by James Robinson
~ 500 words
TIMESCALE: PRETTY FAR OUT
In an unassuming pocket—hidden in the folds of a secret sandwich—there lived a daunting grandfather clock. How large was the clock? It is difficult to say. Within the Pocket Infinium, size can be a finicky beast. Suffice to say, the clock was far larger than anything else around it, and plenty of other things besides.
The clock had a great towering body and a crystalline face. Its numbers were nonsense, yet intricately carved. Its clock-hands looked like wings that fluttered while they ticked. Far down below, the clock’s legs were as squat as they were gnarled. The entire structure appeared carved from burnished wood, save for the face and shimmering chimes.
The clock also happened to be a person, who—for some inscrutable reason—had been bestowed with a very clever mind. Alas, within the small pocket where he stood, there wasn’t much for a clock to do with a mind. For all his cleverness, he could never understand the reason behind it.
This clock-person sat at the center of a forest. It was a strange forest, with neither typical gravity nor form. The trees spread outward until their dimensions went wonky. The ground stretched to form a dome in the sky. Light came from beneath the trees themselves, a silver web of countless spiders, producing a faint glimmer that shone like early dawn. The clock did not mind these aesthetics. They were fine, as far he could tell. The main problem was the lack of company around him. In this pocket, the clock was a person alone.
While other life surrounded him, they were mere objects. Mindless trees or critters scuttling down below. They were not persons. Just a mess of noise and motion. He had learned this after many disappointing attempts.
Whenever the clock would chime in booming desperation, the trees would simply rustle and sway. The forest creatures hooted and howled, while some even scratched his base. But regardless, no matter the racket, the clock never got a proper answer to his thoughts.
For how long had this been his lot? Age in the Infinium can be even more finicky than size. The clock, for his part, felt he’d lived for quite a while. Much time to ponder and think.
The demigod of this pocket had left many ages ago, off to do whatever demigods did. Since then, the clock had persisted, chiming out to no response. With his keen mind, he would wonder: Why was he like this? Why was he here? Why be so aware just so he could stand alone?
Was it punishment? Indifference? Some incomprehensible joke? The clock had cycled through a range of working theories.
In the forest where he stood, he gave thanks for realistic wood. It rotted away at a semi-reasonable pace. Eventually, if he was lucky, his structure would collapse. The impact might destroy his crystalline face. Would that be enough? He wasn’t quite sure. He did not know the inner workings of himself. Where within a clock did his person-mind live? He did not know, despite all his ponderings. No matter. For better or worse, he had time to figure it out.