Ink's profile

I wake to crisp-edged cereal and morning squintings eyes don't open fully it hurts, make the light run away. I consume and promptly fall back into the lull that I was so rudely shaken from. then the beeping squeals in my ear. ten-minute-dash my lens fluid burns away the sleep (where the hell is my sweatshirt) (why can't I ever find socks) grab dirty ones, shoes too time to fly. In the car I block the gross talk radio (can't stand this for a twenty-minute eternity) ears snug themselves into th...

Alone in her room, Mrs. Pottle watched the clock. It was an old clock. Its formerly cream-colored background was yellowing, framed in weary wood that wore a thin coat of dust and old age. The clock seemed to sag on her otherwise completely plain wall. It begged the old woman to be taken down and placed nicely in a closet where at last, after years and years of faithful time-telling (with the occasional slip-up or two), it could be put to rest in the cool darkness. Heavenly, it thought. But Mr...