A little story based on yesterday’s events…
(The rusty clock photo credit goes to Monoar Rahman on pexels.com.)
A Day in the Life of a Writer:
Feb. 3, 2021
Yesterday was strange. Very strange. Not beautiful-blonde-waked-into-ou
The strangeness began in the morning, before the sun hit its peak. The day seemed to stand still. It was only 11:30 AM and time already had me wrapped around its little finger, thinking it was at least noon.
Alright. I could handle that. I could ignore a little time freeze. My day hadn’t been as productive as I’d wanted it to be yet, so the advantage was still mine.
A little later, Steven and I took a walk around our complex. The sun was shining, the weather was warm. A strange sensation in the middle of winter for a couple of silent types who’d just moved from the North Pole, or close to there anyway.
And it was suspicious, but I didn’t know it yet.
We returned to our apartment, dallied around before getting back to the grind. Then, I saw it.
The clock showed 2. 2 PM.
Odd. Somehow two and a half hours had slipped away. My suspicions rose, but I shoved them back, telling myself it was no big deal. Two hours often went missing during the day, only to show up later having just stepped out for a stroll around the block. Like us. There was still time enough without those lazy bums hanging around, anyway.
So we got back to work and evening drew near. We ate a rather late dinner, but that wasn’t a problem since we’d filled up on ramen noodles for lunch…typical fallback meal for a couple of tired artists. Then we hung out, looking for some DVDs to reserve on our local library’s website. We planned to read together, too—a sci-fi space detective novel that feels like a 1940’s mystery. (Title reveal coming later.) Perfect for a couple of pandemic-weary creatives just trying to make do and dying for an adventure of their own.
We finished up with the library stuff and I checked my watch.
I was baffled, unsettled. Just a few minutes ago, hadn’t it only been 7? Time had foiled us. The whole day had been ripped away in a matter of seconds. Now it was time for bed.
We read anyway.
Revenge. That was the name of the game. And after we slept, we would wake and try again. The missing hours couldn’t stop us. No one could.
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