I read about this community in mister_endon
´s post and really like the idea of it. So I´ve tried to write some kind of short story , though I´ve to apologise for my poor English that prevented the main idea to become any bigger despite of hours spent writing...
So , that´s what the +TIME+ triggered out of my crazy mind :
She picked up the robin. Dead he was , she didn´t know the reason.
“This little bird” she thought, “ hasn´t deserved to die,” and she bedded him comfortably in her bag when she left.
“I´ll endow him my precious,”she thought and it took but a moment to find the gift, her own grandmother had given to her about 80 years ago.
A tiny clock it was, made to be carried around in a pocket and as big as a robin´s heart might be.
Small and golden it lay in her wrinkeled hand and she sighed in the knowledge to watch it the last time ticking - backwarts.
As she´d sewn his breast with her old and shaky fingers a tear rolled down her cheek.
It didn´t work.
But when sadness was about to replace her last thought of hope for the robins´ and her own life the tiny claws started to twitch.
The blood circuit of the bird must have taken its time to find the rhythm of the clockwork, as the robin finally was recalled to life.
And as he precauriously stood there on her old , wooden kitchentable, blurred knife and sewing kit beneath him, she suddenly knew it had been wrong.
She saw the petty, knoblike eyes that first displayed the glance of final peace change into the lifestruggling , unseeing eyes of terror.
Raticide obviously has been his destiny.
The poor creature screeched in pain as the realization , the agony of close death and the leathal effect of the poison shot through his body.
Hours and hours as he has been tortured yet he felt this time he´d “survive” and he didn´t find the promise of eternal rest anymore.
So when he eventually felt the ache elapse and threw up the bluish peace of bread, which he so vividly could remember to have been given by a nice , old , female human , his fear and knowledge did not pass by.
And although the power of his young life poured back into his body , the strenght of his heart , which he could see lying there between bloody sheets , has forsaken him. Exhausted of life , though young and hefty, he closed his eyes and in a conlusive movement he settled down at his imaginary nest of his own falling feathers replaced by the down of his childhood.
When the neighbour found her the next day peacefully lying in her antiquated bed she held a tiny egg, smaller than one off a henn, embedded in her hands.As she was carried out of her house it fell down to the ground and if someone was watching , he could have seen a golden clock, within the broken peel, running backwarts.