|Image Sandra Crook|
The Tick-Tock Man
The appointed time had arrived, he’d come for me.
The children’s tales were true.
His huge hands, liver spotted, thinly covered with greying parchment skin, long sharp nails with an unnatural sheen, approached slowly, awfully, precisely like a slow grinding mill-wheel.
He moved closer; a waft of the slick, sharp scent of machine oil slipped over me.
One glittering raptor eye regarded me.
As I counted my final imperfect minute, seconds stretched like taffy, I knew I’d never mark another faulty hour.
He threaded his finest instrument deep inside me and twisted.
“There, all fixed little clock. Tick-tock”
This story was written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers challenge