The Last Clock.

Once, in a land far away, there was an old man stumbling up a rickety set of wooden steps of a tower, so high that the top was lost in the clouds, and situated on a steep cliff, with bridges sticking out every-which way. He had thick green half-moon glasses, perched precariously on his long nose with a large white beard dangling limply from his chin. He was mumbling to himself, something like this: “It’s getting closer… time’s getting shorter… got to get that… tell her… ticking, always ticking… ticking away… stop ringing, infernal alarm!” A small alarm clock sat in the palm of his right hand, and in the other he held a small screwdriver and was twiddling with a screw on the back of the clock. He reached the top an hour later, and sat down on the top step, with a resentful creaking from his old bones. “Hush.” He growled at his stomach, as it let loose a fearfully loud growl. He got back up and walked over to a large golden clock. It was unlike any other in the world, for there were no hands, and no numbers. Instead there were three rings of nicks around the edge, in between the center and the edge, and at the center. A blue light flitted from one tick to another every second on the outer ring, another blue light switched from one tick to another on the second ring, and a red light that switched ticks every ten years. On top was a bug-like creature with the body of a grasshopper, and the head of a dragon. The old man looked at the clock and said, “Hmm. This isn’t good. There’s not much time left.”