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The Clockwork Man
A man sits alone at a table made of glass. The light around him is bright and warm. His home is comfortable. The glass table is one of many tasteful furnishings.
They left to see their aunt that morning. He saw the kids off, kissed his wife goodbye, and locked the door behind them. That left the whole day to get everything in order: he paid off his credits cards, stocked the refrigerator, and cleaned. He cleaned so well that his entire home was immaculate, including the kitchen table made of glass. It was polished until it was nearly invisible.
He finished around ten in the evening. Then he went to the hidden safe in the bathroom, keyed in the code, and removed the pistol he kept inside. It made a soft click as he placed it on the table. Then he sat.
Eventually, he realizes that it is dark around him. The house is silent. He does not remember turning off the lights, but under the circumstances it doesn’t seem to matter. Reaching out, he gasps the holster and flicks open the button.
Another hand rests over his.
The man freezes stiff. Something is sitting across the table from him. He can see an outline in the gloom—a section of deeper darkness that might perhaps be a person.
“Not yet,” says the thing across the table, with a voice that is far from human. Each word is like the rush of winter air, and the sounds come from far away.
“I’m tired.” The man says, and his voice cracks. “I’m always so tired.”
“Your family loves you. You are comfortable and fed. You have many friends,” said the thing. “Come the daylight, you will even know happiness. What more would you ask of me?”
“Please. Please, they’ll be fine without me. Just let me die.”
“Not yet,” said the thing. “I have seen your dreams. You wish to vomit, believing you can expel your pain. You yearn for cancer, for at least then you would know why it hurts. But these are childish thoughts. Take comfort in your home, love your children, and make love to your wife while the sun is still up. You will smile then.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You mistake me.” The thing’s words emerged as a hiss. One of its fingers prodded at the man’s arm. He could feel his skin deform and twist under its touch.
Then his skin tore. It ripped. With two fingers, the thing grasped a loose strand and pulled it from his arm like the peel of an orange. When it was done, it released his skin, and stuck two fingers through his arm. They passed through without resistance, and wiggled on the other side. There was no flesh or bone to block their way.
“You are a hollow creature,” said the thing. “During the day, when the sun burns in the sky, I am content to lend you what is mine. As night falls, I must make my own way for a time. You feel my absence, but I have done you no harm. You know this to be true.”
“What, you’re going to tell me I feel it in my fucking heart?”
“You don’t have a heart,” said the thing. “You make your wife happy. You have told her you love her many times. But you always tell her during the day. At night, you know you don’t mean it.”
“I can’t…” The man’s voice cracked. Tears formed in his eyes. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will. We are not the worst monsters in this world, you and I. You feel nothing when you tell your wife you love her. You would feel nothing if you opened her throat. You have no more remorse or pity than you have love. But you have chosen to pretend you love her, and that is something at least. You make her happy. She is not like us.”
“And if I refuse, and shoot myself anyway?”
“You have lovely children.”
When the lights came back on, the man found himself curled up on the floor under the table. The house was as bright and cheerful as it had even been. His arm was whole, and showed no signs of damage. The clocked showed four-AM, and outside it was dark.
He gripped his head and tried to scream. He tried to cry, but he hadn’t tears within him.
He lay there until the sun rose and sweet unconsciousness took him.
They left to see their aunt that morning. He saw the kids off, kissed his wife goodbye, and locked the door behind them. That left the whole day to get everything in order: he paid off his credits cards, stocked the refrigerator, and cleaned. He cleaned so well that his entire home was immaculate, including the kitchen table made of glass. It was polished until it was nearly invisible.
He finished around ten in the evening. Then he went to the hidden safe in the bathroom, keyed in the code, and removed the pistol he kept inside. It made a soft click as he placed it on the table. Then he sat.
Eventually, he realizes that it is dark around him. The house is silent. He does not remember turning off the lights, but under the circumstances it doesn’t seem to matter. Reaching out, he gasps the holster and flicks open the button.
Another hand rests over his.
The man freezes stiff. Something is sitting across the table from him. He can see an outline in the gloom—a section of deeper darkness that might perhaps be a person.
“Not yet,” says the thing across the table, with a voice that is far from human. Each word is like the rush of winter air, and the sounds come from far away.
“I’m tired.” The man says, and his voice cracks. “I’m always so tired.”
“Your family loves you. You are comfortable and fed. You have many friends,” said the thing. “Come the daylight, you will even know happiness. What more would you ask of me?”
“Please. Please, they’ll be fine without me. Just let me die.”
“Not yet,” said the thing. “I have seen your dreams. You wish to vomit, believing you can expel your pain. You yearn for cancer, for at least then you would know why it hurts. But these are childish thoughts. Take comfort in your home, love your children, and make love to your wife while the sun is still up. You will smile then.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You mistake me.” The thing’s words emerged as a hiss. One of its fingers prodded at the man’s arm. He could feel his skin deform and twist under its touch.
Then his skin tore. It ripped. With two fingers, the thing grasped a loose strand and pulled it from his arm like the peel of an orange. When it was done, it released his skin, and stuck two fingers through his arm. They passed through without resistance, and wiggled on the other side. There was no flesh or bone to block their way.
“You are a hollow creature,” said the thing. “During the day, when the sun burns in the sky, I am content to lend you what is mine. As night falls, I must make my own way for a time. You feel my absence, but I have done you no harm. You know this to be true.”
“What, you’re going to tell me I feel it in my fucking heart?”
“You don’t have a heart,” said the thing. “You make your wife happy. You have told her you love her many times. But you always tell her during the day. At night, you know you don’t mean it.”
“I can’t…” The man’s voice cracked. Tears formed in his eyes. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will. We are not the worst monsters in this world, you and I. You feel nothing when you tell your wife you love her. You would feel nothing if you opened her throat. You have no more remorse or pity than you have love. But you have chosen to pretend you love her, and that is something at least. You make her happy. She is not like us.”
“And if I refuse, and shoot myself anyway?”
“You have lovely children.”
When the lights came back on, the man found himself curled up on the floor under the table. The house was as bright and cheerful as it had even been. His arm was whole, and showed no signs of damage. The clocked showed four-AM, and outside it was dark.
He gripped his head and tried to scream. He tried to cry, but he hadn’t tears within him.
He lay there until the sun rose and sweet unconsciousness took him.
I confess, I'm lost.
Is this story literal, or figurative? Is the man an actual clockwork automaton, or only metaphorically? Who was the other creature?
Was this all just the hallucination of a mentally ill man contemplating suicide, or a robot whose soul runs around at night?
Is this story literal, or figurative? Is the man an actual clockwork automaton, or only metaphorically? Who was the other creature?
Was this all just the hallucination of a mentally ill man contemplating suicide, or a robot whose soul runs around at night?
Most of the exposition of this story comes from the apparition, which is kind of an unnatural way to do it. And even then, I'm missing a lot of information about what I'm being told (see Hap's comment). The verbiage used here is teasing a story with a strong aftertaste, something impactful or empowering or gut-punching to say, but... the telling of that thing is unnatural, so I don't even get it. It's unfortunate, because there's a great idea here. I'm sure of it.
If I could make a suggestion, I think it would be to make us care about this man more before the scene with his apparition. Some personality, backstory, something that'll give me an idea that something is wrong with him (specifically at night or otherwise), and just to what extent he loves or doesn't love his family.
I hope that makes sense. And thanks for writing! It was definitely an intriguing entry.
If I could make a suggestion, I think it would be to make us care about this man more before the scene with his apparition. Some personality, backstory, something that'll give me an idea that something is wrong with him (specifically at night or otherwise), and just to what extent he loves or doesn't love his family.
I hope that makes sense. And thanks for writing! It was definitely an intriguing entry.
Alternate Title: Me, Myself, and Robot
Upon re-reading this, and upon reading the others' comments, I feel like there's a pretty great story buried deep down within The Clockwork Man, but the piece falls victim to some seriously amateurish writing.
An exposition dump between two characters who already know each other does not make for a compelling read, for reasons mentioned by others. There is no reason for this guy's soul(?) to be telling him most of this, and this seems like the sort of conversation they'd be having all the time anyway.
I didn't think there'd be this much exposition with so little context. We don't know why this guy is a robot, or why he seems to be split between his physical self and his spiritual self, and we don't even know how he got in this situation anyway. If he doesn't love his wife, how did he get with her in the first place? How did they meet? What was their first date like? How many people attended the wedding?
I wanna knoooooooow!
But okay, getting past that, there are two things here that really bug me, and they have to do with the writing itself. These are not stylistic choices, mind you, these are obviously errors that came about from a lack of polish.
First, the tense changes. There are a lot of them, and this story can't decide if it wants to be told in past or present tense. I know a certain writer who likes to write in present and then rewrite his works into past tense, but he probably didn't pen this.
There is also the less frequent but still apparent problem of dialogue attribution. When attributing dialogue without a question mark or exclamation point at the end of the dialogue line, use a comma. Don't capitalize the first word of the attribution.
This is a mistake made by writers who are starting out and who are not familiar with the mechanics yet.
I say this because I really want the author to consider the premise of The Clockwork Man and do something really good with it. Expanded and revised it might make for a good professional sci-fi story that you can submit to Strange Horizons or Clarkesworld or whatever you prefer.
So don't give up hope!
Upon re-reading this, and upon reading the others' comments, I feel like there's a pretty great story buried deep down within The Clockwork Man, but the piece falls victim to some seriously amateurish writing.
An exposition dump between two characters who already know each other does not make for a compelling read, for reasons mentioned by others. There is no reason for this guy's soul(?) to be telling him most of this, and this seems like the sort of conversation they'd be having all the time anyway.
I didn't think there'd be this much exposition with so little context. We don't know why this guy is a robot, or why he seems to be split between his physical self and his spiritual self, and we don't even know how he got in this situation anyway. If he doesn't love his wife, how did he get with her in the first place? How did they meet? What was their first date like? How many people attended the wedding?
I wanna knoooooooow!
But okay, getting past that, there are two things here that really bug me, and they have to do with the writing itself. These are not stylistic choices, mind you, these are obviously errors that came about from a lack of polish.
First, the tense changes. There are a lot of them, and this story can't decide if it wants to be told in past or present tense. I know a certain writer who likes to write in present and then rewrite his works into past tense, but he probably didn't pen this.
There is also the less frequent but still apparent problem of dialogue attribution. When attributing dialogue without a question mark or exclamation point at the end of the dialogue line, use a comma. Don't capitalize the first word of the attribution.
This is a mistake made by writers who are starting out and who are not familiar with the mechanics yet.
I say this because I really want the author to consider the premise of The Clockwork Man and do something really good with it. Expanded and revised it might make for a good professional sci-fi story that you can submit to Strange Horizons or Clarkesworld or whatever you prefer.
So don't give up hope!
I'm guessing:
This is all a metaphor for clinical depression, but that's just a guess on my part. Personally, I'd like the main character to bite back at the thing before it disappears--show a little agency, I think is the standard "lit crit" phrase. Right now, he's defined by passive activities, quite literally by not doing anything at the end. Maybe have him snarl something about how, yeah, he may not be real but the thing is even less real since it's just a figment on his imagination. Right now, it's a story about inactivity, and that's a hard sort of story to write.
Mike
This is all a metaphor for clinical depression, but that's just a guess on my part. Personally, I'd like the main character to bite back at the thing before it disappears--show a little agency, I think is the standard "lit crit" phrase. Right now, he's defined by passive activities, quite literally by not doing anything at the end. Maybe have him snarl something about how, yeah, he may not be real but the thing is even less real since it's just a figment on his imagination. Right now, it's a story about inactivity, and that's a hard sort of story to write.
Mike
>>Miller Minus
>>No_Raisin
Thanks to everyone for their thoughts and feedback. It's not the best story I ever wrote, but I enjoyed writing it. Hopefully you got some fun out of it too.
>>Baal Bunny
Got it in one -- both the story's intention, and it's big flaw.
>>Hap
It's a man dealing with some serious issues. It's all in his head!
>>No_Raisin
Thanks to everyone for their thoughts and feedback. It's not the best story I ever wrote, but I enjoyed writing it. Hopefully you got some fun out of it too.
>>Baal Bunny
Got it in one -- both the story's intention, and it's big flaw.
>>Hap
It's a man dealing with some serious issues. It's all in his head!