Halted
Flash fiction
The clocks in the office all stopped working at precisely 2:41 and, by the reaction of the peons, you’d think that time had abandoned its endless march and lain down to rest for good and all. But then there always was a chance this might happen, at least in the shadowy recesses of minds less lit by reason’s illumination. There was always this agonizing space between ticks of the clock, when it felt like the hands might just stop moving forever, and at last the scenario had come to fruition.
“Why won’t those cheap bastards just replace the damn batteries?”
“They did; it’s not that. They’re broken.”
“They all broke at once? What are the odds?”
They were an anachronism anyway; institutional and mechanical pieces from some dimly recalled high-school nightmare, an obsolete reminder of a time when the office was a place and not a state of existence. The clocks were not meant to serve primarily as timepieces but as a form of encouragement, giving the drones some hope that they’d soon be able to leave. In that rare quiet moment, one could hear each steady tick, the pulse of the building, the rhythm of the business cycle.
“They’re still broken? No one fixed them?”
“You won’t believe it. They found new ones.”
