AGREEMENT
|
The authorities are confiscating clocks. They debate mother’s egg timer, finally taking it. For clocks set into architecture, they take the hands, come back to etch out the faces. Some try to hold on to family heirlooms, promising to never wind them again, to seal them permanently in plexiglass. No entreaty succeeds. They place all the clocks and watches and timers in carts chained together and hooked behind a tractor that chugs rhythmically in idle. Mid-morning the next day, the mayor’s representative announces the hour. Many wonder how he knows the time. Others nod and are glad to be informed.
|
DISCORD
|
Every so often a medallion is awarded. Awarded suddenly, without prelude. With an impromptu ceremony, attended by people with official functions no one understands, with Sunday-best suits and sashes and rows of un-storied medallions. We are encouraged to attend. Speeches stretch for hours; the local elementary school children perform a tiny dance and then parade. No one knows what the award is for, or why the individual receiving it is worthy of the high honor. He or she is assured how anonymously special they are. It is unknown why they are singled out. Some citizens believe that is the point.
|
|
Ken Poyner’s four collections of brief fictions and four collections of speculative poetry can be found at most online booksellers. He spent 33 years in information system management, is married to a world record holding female power lifter, and has a family of several cats and betta fish. Individual works have appeared in Café Irreal, Analog, Danse Macabre, The Cincinnati Review, and several hundred other places. www.kpoyner.com
|
