Ugh. It's the end of time. Again.

Following is a recent short story I wrote. I don't normally write fantasy adult stories, but I kinda' like this one . . . 

An Instrument of Time

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally decided to walk through the door.

A hissing gust of relief quaked his thin, white lips; a brown laurel leaf jolted to life with the force of the breath. He’d waited in the dying, musky hedge for two days, his heart beat thickening, praying for this decision as the world grayed.  Seventeen times she’d approached the heavy, ornately carved front door, seventeen times she’d moved back into the depths of the cavernous rooms.  Each return to the kitchen, or the fireplace, or the sunroom brought him a tiny bit nearer to death.

She’d come so close this morning. His heart had stopped as the crystal doorknob, squealing, protested the twist. But then a faint ringing, rooms away. He saw, through the wavy window, her head tilt quizzically, her soft peach lips purse. The weak sunlight rested in her startling red hair, settling on her porcelain nose, as she pondered answering the phone. Her body decided for her, lightly galloping away as the second ring hung in the air.

Slowly, oh so slowly, green blood churned back into his brain. He realized he could not freeze like that again, he’d never make it through the door in time.  

He consciously practiced deep breathing techniques, all the while flexing his muscular fingers, in, out, pinch, fist, squeeze. As she vacuumed and sang, ironically, It’s the End of the World, he flexed and breathed. As she brewed strong coffee, the smell wafting it’s way through minute cracks in the wall, he flexed and breathed. As she pried the worn copy of Love in the Time of Cholera from the bookcase, body dropped sideways into the oversized armchair, legs dangling over the side, he flexed and breathed.

Finally, she dog-eared the page, slid the strap of her tattered green messenger bag over her slender shoulder, grasped the doorknob.

He was ready.

As the monstrous wooden slab lurched inward, sticking briefly on the seal, he used the burst of air to propel himself inside.  Looking down on her head, he yearned to touch her, her warmth, her humanness, but moved forward, knowing she must not see him. His gold eyes darkened with purpose.

His wings were stiff, sore, aching with misuse and sickness. He pumped once, twice, three times, risking a glance backward. The woman moved briskly into the failing world, unaware of him or his mission, kicking dead leaves as she walked down her front steps.

There. The grandfather clock. Sitting on the mantle above the stone fireplace, the magical timepiece had stopped. The tinker faery flew, his bones grinding with broken shards and dust, the glory pouring from him with every not passing second. With a thump, he landed on the rounded hump of the clock, slid down the dark, silken side and leapt onto the tarnished silver key protruding out the back. His fingers, kept limber, grasped and twisted. The key did not budge, time did not re-start. He used his weight to move the key, his tiny faery body equal to the pocked metal’s length and heft. Tears bled from his eyes, squeezed shut with the supernatural effort.

Tick.

His heart beat cleared, the sludge in his veins thinning.

           

Tock.

The ropy muscles in his forearms sprang back into place, filled out.

Tick.

His thoughts were less fuzzy, color returning to the plants.

Tock.

Suddenly, the sun was full, warm, sparkling, breathing and laughing. The tinker faery heaved another sigh of relief, this one robust, leaving the air tinged with magic.