white. It is freckled with brown spots like the hand of an aging woman. Piles of sand and soil clump together on the floor. Several inches of brown liquid have flooded the floor, concealing the tile below. The specs of dirt, which Tom had previously admired floating majestically through the air, no inch down the walls which are wet from condensation. Tom gently closes the door and pushes the black button. A loud blaring sound emerges from the other side of the door, whirring and screeching and crying. Then, silence. A light creeps out of the slit between the door and tile floor. Looking back into the room for a moment, Tom sees the room has returned to its pristine, ivory state. The specs are gone and the mounds of mud have vanished. The room is once again consumed by its polished sterility. Tom squints his eyes, blinded by the glaring white. Sighing, he fastens the door shut. Tom treads away from the room. Something seems wrong. For Tom, something always sees wrong. At least he’s clean.
s 44
Time
Melissa Ferrin Calm, patient, Time sits in the silence and is content. And is constant. And is constant. Taking the wheel when I’m too tired. Pushing into the unknown unflinchingly. Forevers of practice have hardened Her fearless. If ever I could liken myself to another – It would be Time. Ever steadfast in her flexibility, She is both The Immovable Object and The Stoppable Force. If ever there were a divine power It would be She, salve-driver of seconds, Leaving memories in the dust like exhaust fumes.
Marissa Hibel Christian Antonini The Echo
Volume IV Issue 2
21
