Watch making was Harold’s passion in life; it was all that he knew. He made his watches with fastidious care, pouring over every detail until the end result was flawless.  There was a certain tranquility in it, each piece finding its designated location, each piece working in flawless harmony with those around it. Once each watch was finished he would stare for hours as the gears moved, all coming together in a symphony of order. Harold worked day after day in his little shop. He had never made large profits. In fact, he had never made any profits at all. He wasn’t in it for the money, he just hoped that the people who took his watches home would care for them as much as he did.

His latest creation had taken much longer than the rest. Not because Harold was having trouble with it but because he wanted to do it justice. He had never made a watch

so intricate before. Every piece fit together so precisely that any error, no matte how minute would cause the entire device to fall into chaos. With the utmost precision he gently positioned the final gear and connected the battery. He held his breath, as the gears sprang to life, praying that he had not made a mistake. The gears, however, fit together seamlessly and he gazed in awe at the exquisiteness of his creation, a true homage to order.

The next day, in his little shop, a man walked in that Harold had never seen before. Instantly, Harold could tell this was a man of taste. He was tall and thin with a thick head of mahogany hair, not a single one out of place. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, gray with black pinstripes and ironed to perfection. There was not a wrinkle or a smudge that could be seen without a microscope. The man was dressed so cleanly and with such meticulousness that Harold knew instantly what he wanted. Harold retreated to his workshop and returned holding his masterpiece.

“It is my finest creation,” Harold said, gazing longingly at his watch, “I can tell that a man of your fine taste can appreciate such a wonderfully ordered piece of machinery.”

“I’ll take it,” the man said, distractedly flicking a particle of dust that had managed to find purchase on his immaculate suit coat.

“If you’d like I could add a warranty,” Harold Asked, “If the watch ever breaks I can fix it for you free of charge”

“That won’t be necessary,” The man said, and with that he raised the watch high above his head. In a moment of horror Harold realized what was about to happen. He opened his mouth to protest but could not make a sound. With one swift motion the man brought Harold’s masterpiece careening to the floor of the little shop. Harold watched, dumbstruck, as his creation shattered, each gear he had worked so painstakingly to position now flying in every direction.

“Is that not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?” the man said as Harold stood there, arms hanging limp at his sides. “Order is all well and good but the only true pleasure lies in chaos.”  LS

for Hope Witsell

My lover has corduroy skin now, sea shell irises and feather-stuffed limbs that he swings around me as we slow dance on a night when my parents are out.  If my brother catches me, he’ll be cruel like all the rest of them.  He’ll call me, “Idiot” because I’m sixteen and still clinging to a teddy bear.  But my brother doesn’t understand how precious you are, how wonderfully you keep secrets, not like my schoolmate who turned me inside-out so that now there are graffiti slurs written beside my name and places I can’t go without being spit on. 

It’s a cheap road that I’m taking, I know, I know.  I don’t want anyone getting sad on my account, yet I didn’t choose to be here either.

I kiss my lover goodbye.  I’ve knotted a string of Mother’s scarves together.  I tie one end to the canopy bed and one across my neck.  I know I’m not a slut.  I know I’m not a bad person, even if everyone else disagrees.  God will take me in.  His arms are long and warm, his voice a soft prayer all itself.

These are visions I need to be true, the last things I tell myself before leaping. LS

The clock on the science room wall reads three fifteen. My buddies stampede through the hallways towards waiting buses while I slosh a mop across the tile floor in sweeping figure eights. Bam! A face appears in the window, smooshed against the glass, lips like the suction-cupped feet of a sticky-toed tree frog. It’s Carter. His eyes are wide, eyebrows high and arched like the path of the spitball that started it all. I dip my fingertips into the muddy mop water, splash it at the glass and watch him flinch. He peels his face from the window and mouths, “You missed a spot, Mr. Clean.” Laughing, he turns and runs for the bus. But I’m laughing too because tomorrow when the first spitball flies I’ll be ready with my wet-willy revenge. LS