by William Wren
He wondered if he had ever been happy. As the morning sun washed over the wooden deck, and over him as well, he thought he must have been, though he couldn’t recall when.
It was not that he was unhappy. He didn’t feel that. Apathetic is how he felt. However, Bronson also felt grumpy. He wondered if that was unhappy in a mild form.
He was sure it was the clock that made him that way. Ever since he had bought it, it had stubbornly read 12:23. He had picked it up at one of the big box stores.
It was an old-fashioned clock with Roman numerals, evenly spaced around its circumference. Two arms, like spears, reached out from the centre—the shorter spear indicating the hour, twelve, and the longer indicating the minutes, twenty-three. It was made to resemble something antique, yet its […]