was eleven fifty-five, approximately five minutes before the show was set to air. For now the news was being flashed, speaking of continuing storms throughout the night and tomorrow morning, and about a train wreck that had occurred near downtown earlier today, killing eight people. The voices were getting much harder to understand though, for after nearly every other word a click or low buzz would crackle and ring out like a shouted greeting from the surging storm.

-CONTINUED-

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