Time

Stuck in Time | Alessandra Faccone | Pencil

Time by Madeline Molyneux

Heavy and cold. That’s what time feels 

like, in case you’ve ever wondered. It weighs a thousand pounds and turns your skin to ice. 

I would know. 

I would know because I have felt time on my bare skin. It melted off the wall and down my back, wrapping around me like a lead blanket laced with frost. It weighed me down until my knees buckled and I fell to the floor. I curled up in the corner and my surroundings went dark. 

Time was slipping away. It turned to thick goo, like honey, and I couldn’t lift my arms as it slithered down my shoulders, cascaded down my arms, and dripped off my fingertips. 

Time slipped away until it was gone. I was out of time, left alone and shivering on the cold floor. 

Time’s absence is chilling. There are no more deadlines, no more departure times, and no more blaring alarm clocks. But there are also no more speed limits, no more baritone grandfather clocks, no more birthdays or holidays or… anything, really. 

Time is everything. A world without time is a world with no everything and lots of nothing. Somehow the absence of time feels just the same as time itself: heavy and cold.