Time Eats All Its Children. by Tori O'Brien

It stared down at the child before it, well, child no longer. She lay asleep in her bed, tucked under the comforter. It brushed a gray strand out of her eyes and cradled her cheek. It pressed its lips to her forehead. A bell tolled four times in the distance. 

Children’s shrieks and laughter echo through  colorful tubes of plastic. A smile graced the face of the man that rested on the bench. He looked at the playground, phone in hand as he pushed a stroller back and forth. A child with dark hair ran up to him, beads clacked together with every step. It watched a trio as they stood, joining hands. It followed. The girl’s empty hand gestured wildly as she exclaimed joyfully. They came to a stop, and the man’s attention was stolen by the baby as it began to sing its wretched song. The little girl shielded her ears from the noise and walked away. It followed close behind. The girl relaxed her arms as she found a spot away from the noise. It saw something she didn’t. The girl rocked on her feet, and fiddled with her overalls. It stood beside her. She didn’t look up at the shouting. She didn’t look up as the tires screeched. It reached over to cover her eyes. She tensed under its touch, reaching for the foreign hand. It couldn’t hear the man’s screams over the sound of beads hitting asphalt. 

It sat alone and watched. The world panned out before its eyes. It raised its hand, thrumming through the hundred of thousands of strings. A clicking sound resonated from the broken string. It rang with the sound of beads and high pitched laughter. It turned away. It brought the complete strings closer. The sounds of a wretched cry, and the sounds of a silent one. It reached for another string, met another end and tied itself together. Another bracelet was intertwined with it, creating a figure eight. Stepping away it shook its head, ignoring the sound of beads bound by gray strands that rang from It’s head. 

Time eats all its children.

Time eats away at it.

It bears the marks of time.

It wears the marks of children.

Time isn't it 

but it is time.