I don't know what this place is now or what I feel. There is no pain here or longing or love. I exist but not, am here but never.
There's no physical means anymore, only an idea of time. It's forever dark, but then, suddenly, a light turns on and I'm back. It isn't a gradual sunrise; rather, a sudden burst of energy that surrounds me with loved ones.
I'm back in my old room, lying down and looking up towards my mother as she cries over a picture frame. The view's distorted around the edges like a vintage photograph fading with the years, but evidently crystal clear in the centre where my mother's tears roll down her ageing cheekbones. She's older, much older than when I left, but still she mourns. “It’s okay,” I whisper, although I don’t. I can’t. I'm an omniscient observer gazing upward, feeling no pain or anything at all.
Darkness returns, for how long I don't know, but suddenly I'm somewhere strange, a place I've never been to before. Ethan sits behind a desk, but it isn’t the Ethan I know. I hover over his shoulder, his middle-aged lips smiling at a piece of paper. His once blonde hair is grey and no longer slicked and perfect. His skin is wrinkled and worn and much darker. He's someone I've never met, but a person I know so well.
In the dark, I sleep, an endless dream of infinite nothing. As soon as light engulfs me in an eerie vintage glow, I sense life—not running through me, rather, all around me.
Sitting opposite Danii, I peer up slightly as she stares through me. I want to twist and look at what she's looking at, but I can't. She's a little larger than the woman I so lovingly love, and a glow resides across her cheeks. She stares through me and rocks from side-to-side, swaying gently as the air surrounding her wisps and whirls. She disturbs it like a hand does water. If only I could turn and gaze at what she gazes at, but I can't; indeed, I don't need to. I've seen his face before.
I have no control over what or who awaits me. I flutter and float through the ether, given glimpses of what I love. Maybe this is only part of the transition, a mere purgatory to what comes next. Maybe I'm in flux, or maybe this is it. Maybe I'll drift forever in the darkness, occasionally guiding and watching those I treasure.
I’m floating high and above, looking down at row after row of hats and neat hair. The walls to this old building blur and are hazy, the air so thick it clouds even the centre of this bird's eye view. It's a church. I recognise the faces filling the wooden benches. I’m in front of them, below them, to the right, and to the left. I'm part of this moment, everywhere and nowhere all at once.
This is my funeral. A box towards the front of the congregation glows bright, burning in an angelic white light. The sun I once longed for streams through the colourful window behind, the reds turning to pinks and oranges, the blues into greens and purples.
Danii cries, holding my mother and wrapping her up in a delicate embrace. My father is still, as dead as me. Ethan peers though the burning white box, in it, past it, delving into my vacant thoughts. Wil bounces on the spot, his hands under his legs and then on top, under and on top, under and on top.
A man I do not know speaks to the crowd. They're saying goodbye, but they have no need to. I'm still here and always will be.
Darkness, but then light, and I'm in a dusty old room with old wooden tables and old green, leather couches. I sit across from Danii, Ethan, and Wil, a pint of lager before Ethan, a tumblr of whiskey in front of Wil, and a clear glass of water beneath Danii’s shaking hands.
They're silent, gazes tilted down. Danii's eyes are red all over, Ethan's tired and tinted pink, Wil's the same as usual, only vacant and empty and without his usual spark.
"He wouldn't appreciate this," he says. "He would want music and tales and for us to remember the good times."
They remain quiet, unmoved.
"Come on, m'boy... m'girl... m'unborn-baby-Dante," he continues, standing up. "We all knew this was coming. We may never enjoy Tuesdays again or the dreaded date, but let's make this day, the day of his funeral, the day we finally wave goodbye to our friend, our cousin, our lover, one worth celebrating. Let's hold back the tears and promise." He stamps his right foot, the air around him a vibrant mess. "Right now! Right here! That each year we shall meet and drink and toast the man we love so dear. Our leader. Our captain. Our Dante." He raises his tumbler of scotch.
Ethan nods and arches his head upward.
Danii sniffs and blinks three times, raising her head, and with it, her glass.
"You're right," she says. “No more tears. I love you Dante, and I'll miss you. Both of us will.”
"To Dante," Ethan says, raising his pint. "Missed but never... ever... forgotten."
The light around the edges of the room closes in. Darkness crawls forward, erasing the scene speck-by-speck. Ethan's pint glass fades, his fingertips floating above a hand-less arm.
Wil's wavy locks shrink, dripping away as the darkness consumes the energy around his head, his eyes losing their glimmer and boyish charm.
Focussing on Danii, she remains before me, perfect and glowing brighter than ever as the blackened room grows darker. Her dimples are intact, as are those long lips that crease at the edges. Her eyes are on me, but not. Simply looking... remembering... longing.
Her hand hovers above the stomach that houses our growing boy. He's so small, but larger now than he was yesterday, and day-by-day he'll reach outward, upward, kicking and screaming for life. He'll outgrow me and out-age me, until one day I'll meet him in this vacant vacuum of nothingness. I'll welcome him to this new sensation and finally guide him like only a father can.
Her hand fades and takes our son with it, her neck losing clarity and becoming part of the black open space. Her face remains. Her lips and nose and eyes. She smiles at me but not. Her shining locks move, flowing in the blurry and slow light. She's transparent and sepia and nearly no more, but I won't let go—not yet.
Darkness surrounds us, only the white around her eyes, and the tired and painful red streaks remain. Her coffee-drop pupils are rich and plentiful, standing out against the black backdrop. The white fades away, but the sumptuous centre remains. Everything is dying and fading, but still I hold on, reluctant to let go. The very centre of her eyes are all I have left, a speckle of light catching them, a gentle flicker in the near ether.
They're two stars in the late night sky, the final two before the universe tears apart. They're all I have. They're all I need.
THE END
THANK YOU FOR READING
PLEASE SHARE YOUR HONEST REVIEW:
smarturl.it/ticktock
And As You Do, Listen To:
Transatlanticism—Death Cab For Cutie
Thanks For Reading. You’re One Cool Cat
My name is Matthew Turner, and I’m the author of this book. Before I say anything else, let me Thank You for reading. TICK to the TOCK is a dear story to me, and the fact you’ve read it is rather special. I hope you enjoyed it, but even if you didn’t, I hope it inspires you to look at your own life, what you value, and what you’d do should your world be turned upside down.
Whatever your thoughts, please Leave an Honest Review on the site you bought this book from. I value reviews more than you know, even the one-star wonders. In a world of many authors and even more books, reviews are a writer’s best friend.
Also, towards the middle of 2014 I decided to make all my fictional work available for FREE, because I’m a crazy-cat like that. If you happened to liked this book and would like to throw a few dollars my way, please consider leaving a tip at > tdog.co/tip-turndog < Of course, don’t feel you have to, as the fact you’ve read this book (and will hopefully share it with those you know) is more than enough.
And so brings an end to my second novel. My first was Beyond Parallel, a Coming-of-Age story that focussed on the notion of, what if. TICK to the TOCK doesn’t focus on the what so much as the who and why. I’ve always had a wandering mind, and the older I get, the more I question who I am, where I’ve come from, where I’m going... These wanderings usually end up on the page, a
nd I’m already hard at work with my third novel, dreaming about my fourth, and have more stories in me than I know what to do with. One day they will be out of my mind and on to the page. What a wonderful day that will be.
You can learn more about my books (both Fiction & Non-Fiction) at Turndog.co/Books, as well as My Story, Storytelling Projects, and General Life of the Turndog. Of course, I urge you to follow my journey, because it isn’t mine at all. It’s ours. For you see, a great story is rarely about a single person. It’s about the people around that character, it’s the journey they go through together, and it’s the impact they have on the world around them. You can learn more about my journey at the bottom of this page, and if you decide to come along for the ride, please reach out and introduce yourself.
With that, I must bid farewell and leave you to your day. You may have finished my book, but I hope you jump straight into another, for there are few better things in life than curling up with a good book (even bad books offer good times). My name is Matthew Turner, and I’m a Writer, Reader, Storyteller, and Coffee Loving Fiend.
You’ve just read TICK to the TOCK, and that makes you a rather awesome individual.
Let’s speak soon,
Matthew Turner
____________________________
My Story l Facebook l Goodreads
RECEIVE EXCLUSIVE & SPECIAL UPDATES BY SIGNING UP TO THE MERRY MISFIT LIST
tdog.co/sign-me-up-turndog
TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Page 24
