Killing Time
Counting can be murder
I work in the office of Father Time, and it kills me.
You’d think working at the conglomerate for the personification of the human measurement of temporal units would be kind of interesting, but it’s a drag.
We’re in the second checking office, where we have to carefully count every second before it’s distributed to the causal realities.
Oh, and you know what? We don’t even get a break here. Because here there is no real-time.
He did this.
“Ah, everything seems to be in order. Good”
There he is walking through the rows, the old man in the long flowing robes.
Everyone else has to wear suits, even though I would look so much better in a dress, especially in these heels.
As he passes me while I work on the eternal abacus, Mr. Time briefly looks at me and smiles. Just a twist of the lip, a flicker of the eye.
Then I pull out the pin holding my hair together and strike.
He falls.
The clacking of the abacuses ceases, and all the other hundreds of workers look at me.
A whizzing sound happens and then the beads on the abacus burst in mini explosions, almost like popcorn.
Fireworks at a funeral of someone I hate.
In through the doors walked two women in suits, grabbed me, and took me away, just in time.
But there would be no time, anymore.
When they later interrogated me and inquired my reasons, I would say;
“Just killing Time”
- Your story must contain a murder.
- The murder must take place at a character’s workplace.
- Your story must include the word, “conglomerate.”
