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a favour, if you will
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Topic Started: Jul 13 2012, 09:41 AM (316 Views)
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thatguy1280
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Jul 13 2012, 09:41 AM
Post #1
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so i was bored i wrote a creepypasta sorta thing. late at night/early in the morning, so you know it's gonna be good. I kinda want to do a reading of it, mostly for fun but i'd like a bit of feedback on it before i do, a) for the hell of it, b) so i can fine-tune it a bit before i do it, and c) because you guys know creepypastas, and as such are qualified to give feedback on them. from memory this is the first time i've finished a story meant to be creepy, so don't expect too much from it. if you could read it, give a little feedback i'd be quite grateful, but if you don't wanna then that's ok too :D it's a little bit long, but i hope it's worth the time
Spoiler: click to toggle - The Bone Clock
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The life of a clockmaker is only interesting for those inclined to live it. In an age where the time shines out at you from a cheap piece of electronics, the art and knowledge behind cogs and springs is a dying art. Sometimes I think I should have left the trade, but I always felt my death would come long before the value of my craft did.
I do repairs, mostly. Old collectibles, family heirlooms- usually clocks that are too valuable to replace. I'm careful with them- I'm paid to be, but I respect the work of those who made whatever it is I'm repairing.
But you're here for a story, not an old man telling you about his lifetime passion.
It started with a man like any other. Cheerful, but I could see it was forced. I took no notice. The man was probably worried about one thing or another- a nagging wife at home, perhaps, pushing him to repair a family heirloom. He came in with a box, said he had a clock needing a fix. I asked him what was wrong with it, he just said it wouldn't go. I should know better than to expect customers to have any idea what goes on in a clock, but I still find myself a little disappointed with such simple answers. I went to open the box, but he stopped me. Said he was in a hurry, asked if he could leave a deposit and come back in a week to pick it up. I couldn't see why not. Money changed hands, and like that he was gone. I was alone in my shop once again, nothing but the ticking of my clocks to keep me company. I flipped the sign on the door to closed and took the box out the back to look at the clock. I'm no optimist; one customer a day is more than I expect.
Opening the box was one of the brightest moments of my life. I work with antique clocks, vintage, expensive, valuable, beautiful clocks, but nothing quite compared to this one. The exterior was silver, slightly tarnished with designs carved and sculpted into it. Some of the decoration was identifiable; flowers; faces, an uncommon sight on this sort of thing. Other parts seemed familiar, but unidentifiable. The outside wasn't what really amazed me though, although I can't expect you as an audience to really share my joy.
Opening the clock, an array of white machinery met my gaze. At first I had no idea what I was looking at, but as it dawned on me a feeling of awe hit me hard. The whole interior mechanism was made of ivory. At least, that's what it seemed. Such a clock wouldn't run well, it was not surprising to me that it wasn't going at all. But the rarity of such a thing, the work the craftsman would have put in- it blew me away.
A faint ticking came from the box. It took me a moment to notice it, but it was there. A strained, muffled ticking. I knew that sound. Somewhere, something was stuck in the cogs, with one clicking helplessly against the other. A bright light, a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers, and it wasn't long before the problem was found. The first I saw of it was a shimmer in the dark, hiding in the shadows. A sliver of silver, a needle, maybe a pin. I tried to pull it out with the tweezers. They just… wouldn't grip it. Couldn't pull it out. It was tucked away, but not far. A lifetime of working with clocks had given me nimble fingers, so I put the tweezers aside and decided to trust in the flesh god had given me. I gripped it between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently at first. My finger must have slipped, to this day I'm still not sure how the point ended up where it did. But there it was, stuck in my finger, a drop of blood sliding down it's length. The blood must have lubricated it, as it slipped from its perch and fell back into the clock. I lost sight of it then, and try as I might I couldn't find it. But my work was done, surprisingly enough. This clock was old, and made of the strangest material. I imagined it would have a host of problems, but it began ticking the moment the bloodied needle slipped out from the gears. I was tempted to set the time on it, but such a clock would be likely to lose it before long anyway. I could hear it in the ticking, it was irregular, moving in and out of time with the other clocks in the room. The tick sounded… hollow, it had an echo to it that I hadn't quite heard the like of in my time. I put it down to the strange materials used to make it, and put it out of my thoughts.
The week passed, and it wasn't until the man didn't return that I realised he had left me with no information to contact him. The box, the clock, nothing was marked with any name, address, phone number, anything. Another week passed with still no contact. I felt bad about not being able to return such a beautiful object, but there was nothing I could do. After a third week, I considered the clock my own. I took it home, telling myself it would be safer there. I displayed it proudly, telling myself it would be a waste not to. As much as I tried to tell myself I would return it should the man reappear, a small part of me knew I would be reluctant. Somehow, without any effort on my part, the clock had convinced me I owned it.
The first sign something wasn't quite right- well, I say it's the first. I only know it as the first I noticed- came gradually. Work with clocks for long enough, and something gets imprinted into your mind; the constant sound of a ticking clock. People who've been doing it all their lives, like myself, can often tell a clock is wrong simply by comparing the ticking in their heads to the clock they're watching. It was a while before I noticed it. Every day when I went into the workshop, every clock ticked a little bit wrong. Every day when I came home, the silver clock on the mantelpiece ticked a little bit closer to right. Part of me said that the clock at home couldn't be right- the mechanisms were too clunky, and the thing hadn't been wound in the whole time it had been in my possession. How it ticked at all was a mystery to me. But day by day, the rhythms of the silver clock became the correct ones. And the workshop became hell on earth to me. Surrounded as I was with clocks all grating against the rhythm in my head- it was painful. The moment I realised the silver clock had dug into my head was the moment I closed the workshop.
But like everything else, I thought nothing of it and went on with life.
At first I didn't know what to do with the time I now had. No family, few friends, I took to staying home, finding idle ways to pass the time. But I grew bored. I began taking walks, exploring the neighbourhood as I never had previously.
The fresh air and activity bolstered my spirits. For a time I forgot about the odd occurrences, the loneliness, the trade I had given up seemingly on a whim. But then the second sign showed up, and brought all that down into a puddle of paranoia.
It was fuzzy the first time I saw it. A shadow, blurred and oversized as if thrown from a great distance away. I was sitting at a bench, feeding some ducks when suddenly I noticed it. How long it had been there, I couldn't tell you. I spent a while looking around, trying to find what was casting such a long, light shadow. After about a minute of searching, the whole line shifted, pointing away from me in a different direction. Unable to find the source, I began watching the shadow shift across the grass. It moved slowly, in jumps. It pointed- maybe towards, maybe away from- the bench, rotating around for no apparent reason. It was a curiosity, I'd never seen the like before in my life. Time came to go home, but the shadow intrigued me enough that I knew I would be back.
Every day for about a week I went to that bright, sunny park to watch the shadows. It blended in on cloudy days, faint enough to only just be visible if you knew where to look. It moved, it always moved. Never stayed in the same place for more than a minute. As the days passed, the shadow seemed to become clearer. At first I thought I was just becoming more used to watching for it. But on my last day at the park, it became clear. I stood to return home early, with the sun still in the sky. I had grown tired of the odd shadow. As I began to walk off, a familiar sight crept across the ground towards me. The shadow stayed, tethered to my feet. It hadn't been following the bench at all. It had been following me.
That was when the paranoia kicked in.
I'd always been the sensible type. But the ticking- the wrong but oh so familiar ticking- had set me on edge without me noticing. The shape still followed me, even circling my house when I stayed indoors. I feared watchers in the sky- governments, aliens, I had no idea but what thoughts I did have terrified me. So from then on, I stopped going for walks. My home became my prison, the odd circling shadow the warden keeping me locked in tight. I watched from the window daily, watched as the shadow grew darker, watched as a second, shorter, slower shadow joined in, watched as a thin circle surrounded the shadow circus, watched as the whole thing became eerily familiar. It finally clicked when, one morning, the view from the window showed a new, still blurry, still faint, but identifiable addition.
Directly in front of where I was looking, there were three new markings just inside the circle. X, I, I.
It clicked. A lifetime with working with them, and I was surprised that it was only now that I realised what had been following me. The hands of the gigantic shadow clock ticked around, keeping perfect time to the beat in my head. But it wasn't just a clock, I realised. It was the clock. The roman numerals in the same style, the hands turning to the wrong time, the faint filigree just beginning to show on the minute hand. The clock of silver and bone, so innocent and beautiful, was doing something.
Suffice it to say, my earlier paranoia came back full force.
Running wouldn't work, the shadow would follow me as far as I had the means to travel. The shadow may have been harmless, but in my… unstable state, it terrified me more than anything I had seen. The only option my troubled mind could come up with was to destroy the clock, stop it going, something to stop the seemingly relentless advance of the shadow.
But nothing worked. Nothing. I hit it with everything I owned, hit it against everything I couldn't pick up to move. Maybe it was the weakness of age, but nothing left so much as a mark. Not even the glass covering the hands would shatter, leaving indents on whatever surface I smashed it against. No matter what I tried, the silver- but it can't have been silver, it was stronger than silver- the surface remained unmarked. My one hope lay in what I had spent my life doing- working with clocks. But this time I didn't need to make a clock go, I needed to perform the much easier task of making one stop. Things didn't go as planned.
The easy task that lay before me was out of my grasp. My panicked fingers couldn't grab anything- couldn't dislodge a spring or remove a cog- nothing would do what I wanted it to do. As time passed, I became more panicked; all attempts to grow calm and focus to slow my shaking hands had the opposite effect. I grew desperate, shoving pencils, pens, needles, cutlery between the gears, hoping to take it back to the state it came to me in. Nothing worked. In desperation, I lay the clock, machinery open, next to the table. I lifted the heavy oak, ramming the leg down into the works. Panting with the exertion and my frantic state, a few moments passed. I couldn't hear it, couldn't hear any ticking except for the deafening clock in the space behind my ears. For a moment I felt triumphant- but only for a moment. My mind cleared, and there it was. Still going, despite the treatment it had suffered.
The first tick shattered my triumph. The second tick reawakened my anger and panic. By the third, I had given up. I left the clock, still stuck under the leg of the table, and staggered back up the stairs to the window. That window I had spent so many hours watching from, so many days. I pulled aside the curtain, gazing out at the now-perfect clock face. My first thought was that I had brought this upon myself. I had time left, I had plenty of time. At the rate it was going, it would have taken another month to completely come into focus. But I had made it mad. It was a clock, it couldn't have feelings- but I made it mad. I made it go faster. As I watched from the window, The shadow began to close in. Every minute detail, the filigree, the numbers, everything was crystal clear, and moving in towards me. I should have felt scared. I should have panicked. But that was then. At that moment, all I felt was weak. Old. Hungry. Tired. I turned away, knowing that the shadow would close in whether I watched it or not. I made my way back down the stairs, taking it slowly so I wouldn't fall, as tempting as it was. I returned to the clock, using the last of my energy to heave the table off its pristine off-white mechanisms. And as I lifted it, a small, silver and red needle fell to the floor. I recognised it from the first time I laid eyes on that clock. The blood on it was mine, still seeming fresh and glistening as the day it took it from me. I bent over to pick it up, noticing the shadow of a clock, still ticking on the floor at my feet in time with the one in my hand. Not sure what I was doing, I aimed the needle into the depths of the mechanisms. Taking a deep breath, I thrust the needle down, where it caught between two cogs. The whole thing shut down. It was over.
They found me a few days later, a worried neighbour had called the police. I wasn't able to tell them what had happened, and they didn't seem to quite understand. They found a place for me though, a home to take me in. The man they found was generous and kind, a collector of clocks I had met a few times in my work. He didn't recognise me though. As he took me in, he mumbled, half to me, half to himself. Complained how my workshop had shut down, how it had been the only one in town.
How it would be a shame that such a rare, unique clock would never again be able to tick away the days.
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mirandagames
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Jul 14 2012, 10:28 PM
Post #2
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Feels like a plastic bag.
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I'm not a writter so I don't know how to critique it but, I read it and it's really unique and cool! Good Job
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Sparky
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Jul 14 2012, 11:12 PM
Post #3
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Hmmmm i shall read this when not busy. Looks nice tho.
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EVERYONE SMILE!..or i will have my way with you >:D
Hiya i'm Sparky
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Maggot
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Oct 20 2012, 01:49 AM
Post #4
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Who's a good boy? Not you! ◕‿‿◕
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How did I not notice this? Wow, this is just amazing. Your writing style is so good.
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Secret Nazi Maggot: I do not move out of the way.
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Metora
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Oct 20 2012, 11:43 AM
Post #5
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- thatguy1280
- Jul 13 2012, 09:41 AM
so i was bored i wrote a creepypasta sorta thing. late at night/early in the morning, so you know it's gonna be good. I kinda want to do a reading of it, mostly for fun but i'd like a bit of feedback on it before i do, a) for the hell of it, b) so i can fine-tune it a bit before i do it, and c) because you guys know creepypastas, and as such are qualified to give feedback on them. from memory this is the first time i've finished a story meant to be creepy, so don't expect too much from it. if you could read it, give a little feedback i'd be quite grateful, but if you don't wanna then that's ok too :D it's a little bit long, but i hope it's worth the time Spoiler: click to toggle - The Bone Clock
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The life of a clockmaker is only interesting for those inclined to live it. In an age where the time shines out at you from a cheap piece of electronics, the art and knowledge behind cogs and springs is a dying art. Sometimes I think I should have left the trade, but I always felt my death would come long before the value of my craft did.
I do repairs, mostly. Old collectibles, family heirlooms- usually clocks that are too valuable to replace. I'm careful with them- I'm paid to be, but I respect the work of those who made whatever it is I'm repairing.
But you're here for a story, not an old man telling you about his lifetime passion.
It started with a man like any other. Cheerful, but I could see it was forced. I took no notice. The man was probably worried about one thing or another- a nagging wife at home, perhaps, pushing him to repair a family heirloom. He came in with a box, said he had a clock needing a fix. I asked him what was wrong with it, he just said it wouldn't go. I should know better than to expect customers to have any idea what goes on in a clock, but I still find myself a little disappointed with such simple answers. I went to open the box, but he stopped me. Said he was in a hurry, asked if he could leave a deposit and come back in a week to pick it up. I couldn't see why not. Money changed hands, and like that he was gone. I was alone in my shop once again, nothing but the ticking of my clocks to keep me company. I flipped the sign on the door to closed and took the box out the back to look at the clock. I'm no optimist; one customer a day is more than I expect.
Opening the box was one of the brightest moments of my life. I work with antique clocks, vintage, expensive, valuable, beautiful clocks, but nothing quite compared to this one. The exterior was silver, slightly tarnished with designs carved and sculpted into it. Some of the decoration was identifiable; flowers; faces, an uncommon sight on this sort of thing. Other parts seemed familiar, but unidentifiable. The outside wasn't what really amazed me though, although I can't expect you as an audience to really share my joy.
Opening the clock, an array of white machinery met my gaze. At first I had no idea what I was looking at, but as it dawned on me a feeling of awe hit me hard. The whole interior mechanism was made of ivory. At least, that's what it seemed. Such a clock wouldn't run well, it was not surprising to me that it wasn't going at all. But the rarity of such a thing, the work the craftsman would have put in- it blew me away.
A faint ticking came from the box. It took me a moment to notice it, but it was there. A strained, muffled ticking. I knew that sound. Somewhere, something was stuck in the cogs, with one clicking helplessly against the other. A bright light, a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers, and it wasn't long before the problem was found. The first I saw of it was a shimmer in the dark, hiding in the shadows. A sliver of silver, a needle, maybe a pin. I tried to pull it out with the tweezers. They just… wouldn't grip it. Couldn't pull it out. It was tucked away, but not far. A lifetime of working with clocks had given me nimble fingers, so I put the tweezers aside and decided to trust in the flesh god had given me. I gripped it between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently at first. My finger must have slipped, to this day I'm still not sure how the point ended up where it did. But there it was, stuck in my finger, a drop of blood sliding down it's length. The blood must have lubricated it, as it slipped from its perch and fell back into the clock. I lost sight of it then, and try as I might I couldn't find it. But my work was done, surprisingly enough. This clock was old, and made of the strangest material. I imagined it would have a host of problems, but it began ticking the moment the bloodied needle slipped out from the gears. I was tempted to set the time on it, but such a clock would be likely to lose it before long anyway. I could hear it in the ticking, it was irregular, moving in and out of time with the other clocks in the room. The tick sounded… hollow, it had an echo to it that I hadn't quite heard the like of in my time. I put it down to the strange materials used to make it, and put it out of my thoughts.
The week passed, and it wasn't until the man didn't return that I realised he had left me with no information to contact him. The box, the clock, nothing was marked with any name, address, phone number, anything. Another week passed with still no contact. I felt bad about not being able to return such a beautiful object, but there was nothing I could do. After a third week, I considered the clock my own. I took it home, telling myself it would be safer there. I displayed it proudly, telling myself it would be a waste not to. As much as I tried to tell myself I would return it should the man reappear, a small part of me knew I would be reluctant. Somehow, without any effort on my part, the clock had convinced me I owned it.
The first sign something wasn't quite right- well, I say it's the first. I only know it as the first I noticed- came gradually. Work with clocks for long enough, and something gets imprinted into your mind; the constant sound of a ticking clock. People who've been doing it all their lives, like myself, can often tell a clock is wrong simply by comparing the ticking in their heads to the clock they're watching. It was a while before I noticed it. Every day when I went into the workshop, every clock ticked a little bit wrong. Every day when I came home, the silver clock on the mantelpiece ticked a little bit closer to right. Part of me said that the clock at home couldn't be right- the mechanisms were too clunky, and the thing hadn't been wound in the whole time it had been in my possession. How it ticked at all was a mystery to me. But day by day, the rhythms of the silver clock became the correct ones. And the workshop became hell on earth to me. Surrounded as I was with clocks all grating against the rhythm in my head- it was painful. The moment I realised the silver clock had dug into my head was the moment I closed the workshop.
But like everything else, I thought nothing of it and went on with life.
At first I didn't know what to do with the time I now had. No family, few friends, I took to staying home, finding idle ways to pass the time. But I grew bored. I began taking walks, exploring the neighbourhood as I never had previously.
The fresh air and activity bolstered my spirits. For a time I forgot about the odd occurrences, the loneliness, the trade I had given up seemingly on a whim. But then the second sign showed up, and brought all that down into a puddle of paranoia.
It was fuzzy the first time I saw it. A shadow, blurred and oversized as if thrown from a great distance away. I was sitting at a bench, feeding some ducks when suddenly I noticed it. How long it had been there, I couldn't tell you. I spent a while looking around, trying to find what was casting such a long, light shadow. After about a minute of searching, the whole line shifted, pointing away from me in a different direction. Unable to find the source, I began watching the shadow shift across the grass. It moved slowly, in jumps. It pointed- maybe towards, maybe away from- the bench, rotating around for no apparent reason. It was a curiosity, I'd never seen the like before in my life. Time came to go home, but the shadow intrigued me enough that I knew I would be back.
Every day for about a week I went to that bright, sunny park to watch the shadows. It blended in on cloudy days, faint enough to only just be visible if you knew where to look. It moved, it always moved. Never stayed in the same place for more than a minute. As the days passed, the shadow seemed to become clearer. At first I thought I was just becoming more used to watching for it. But on my last day at the park, it became clear. I stood to return home early, with the sun still in the sky. I had grown tired of the odd shadow. As I began to walk off, a familiar sight crept across the ground towards me. The shadow stayed, tethered to my feet. It hadn't been following the bench at all. It had been following me.
That was when the paranoia kicked in.
I'd always been the sensible type. But the ticking- the wrong but oh so familiar ticking- had set me on edge without me noticing. The shape still followed me, even circling my house when I stayed indoors. I feared watchers in the sky- governments, aliens, I had no idea but what thoughts I did have terrified me. So from then on, I stopped going for walks. My home became my prison, the odd circling shadow the warden keeping me locked in tight. I watched from the window daily, watched as the shadow grew darker, watched as a second, shorter, slower shadow joined in, watched as a thin circle surrounded the shadow circus, watched as the whole thing became eerily familiar. It finally clicked when, one morning, the view from the window showed a new, still blurry, still faint, but identifiable addition.
Directly in front of where I was looking, there were three new markings just inside the circle. X, I, I.
It clicked. A lifetime with working with them, and I was surprised that it was only now that I realised what had been following me. The hands of the gigantic shadow clock ticked around, keeping perfect time to the beat in my head. But it wasn't just a clock, I realised. It was the clock. The roman numerals in the same style, the hands turning to the wrong time, the faint filigree just beginning to show on the minute hand. The clock of silver and bone, so innocent and beautiful, was doing something.
Suffice it to say, my earlier paranoia came back full force.
Running wouldn't work, the shadow would follow me as far as I had the means to travel. The shadow may have been harmless, but in my… unstable state, it terrified me more than anything I had seen. The only option my troubled mind could come up with was to destroy the clock, stop it going, something to stop the seemingly relentless advance of the shadow.
But nothing worked. Nothing. I hit it with everything I owned, hit it against everything I couldn't pick up to move. Maybe it was the weakness of age, but nothing left so much as a mark. Not even the glass covering the hands would shatter, leaving indents on whatever surface I smashed it against. No matter what I tried, the silver- but it can't have been silver, it was stronger than silver- the surface remained unmarked. My one hope lay in what I had spent my life doing- working with clocks. But this time I didn't need to make a clock go, I needed to perform the much easier task of making one stop. Things didn't go as planned.
The easy task that lay before me was out of my grasp. My panicked fingers couldn't grab anything- couldn't dislodge a spring or remove a cog- nothing would do what I wanted it to do. As time passed, I became more panicked; all attempts to grow calm and focus to slow my shaking hands had the opposite effect. I grew desperate, shoving pencils, pens, needles, cutlery between the gears, hoping to take it back to the state it came to me in. Nothing worked. In desperation, I lay the clock, machinery open, next to the table. I lifted the heavy oak, ramming the leg down into the works. Panting with the exertion and my frantic state, a few moments passed. I couldn't hear it, couldn't hear any ticking except for the deafening clock in the space behind my ears. For a moment I felt triumphant- but only for a moment. My mind cleared, and there it was. Still going, despite the treatment it had suffered.
The first tick shattered my triumph. The second tick reawakened my anger and panic. By the third, I had given up. I left the clock, still stuck under the leg of the table, and staggered back up the stairs to the window. That window I had spent so many hours watching from, so many days. I pulled aside the curtain, gazing out at the now-perfect clock face. My first thought was that I had brought this upon myself. I had time left, I had plenty of time. At the rate it was going, it would have taken another month to completely come into focus. But I had made it mad. It was a clock, it couldn't have feelings- but I made it mad. I made it go faster. As I watched from the window, The shadow began to close in. Every minute detail, the filigree, the numbers, everything was crystal clear, and moving in towards me. I should have felt scared. I should have panicked. But that was then. At that moment, all I felt was weak. Old. Hungry. Tired. I turned away, knowing that the shadow would close in whether I watched it or not. I made my way back down the stairs, taking it slowly so I wouldn't fall, as tempting as it was. I returned to the clock, using the last of my energy to heave the table off its pristine off-white mechanisms. And as I lifted it, a small, silver and red needle fell to the floor. I recognised it from the first time I laid eyes on that clock. The blood on it was mine, still seeming fresh and glistening as the day it took it from me. I bent over to pick it up, noticing the shadow of a clock, still ticking on the floor at my feet in time with the one in my hand. Not sure what I was doing, I aimed the needle into the depths of the mechanisms. Taking a deep breath, I thrust the needle down, where it caught between two cogs. The whole thing shut down. It was over.
They found me a few days later, a worried neighbour had called the police. I wasn't able to tell them what had happened, and they didn't seem to quite understand. They found a place for me though, a home to take me in. The man they found was generous and kind, a collector of clocks I had met a few times in my work. He didn't recognise me though. As he took me in, he mumbled, half to me, half to himself. Complained how my workshop had shut down, how it had been the only one in town.
How it would be a shame that such a rare, unique clock would never again be able to tick away the days.
To me... in the first paragraph was kinda sad but your writing skill,dat grammar,illustrations without painting,you sir earned a subscriber *mom comes by and says* your not in youtube -_-
Edited by Metora, Oct 20 2012, 11:45 AM.
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Spoiler: click to toggle
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Meanders
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Oct 20 2012, 05:00 PM
Post #6
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As a fan of creepy pasta I have to say it was good! I liked your writing style in particular and thought it was unique. I also liked how your story didn't include some ghost or murderer like every other creepy pasta which sets your story apart and makes your story more memorable.
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wulfsok
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Oct 20 2012, 11:25 PM
Post #7
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Senselessly Profane
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Show, don't tell.
Excluding a fine detail helps for the reader to create their own setting, rather than visualize yours. Sometimes I skip certain descriptors unknowingly as it's sort of a habit.
I like the subject matter, whenever the protagonist and antagonist are seemingly the same (I figure the shadow clock as the protagonists mind full of regret), it adds an extra moment of reflection.
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My Place... MUAHAHAHA
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