erin

a time machine is not a clock

Everyone thought it was a clock, but everyone was wrong.

It had numbers, large ones of the Roman variety arranged in a circular fashion which gave it a clock-like impression, but it had no hands, a fact no one noticed until it was fully assembled.

It arrived in pieces without instructions.

It stayed in pieces for quite some time before someone suggested putting it together.

After the layer of dust was removed it did not take as much time as anyone expected to restore it to working order, and they wondered afterwards why they had let it sit abandoned so long.

(Truly, it had been there for such a time that no one could recall where it came from.)

The lights seemed decorative in their excess: scrolled sconces with delicately paneled glass shades, though each lamp was in fact vital to proper function and calibration.

The most difficult part was aligning the lights with their proper astrological symbols, as the lamps were not labeled but would not illuminate unless they were mounted near compatible signs.

Once all the lights were happily aglow and the missing hands were noticed they stared at it in mild confusion and annoyance at the refusal of what they thought was a clock to tell the time.

It was quite a while before someone realized that the square in the center was a door.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

dangerous games

They play games of chance when the boredom sets in.

The boredom comes often, settling like heavy fog over seemingly endless time.

So they play.

There are complex systems and penalties but rarely rules, and if they do add rules for the sake of variety those rules are often broken.

Not that any rules matter much to them, since they do not wager anything they hold particularly dear.

They risk only the possessions of others. Dreams and wishes, accomplishments and hopes and treasured memories.

If they become what they consider extra bored, the stakes are raised. Wagering fears and loves, trumped only by souls or lives.

There is but a single firm guideline: they never choose their victims, the choosing is always left to the dice.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

warning sign

There was indeed a warning sign, as people mentioned repeatedly after the fact.

In her defense, it was difficult to read.

The sign had once been clear and foreboding, though perhaps over the years it tired of its assertive manner and as fewer and fewer people passed by to read it stopped trying so hard.

And perhaps it is only a coincidence of erosion that the letters spelling out the key word “not” were the first to fade, leaving “do” and “drink” and “this” and “water” mostly legible.

(If it was a purposeful deceit, the sign will not confess.)

But whether she followed the legible instructions instead of the original posted warning or simply didn’t notice the sign at all and drank to quench a thirst, she can no longer say.

Her own voice is gone, vanished as soon as the water–clearer and crisper than any she had tasted before–touched her tongue.

Now her head is filled with thousands of other voices whispering secrets and confessions, answers to unsolved mysteries and long-lost truths since replaced by lies.

The authorities (likely the same ones who posted the sign so long ago) put her in a locked room while they decide what to do with her.

She continues to clearly indicate that she would like a pen, but they are all too afraid of what she might write.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.