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Time's Trio by ~MincedNiku:iconMincedNiku:

Categories Digital Art > Paintings & Airbrushing > People

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©2006-2009 ~MincedNiku
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Submitted: April 5, 2006
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Unimpeded, The Horologist returned home. Home was actually another, bigger clock repair shop. This one, however, had no customers because it wanted no customers, needed no customers and encouraged no customers. It was behind the face of the clock in the city's clock tower, perched atop hundreds of time-concerned businesses, with an old face like a statue from the past, some outdated mammoth monarch. Beneath the ponderous arrow-hands and roman numerals was a series of analog clocks which told the time all around the world. It was the perfect place to live because it was always causing problems, an old imposition above newer ones, a confusion of clocks. The Horologist rode the brand new business elevator to the top floor and stepped into the staircase marked NO ENTRY without being seen. He was never seen. It was a talent, a gift, a handy proclivity. No one expected anyone to enter the stairwell, and in general people saw what they expected to see. The stairs were old and looked moody, but they weren't yet rickety. They led up into the large cog-mazed room behind the clock face. It would have been nice to say those cogs were all The Horologist needed, but no one could sleep soundly on a cogwheel. There were two beds, an over-sized bean-bag pillow, a table, a full-length mirror, a stove and three lawn chairs, as well as a state of the art stereo system and shelves of music, all sheltered amidst the creaking shadows of the very large cogs. The assortment revealed that The Horologist was fond of certain overtly human things, like the possibility of eternal relaxation, pretentious rock music and hot dogs. The Horologist unbuttoned his jacket and took off his gloves.

"I'm back," he told The Watchdog.

Being a dog, The Watchdog said nothing. He did sneeze, though, and lick the tips of The Horologist's fingers in search of any leftover cookie.

"No, no," The Horologist said, "I do a good job of licking, myself." Just because The Watchdog said nothing didn't mean he didn't understand everything. With the exception of why people bathed regularly and went on diets, The Watchdog did understand everything.

"Give your tongue a rest," The Horologist's clockmate, The Historian, advised from above. That was where he sat on weekends, on a beam, balanced over a very large book. He didn't look up.

"I'll get dinner."

"Good."

"Anything interesting today?"

"More of the same. I'm getting a hand cramp."

"You're always getting a hand cramp. Wouldn't you still be getting a hand cramp even if someone started a war?"

"Definitely."

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www.pie-ix.net
words: ~ladyjaida
art: *MincedNiku

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Much thanks goes to my dear friend Cody for helping me out with that damn ceiling and keeping me sane throughout this painting. ♥
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