Horologists pause on their way past the clock, and begin dividing the day into 13 hours, trying to synchronize the minutes of their pocket watches to that of the one before them, frowning when the minute hands do not align, or even more when they do and the patrons are baffled as to how the clock can reach thirteen hours.
The clock face is a fairy tale, or rather, an array of fairy tales told over the span of many hours. A black path weaves through a grey forest with gnarled black tree branches. The clock face darkens, shifting from white to silver to soot grey until the whiteness falls away like grains of sand. A fairy hovers above a cradle, a long unkempt braid catches in the brambles. Glass slippers shatter with the chimes of the hour. Half eaten apples, blood red and snow white, are tossed in an arc like juggling balls. A world of ice as jagged as mirror shards. Tidal waves knocks apart a ship, a wizard who reaches his arms, lightening strikes the black clock face but his fingers become stiff, like twigs. His face twists and contorts, his expression trapped in wood. Tiny crystals replace numbers, twinkling like stars. Where a cuckoo bird might be is a child in bed, holding a book and flipping the pages. What is most significant, what many patrons do not notice at first, is the number thirteen, at the top of the clock face, in bright and bold silver. The clock counts down thirteen hours, and the child in bed finishes his book, only to begin again.
Many patrons remark that the moon on the face of the clock is the same as the moon visible in the night sky. Recurring visitors notice the clock's face changing with the waxing and waning cycles of the moon. They are delighted it tracks atronomical movements, and watch entranced as a spray of stars scatters itself across the numbers.
The clock face is a fairy tale, or rather, an array of fairy tales told over the span of many hours. A black path weaves through a grey forest with gnarled black tree branches. The clock face darkens, shifting from white to silver to soot grey until the whiteness falls away like grains of sand. A fairy hovers above a cradle, a long unkempt braid catches in the brambles. Glass slippers shatter with the chimes of the hour. Half eaten apples, blood red and snow white, are tossed in an arc like juggling balls. A world of ice as jagged as mirror shards. Tidal waves knocks apart a ship, a wizard who reaches his arms, lightening strikes the black clock face but his fingers become stiff, like twigs. His face twists and contorts, his expression trapped in wood. Tiny crystals replace numbers, twinkling like stars. Where a cuckoo bird might be is a child in bed, holding a book and flipping the pages. What is most significant, what many patrons do not notice at first, is the number thirteen, at the top of the clock face, in bright and bold silver. The clock counts down thirteen hours, and the child in bed finishes his book, only to begin again.
Many patrons remark that the moon on the face of the clock is the same as the moon visible in the night sky. Recurring visitors notice the clock's face changing with the waxing and waning cycles of the moon. They are delighted it tracks atronomical movements, and watch entranced as a spray of stars scatters itself across the numbers.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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