Tick Tock

The cabin in the woods had been vacant for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The candle signaled to everyone who knew, that she was back: from the deepest recesses of a rotted jungle, the highest cold mountain, the longest winding river or the tea scented orient. She was back. If you were brave enough, you could go to her cabin and listen to her stories; stories that haunted you, stories that never left you, stories that sometimes came true. So, everyone said.

I had to know if the stories about her were true. My mother alway told me, "Curiosity killed the cat!" What did she know. As a budding author, I needed a story, something new, something that had never been told; I had heard or read them all. I knocked on her door.

"Do you enter this cabin door of your own free will?" The shadow of the stranger asked as she stood behind the curtained window that held the candle that lit the way to the cabin in the woods.

"Yes, I do."

"Then enter."

The door opened with a whisper; I had expected a creak. The air inside the cabin smelled fresh, not musty or mildew infused. The stranger looked young, unexpectedly young. She should have been old with gray, dry, wispy hair trying to escape the skin that hung like wrinkled crepe paper to her bones; but she wasn't old at all. In fact, she was quite pretty with smooth raven hair and only three crow's feet at each corner of her amber colored eyes. This struck me as unusual since I had heard the stories told about her since I was a child; stories told in whispers around the campfire. Ever since I could remember, the tales of this stranger trailed through the town like disjointed beads of a loosely strung pearl necklace. She should have been really old by now.

Tick tock.

"I presume you have come to listen to my stories."

"Yes, I have. My name is Maddy May. I am a writer and I am looking for some new stories, something fresh."

"And what will you pay me with?"

"Pay you?"

"Of course. Nothing in life is free."

"I have a lot of money. But of course, the amount of compensation totally depends on the quality of the stories told. Or I could simply give you a by-line, if you are interested in that sort of thing."

"No. I am not interested in money or by-lines. I require payment with something much more precious."

"What's more precious than money?"

"Your time."

"Sure! I have a lot of time."

"Then let us begin. Here, take a seat over here." The stranger pointed to a soft, red velvet arm chair.

Tick tock.

I took a seat, pulled out my notepad and readied myself, anxious to write down all the story ideas that she would gift to me.

"Once upon a time..."

"Excuse me, once upon a time? Are you really going to start the stories with 'once upon a time'?

"What better way to start; after all, time is what you are paying me with."

"Okay, I get it."

"Do you really?"

"Go on. Once upon a time..."

"Once upon a time, in the darkest green jungle a lonely man wandered. By choice, he wandered, for he searched for some meaning to his life. He was desperate, you see, for he thought that he had no meaning to his life or life had no meaning to him. He'd seen it all, felt it all, tasted it all and had even loved and lost. The idea percolated in his mind one day, as he sat in his Grandfather's Morris chair, that each day had simply become a series of tasks that needed to be done, yet each task signified nothing; he wouldn't be missed; somebody else would and could continue his tasks and the world would go on and on and on."

The stranger looked at me as I yawned.

"Too boring?"

"Just not very original, a meaning of life story."

"Give it more time. Remember, you said you had a lot of time to give. So, let's give it more time."

"Okay."

Tick tock.

"He wandered the jungle until he forgot about his daily tasks and time lost all meaning. With no clock to tell him to get up, he got up when he wanted. With no clock to tell him to eat because it was breakfast, lunch or dinner, he ate when he was hungry. With no clock to tell him to sleep, he slept when he wanted. He began to realize that in doing nothing, he was nothing; no achievements to speak of, no friends to share his meaningless tasks with and that now, nobody would even know that he was gone, so how could he be missed? He decided he wanted to go back to his life of tasks. He looked around to search for the path back home only to discover that he was lost."

"Really? Lost?"

"Yes, lost. But here comes the best part."

"He gets found?"

"No, it is the other way around. Give the story more time. I know you will like it."

"Sure. sure."

Tick tock.

"Exhausted from trying to find his way out of the forest, he lied down and fell into a deep sleep. The ground felt cool and moist, a perfect spot to relieve himself from the muggy, steaming forest. Just so happens, it was also a perfect spot for a particular spore from a particular fungus. As he breathed in the cool air from the cool forest floor, tiny spores that wafted in that cool air entered his nose and lungs. Time past, how much he never knew, but when he awakened, he was a changed man."

"Let me guess, the fungus covered him and he couldn't move. This story is sounding very Steven King-ish."

"Maybe. Don't forget, you asked for true stories. So, he wasn't covered in fungus. He wasn't covered with anything at all."

"Okay. I'm curious. How then, was this man changed."

Tick tock.

"Though he looked the same, he felt different. For some strange reason, being lost no longer worried him. His feet seemed to know where to go. They began to lead him in a definite direction, he simply had to follow his feet. He walked through the forest as if in a trance. When he felt hungry, he chewed off these strange mushrooms that proturded from the tips of his fingers. When he felt thirsty, he sucked on the tips of his fingers until satiation occurred. He walked for days and ate for days until he reached a clearing in the forest where a tribe of local Indians lived. Finally, his feet brought him to a stop. He found sanctuary, someone who could save him."

"Save him? But wasn't he covered in those mushrooms that he ate? And how can you drink water from your fingertips?"

"He didn't have mushrooms growing out of his fingertips, he just thought he did. And it wasn't water, it was blood."

"Gross. So, he found sanctuary, they patched him up and he went home, minus a few fingertips. End of story."

"Not quite. He entered the clearing, walked to the first tribesman that he could see and latched onto him. The other scared tribesmen gathered around this strange coupling. At first, one brave tribesman pulled as hard as he could to get this deranged man off of his friend. Then two tribesmen tried. Then three, but every time they pulled, the strangers grip tore into the flesh of his victim. The harder they pulled, the deeper the sharpened fingertips of the stranger dug into the tribesman. When all the tribesman had gathered around this stranger, the stranger, with a great breath followed by a howl, tilted his head back and released billions more of the same spores that had infected him. With great gasps of astonishment, the tribesmen all, unwittingly, pulled the spores into themselves."

"And they all died, right?"

"No. They are not dead."

"They turned into mushromms first, then died."

"No. Each fell into the same trance as the stranger. Each tribesman left the comfort of the clearing, their wicker homes and daily tasks to wander; each wandered in a different direction with a new purpose. To wander until another host could be found."

"Very Stephen King, everyone dies, really. I mean, they are dead, non-human anyway."

"Ahh, but did they die? Or did the stranger and the tribesmen become part of an organism that could answer the strangers quest to find a purpose to life, no more menial tasks. They became part of an organism that had a purpose in life, all the organism needed was time to fulfill that purpose."

"And that purpose was?"

"Time to live and to live on and on."

"So, it is a tale about the meaning of life. Nobody wants to hear those anymore. I think I have spent enough time here. Thank you, but I think I will go now."

"But wait. I have more."

"Okay, but no more meaning of life stories. I need something exciting and original."

"Just give me time. I am sure you will be pleased."

Tick tock.

I sat and listeded to story after story: magic stories, monster stories, hero stories, some with a few twists. Each story began with, "Once upon a time". Finally, the stranger came to the last story.

"Once upon a time..."

"Again?"

"Yes, of course. This is the last story so, 'once upon a time', as you will find out is very appropriate."

"Sorry. Continue."

"Once upon a time there was a girl that had everything: looks, courage, money to do as she pleased and just enough curiosity to enliven each day. She lived in the same town you were from."

"Would I know of her?"

"Heavens no. She disappeared long ago without a trace."

"This sounds interesting. I'm listening." The chair was becoming uncomfortable so I adjusted my position; a slight twinge in my hip made me wince.

"She could have done anything; opportunities knocked at her door. She could have traveled the world, worked just about anywhere, created her own adventures. Instead, she knocked on the door of a lonely cabin in the woods with the only desire of borrowing stories told by someone else. She carelessly paid for those stories with her own time; time she wasted sitting in a comfortable chair which, at the end, was no longer comfortable."

"Wait a minute. This sounds familiar too!"

The stranger leaned forward, her eyes so young they twinkled. I noticed that she no longer had any crow's feet gracing her eyes and she said, "It should sound familiar, I am telling the story of you. And your time is up.

"No, it can't be! I still need...". I looked down at my writing pad. Unfamiliar, old wrinkled hands marred with age spots loosely clutched the pad. I tried to get up but couldn't. I had sunk so far down into the chair that it swallowed me.

"Like I said, your time is up. Thank you, for your time."

Tick tock tick.

The stranger glanced back at me one last time as she rolled her travel bag across the cabin floor. She blew out the candle then laughed a she exited the cabin that once more disappeared, swallowed by the darkness of the woods.