Dong. Dong. Donnnnng. Dong. Dong. Dong.
It was six o’clock, and something wasn’t right.
Today was a Wednesday, so far as could be recalled. Wednesday. The middle of the week. Closer to the end than the middle at this point, you could say, at this late hour.
And yet, something wasn’t right.
Usually, at this time on a Wednesday, the dining room would be a flurry of activity. Cling cling clang. Thud thump thump. Plates and glasses would fall onto the table. Knives and forks would liberate themselves, and prepare for battle. Bzzzzzz, bzzzzzz, bzzzzz! Once in a while, the smoke alarm would even go off. Delicious smells would waft room to room, or so one might expect.
Six o’ two. The ticking of the clock was a thunderous roar through the silence. By now, the main course would enter the room, triumphantly carried as if it were a masterpiece. Not that it was anything special. But they looked so forward to it.
Four minutes past. The smells rang like a dinner bell, summoning children from the farest reaches of the house. Rushing into the room, and eagerly circling the table — sometimes giggling, sometimes yelling, and sometimes fighting, but always brought together by their hunger. At least, on a normal day.
But not today. Today was different. Something was amiss. It was six minutes past, and something wasn’t right.
Last one to the table has to bring the ketchup, they’d always shout. Inevitably, the last one to the table would forget. They became the first one up from the table. One might imagine that someone would make it part of the routine to bring the ketchup with them. But, it already was. Going back for the ketchup wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It gave someone a chance to make an entrance. A grand entrance, or a sheepish one, or maybe even an unnoticed one, if the dinner conversation had already begun. But nevertheless. Many relished the opportunity.
There was no grand entrance for the ketchup today, though, and none for the bearer of the ketchup, either. It was ten minutes past, and the ketchup was already on the table. There it had sat since the day prior, next to some dishes, and some glasses. Food half-eaten, and water half-drank, and all left behind. Abandoned. Forgotten relics of a dinner past. Was someone coming back for them? That wasn’t known.
But something wasn’t right.
Donnnnnng. A single chime. Half past the hour. The end of dinner. But there was no dinner to end. Nobody left to clear the plates. Nobody to shuffle neatly into the living room, and nobody to shirk the dishwashing. Just an old clock remained behind. An old clock, and a bottle of ketchup.
Thursday was right around the corner.
Tags: Narratives
Well holy shizznit, you actually wrote something :O
*faints*
and it was good. I want more.. I guess that is the point when you are writing..