“Time is so fickle” exclaimed Celine. “You waste it when early, lose it when late. Yet it lags when you try to count it and flies when you don’t pay attention to it. Why do we have such a hard time pinning it down?”
“Well there is downtime, or dead time as we Americans call it”, smirked Jesse. “Time is like spacing between words or short pauses of silence. One has a hard time counting silence, no?“
“Your French is little behind the times J but I see your point. Maybe time is like a road-trip. One remembers the landmarks or the events along the way but hardly the drive. Extending this analogy, life would be a race against time, to fill the silence despite knowing that it ends with the one final event of death.”
Jesse’s face held a contemplative look. “Yet, one can borrow, share, and spend one another’s time together. Others can help fill the silence but ultimately, it is one’s own burden. Maybe this is why the young aren’t much bothered by it whilst the old feel the strain.”
“Indeed, the young have novelty on their side. The old who are burdened with the repetition of living don’t have that luxury.” Celine paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. The sound of her wristwatch filled the silence. “It’s getting late and I have to wake up early for work. Thanks for hearing my thoughts.”
A fraudster skimmed a stack of credit cards between waiting tables on a packed night. Feeling a bit smug after the shift, he met his fence to exchange the stolen data for some cash. Then he went to his favorite bar, loaded up on some drinks, and left a generous tip. The next day, his house was raided by the FBI. The search warrant stated: “Forgery and counterfeit currency”.
Two wolves sought to capture a herd of sheep. The first wolf would attack head-on and scatter the flock. The second wolf would dress up in sheep’s skin and lead them to a cliff. When they put their plan into action however, only three quarters had fled. The remaining ones bared fangs.
A prodigious painter rose to great acclaim for his life-changing art. In particular, his portraits not only brought-out hidden qualities of people but also their latent talents, gifts that individuals never knew they possessed. Peasants, merchants, and royalty alike had changed their circumstances having seen themselves in the painter’s light. However, his genius was not without a drawback. The painter, whether out of an unconscious fear or a defense mechanism, could not paint his own portrait. In fact, he could neither recall nor see his own reflection in the mirror contrary to those around him. Those who he implored to paint his portrait or even to take his photograph could make no sense out it; everyone but him could see him. One day, the painter met a blind man who asked if he could take his portrait. Curious as to who the portrait would be for, the painter inquired and the blind man responded “for you”. When the painter finished the portrait, he saw not the blind man in front of him but a young man behind a canvas with purposeful eyes and a deliberate hand. The blind man was not so blind after all.
The Cairn stones marked the last remnants of civilization that Sigil recalled. Nested between several of the rocks lay a dirty rag with a message written in jagged and nearly illegible text.
“Here lies the edge of the world. Behind you rests the past in cache, accessible in just the way that you left it. In front begets discovery, the manifest of your will.”
Sigil took the rag, closed her eyes and started walking forwards. When she opened her eyes, a young woman in white appeared and took a hold of her hands. The rag that she carried had transformed into a fragment of some sort.
“Where am I?” Sigil began. “What am I doing here?”
The nurse chuckled and replied. “You assembled another piece of the jigsaw puzzle! Lets continue.”
Gloria found an old half-finished journal in the attic. It held various accounts of importance from names, dates, and addresses to memoirs, confessions, and wills. The last entry made a mysterious request that insisted the current reader should fill in the remaining pages so that the others may rest. Feeling a bit spooked, Gloria returned her discovery to the attic and forgot about it for several days. One night, she dreamed of a young woman composing a poem to her beloved. The next night, it was a retired man penning detailed instructions on fly-fishing. On the third night, it was a medieval scribe who jotted down a long passage of scripture. Moreover, all the dreams approached a vividness that could be reproduced in her waking-state. Realizing this, she returned to the attic to complete the request only to learn that the journal had vanished.
Fortune raised her eye-brows when the panhandler wished his benefactors good luck. She wasn’t happy to be tossed around like a floozy among desperate men in need of chump change. “Why should good luck be free to give? Where’s the equality in that?” To change her image, she turned luck into a commodity for exchange on the market. Units would now come in cookies to be bought and sold at the local supermarket. Whether the luck turned good or bad remained speculation but regardless, Fortune became wealthy overnight.