The clock was painted black in the style of an era long past. Its paint chips threatened to divorce themselves with every touch. They fell to the floor and disintegrated into nothing. It had black hands that ticked and tocked through all the endless hours–keeping the rhythm of the day. They had a habit of always settling on an imperfect time no matter when she looked. A 6:16 here or a 10:01 there. Time quietly marched forward as they fell between the chasms of uncertainty.
A mussy teddy bear was set next to the old clock. Much loved and abused, it wore its smile during the happy times, the desperate times and the lonely times. It was a friend when there was no other. One of its paws leisurely leaned against the old clock. They looked like old friends if clocks and teddy bears could be friends. What a funny notion!
Fifty cents exactly. A quarter, dime, and three nickels were hidden in the great expanse of carpet. She remembered dropping them there as she hastily put away her clothes. They passed through endless hands, traveled many a lint-lined pocket and met with a great many other storied coins before reaching their current destination. The quarter and nickels were smudged over and had long lost their shine. The dime however twinkled amidst the coffee stained sea. It looked like a lonely star against the dark carpet especially in the shimmering sunlight that peeked through her curtained window. There were brief moments when she had contemplated picking them up but the time never felt right. They faded to the back of her mind like blurry lights flickering in the distance.
There was a small pile of shirts and pants at the end of the bed. Bits of other articles like socks and undergarments spread outward like fireworks from this pile. Like artwork they looked like carefully placed strokes on a grand masterpiece. Every day, they continued their tireless crawl towards the underside of the bed. They wanted to make it to that forgotten bastion before laundry day.
Books stood as sentinels to the underside. There were eight books exactly. They were stacked haphazardly on the side of the bed. They impeded the clothes’ path. Many casualties have occurred in the continuous struggle. Small books often found themselves in that dark underbelly of this world. No light, no hope for salvation. They could only go further under.
Final Edit: 03 March 2016
I very recently edited this because I perceived glaring issues that demanded to be corrected. Hope you enjoy this version.