First published in Reflex Flash November 13th 2018

He threw all the clocks out of the window. Smash, smash, smash. The sound almost comforting.

His neighbours have complained. He’s promised to clear up the mess. Promised there will be no repeat.

His wife collected the clocks. Railway clocks with large white faces and Latin numerals, cheap plastic clocks, a cactus, a Micky Mouse. Carriage clocks and cuckoo clocks. A faux Salvador Dali. A spiral clock. Even a clock in the shape of a slice of toast. So many damned clocks.

Tick, tick, tick.

He threw the clocks onto the drive. The drive cost small fortune. Not that she appreciated the expense. Said it was a waste of money. ‘Paved drives are bad for the environment. We could have had a holiday with that.’

‘Buying stuff we don’t need is wasteful. All those clocks. What do you need them for? And I don’t like travelling, you knew that when you married me.’

They argued long but in the end it scarce mattered how the argument started, only that it never ended.

 Hadn’t they been happy once?

 She left him for the solicitor. He drew up their wills last year. He’s twelve years younger than she is.

The house is quiet now. Nothing moves. He can hardly hear his own breathing. But time still passes. Day gives way to night. Night becomes day. Tick, tick, tick.




The home of writer Bronwen Griffiths