David Lapage, Jr. has written several short stories and quite a few school papers. He has never been published and looks forward to the day he is. While not writing something, he enjoys watching movies, tinkering in the garage, and geocaching. He is a huge fan of Local H and enjoys reading. He lives in Illinois with his wife and two cats (one that’s a sweetheart and the other’s trouble).
You can find more of his work HERE.
THE CLOCK TICKED
by
David Lapage, Jr.
The clock ticked, each rhythmic click echoing in the cavernous hall like thunder. Old Year, a wrinkled woman coated in dust, cobwebs, and regret, cast nervous glances at the shadowy corner where New Year slumbered. Not a baby, as legend described, but a black writhing mass of tendrils, each tipped with razor-sharp thorns. It was a living infection.
Cronos, the Keeper of Time, paced across the room like a pendulum. In moments, Old Year would relinquish her crown, and the mantle of responsibility would fall upon the unpredictable entity stirring behind him in the pram. Cronos had witnessed many transitions, but this year, an unsettling dread gnawed at him.
The tremors beneath their feet intensified. The once-still shadows writhed, and a blood-red glow pulsed in the pram. Whispers, like the slithering of snakes, filled the air. Then the creature sprang up, revealing a horrifying spectacle.
It wasn't close to a baby. It was a storm of thorns, pulsing with sickness and death. No cute gurgles or cooing laughter - only an inhuman howl that ripped through the hall, shattering stained glass, and sending echoes bouncing off the ancient stone.
Old Year whimpered, her crown a beacon of frail light against the encroaching darkness. Cronos reached for his ceremonial staff, its carved wood whispering like sand in an hourglass. The creature noticed him, its glowing red eye fixing on him like a predator.
"You," it rasped, its voice a chorus of hissing spines. "You dare defy the inevitable?"
Cronos held his ground, his voice trembling but unwavering. "The ritual shall proceed."
The creature unleashed a wave of thorns, each one a writhing viper in the air. Cronos's staff deflected them, sparking with icy light. But the onslaught was relentless, a thorny whirlwind seeking to extinguish the last embers of the old year.
Suddenly, Old Year stepped forward, her frail form surprisingly strong. With a trembling hand, she placed the crown at the foot of the pram, the light from it flickering in the chaos.
"There can be no new year," she croaked, "without the lessons of the old."
The creature paused, its red eye swirling with confusion. The crown on the floor pulsed, its ancient magic fighting against the creature's chaotic fury. Cronos used the momentary hesitation to strike.
With the end of his staff, he plunged deep into the writhing mass, and a shriek resonated through the hall. The thorns recoiled, hissing and spitting, but the wound burned with holy fire. Cronos pressed his attack, fueled by an icy determination.
The battle raged, shadows twisting and warping in the air. Old Year collapsed, her voice weak but clear, echoed through the hall, a litany of forgotten wisdom and lessons learned. With every word, the light from the crown grew stronger, pushing back the creature's darkness.
Finally, with a gut-wrenching scream, the creature erupted in a burst of thorns, scattering like black snowflakes in the air. The storm subsided, leaving an acrid silence in its wake.
Cronos stood panting, his staff wreathed in smoke. Old Year lay still, her eyes closed. And on the stone floor, the crown pulsed with renewed vigor, bathing the hall in a gentle gold light.
Cautiously, Cronos approached the pram. The light pulsed once, then formed a tiny figure – a true baby, this time, nestled within the crown's radiance. It opened its eyes, a startling gray that mirrored the dying embers of the old year.
Cronos knew this was not the new year he'd imagined. This was something else, shaped by the struggle, tempered by the wisdom of the old. It was a year born with disease and fear but also hope.
Kneeling before the pram, Cronos took the baby in his arms. It wasn't beautiful, not in the conventional sense. It was spiky, with sharp fingernails and startling gray eyes. But in its gaze, he saw not only the echoes of the storm but a spark of something else – a flickering candle of affliction.
As the first chimes of the new year echoed through the hall, Cronos looked upon the strange, unsettling child in his arms and whispered a silent prayer. This year, he knew, would be different. It would be a year of illness and death, of chaos and resilience. It would be a year forged in the coughs of the sick, and it would be something, utterly, terrifyingly new to the people who lived it.
Cronos whispered, “Welcome baby two thousand and twenty”.
The End