Words & Stories BY HANNAH REUTER
Stories are wonderful because they can be interpreted in so many ways. From books to movies, music to paintings. Everything is art with its own story to tell – you just have to be willing to listen. In Tick Tock: The Clock Who Refused to Tell Time, there are a variety of hidden meanings. It was written to be interpreted by the reader in any allegorical sense you desire.
Hannah Reuter Hannah graduated from WMU in 2015 with a degree in Economics and currently resides in Portage. In her free time she enjoys strumming the guitar and painting. She is the author of two YA books under the pseudonym, H.B. Catherine. You can find information on her books and writing at hbcatherinewriting.com.
During the pandemic, it has been difficult for everyone to connect with life in the same way. We have been forced to watch the world fall apart as its screams are ignored. Through that, we have discovered what it means to be human. The messy and emotional chaos that is us. The differences that divide and the similarities we all hold that bring us back together. In a world of stories, we are connected. The best story of all? Life.
Tick Tock: The Clock Who Refused to Tell Time I walk into the office and find my boss waiting. He is tapping his foot, so I know he is impatient with me. “Do you know what time it is?” He asks, pointing at the clock.
that line his swollen eyes, the way his cheeks wiggle when he talks, and his skin the color of a dead fish. The years’ toll of his anger and stress evident.
She tells me with her pretty blonde hair and blue eyes that match her navy suit.
“What is wrong with it?” I wonder aloud.
“I am sure.” She replies, already moving on from the conversation, her patience for me having dwindled. She looks up at the clock and sighs. “Better get back to work.”
I turn toward the clock’s face and notice its hands are waving at me. I wave and smile before turning back to my boss.
“Your outfit isn’t appropriate for the office either.” He states. I look down at my bright blue blouse, its buttons shaped like clouds, and tucked into my red dress pants.
“Then, you know you are late.” I want to laugh at him, but I control myself.
“Look around you.” He says, sweeping his hand toward my coworkers at their desks in their navy pants and white blouses – like mine – but less colorful.
“Yes,” I tell him. He glares and looks up at the clock. It waves once more, but he doesn’t notice and turns back toward me.
Sure, I walked in minutes past the allotted time that was specified to me for these dreary days. This made-up idea of counting the hours, the minutes, and the seconds of the day. I look outside and see the sun happily making its way into the sky and wish that I were anywhere but here. “Yes, I am sorry,” I tell him the words he wants to hear just to watch his face scrunch up as he scrutinizes the apology: the crow’s feet
6
April 2022
“I see.” I begin to fiddle with the buttons of my blouse. I am not sure how to manage his statement, but I know the answer he seeks.
He shakes his head at me and walks back to his desk. I turn back to the clock as the hands continue to swirl, refusing to tell the time. I laugh and look around at the empty faces staring at me from behind their cubicles.
A familiar face walks up and pats my shoulder. “You will find your place here soon enough.”
“Will I?” I study her face until it blurs into its smaller pieces: the wrinkles on her forehead, the dark shadows hidden with concealer beneath her eyes, and the permanent indents around her mouth from inhaling her own death to stop the anxiety from creeping in.
I watch the clock as it spins on, no longer noticing me, and I realize this is not where I want to be. In this place where everyone seems so lost but don’t even know they are. So, turning toward the window – I get a running start and jump – shattering the glass on my way through. Not even surprised, the faces of my coworkers watch on as I plummet towards the cement before my wings sprout and catch flight. I wave goodbye as my boss yells at me from the broken window.
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