Clyde clamped his fist shut around a silver pocket watch. He wound up and hurled it against the wall. It exploded into pieces—a spring here, a second-hand there, tiny bits of glass strewn across the floor.
He got up from his workbench and walked over to the mess, bent down with a grunt and collected the pieces into his wrinkled palm. He placed the parts on the workbench, turned on the overhead lamp and began to work. A craftsman of any respectability could never leave a watch in such a state, no matter what the object might signify.
The timepiece was Clyde’s one and only physical link to the past. His father had left it to his mother before deserting them both. The watch was heavily worn from abuse. He could never bring himself to destroy it completely and resigned himself to flinging it, hammering it or stomping on it every Tuesday, seven o’clock sharp.
The sound of ticks and tocks droned on as he reassembled the watch. Then a cacophony of dings and dongs punctuated by sharp tweets coming from several cuckoo clocks. Eight o’clock—time for his evening stroll.
Clyde looked up at a corkboard looming over the workbench dotted with notes and timesheets. He got up, patted down his stiff white dress shirt, adjusted his tie and put on a black pea coat and bowler hat.
He walked through the streets, nodding at some of the locals but maintaining his usual brisk pace to avoid conversation. Clyde slowed down. He had arrived. The house that was once a restaurant. A tall castle-like tower had first drawn him to the building. A golden glow shone from the kitchen window. Clyde thought of the family living there. Everyone would be inside. He knew the three occupants by name, occupation, and routine.
“Hello, mister.”
Clyde nearly jumped out of his trousers. Right there, not a few feet away, was the child who was supposed to be inside the house. How could it be? It was much too late for the boy to be outside playing.
Clyde nodded at the child and hurried down the sidewalk. He roamed the alleyways racking his brain. The parents should have firmer boundaries. They should not have let a child out that late.
Back at his shop, he took down the corkboard. It had various small notes dotting a large bristol board sheet with three names written in thick black ink. He took a red pen and scribbled a note under the boy’s name.
The next evening, he made his way back to the house at the same time, but the boy wasn’t there. A week's worth of evening visits and the boy remained in the house. Clyde relaxed. Routine restored.
On Monday, Clyde fixed the watch after a mallet had done its duty. The clocks rang. Time for his eight o’clock stroll. He walked by the house.
A sound near the street. The mother was loading trash cans. A woman of such beauty out this late throwing out rubbish. That wouldn’t do.
Clyde hurried back to his shop. He frantically scribbled notes. The husband must have fallen ill. Slipped off a ladder. Broken his neck. Clyde resolved to meet the man to confirm his illness or draw any clue to the awful display he had just endured.
The next morning, he double and triple checked the timesheet. The husband would leave at seven o’clock for work. Clyde arrived at the house with minutes to spare.
The husband appeared in the driveway and to Clyde’s great surprise the man ran towards him.
“Morning, sir. You’re the local watchmaker?”
It appeared Clyde’s prowess had spread throughout the town and he allowed himself a faint smile. He nodded and shook the man’s hand.
“Thing is, I got this old pocket watch that needs fixin’. Something you could look at?”
Clyde peered into the man’s face. No discoloration or any sign of illness. So, the brute had let the wife take out the garbage while he lounged around no doubt drinking hard liquor and corrupting his son’s fragile sensibilities. That wouldn’t do.
“Yes, I can assist with that. And since you are fairly new to the neighborhood it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. It would be impractical for me to take the watch from you as you are no doubt off to work and must be punctual. I warmly and wholeheartedly invite you and your family to my shop for dinner this evening. Six o’clock sharp. Please bring the watch at that time and make sure you are not late.”
The husband had a queer expression on his face as if stifling a laugh. Clyde knew that particular look quite well.
“That would be great. It’ll be nice to give the misses a break from the pots and pans,” the husband said with a grin.
Clyde swallowed down disgust. No, no, no. That wouldn’t do at all. He nodded and hurried down the sidewalk. He felt the man stare at the back of his head.
Clyde closed up shop at four o’clock to make preparations for dinner. He placed a live lobster into a boiling pot. The creature shrieked. Beside the pot of lobster simmered a stew of hearty vegetables. An unopened box of rat poison sat on the counter, the most potent he could find.
Clyde tasted the hot stew. Satisfied with its robust flavor, he opened the box of poison. He tapped out just enough for a lethal dose but not enough to destroy the flavor—a skill honed over the years watching people either spit or swallow his delicious and deadly concoctions.
He grabbed his father’s watch from his vest pocket and noted the time. Slowly stirring the stew, he wondered if the family would add tardiness to their long list of offenses. He shook his head and spoke quietly to himself:
“Once you eat this soup, I will explain everything. I will start with the story of my father's watch to put you at ease. Then, I will lay out my observations of your household’s affairs over the past few weeks and how unacceptable your behavior has been.”
Clyde began to stir the soup faster and faster, his voice becoming louder.
“I can see your faces now, full of confusion, perhaps some glimmers of terror. Once you start showing signs of illness, I will reveal the ingredients of the stew.”
Soup began to spatter onto the stove.
“Onions. Carrots. Leeks. Potatoes. Poison.”
Clyde abruptly stopped his violent stirring.
“I will not have a family that cannot keep any semblance of order in my beloved town!” he shouted.
Clyde stepped back from the stove. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He fetched a dishrag and wiped sweat from his brow and the errant soup off the stove.
He resumed work on the stew, sprinkling more salt in the pot and began to whistle some old familiar song along with the rhythm of the kitchen clock.
This is my entry for Art Prompt Writing Contest #13, inspired by 