{"Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all it’s sons away; they fly forgotten as a dream dies at the opening day" – Isaac Watts.... My post be an entry to 
Stumbling through the snow, a body shambles left-to-right as the wind pushes and shoves the old, bearded lad. Grumbles escaping his mouth, his hands are still clutched trying to hold on to the last greenbacks he has. A strong breeze flying and swirling in the alleyway, the wind chucks and slams him to the snow-covered concrete. Picking himself up, his hands swabs away the cold, damp snow off. His body’s nerves seizing up every limb, his eyes and heads scanned around for where his cash could’ve gone; but nothing green stuck out in the snow-glazed concrete jungle. His legs continued the march as his eyes swelled up before retreating to dodge the hellishly cold breeze smacking his face
The ticking of clocks rang off, doors squeaking open with every hand pushing against it, carpets announcing the many cart races and all quiet to the wet squeaks of which reverberated against the marble floor. But no ear lended itself to the homeless man’s trudges, all gravitated on the rifling of each unit of cash. A shock, enforced by the nerves, attacked his body again, but his eyes needn’t investigate as his head hung low knowing who he was around. The clocks again going on, that’s all his ears heard but his mind found no joy in being ignored yet it did ease up as no one was staring at him.
Finally, after the repetition of his legs making baby steps, his body finally collided with the counter. His low hung head, for all his acute awareness, didn’t notice the abrupt change and the desk maid’s cough finally broke the silence.
"Sir, what’s your name?"
"He-huh, I’m Connoir."
"Alright Connoir, how long are you staying here for?"
"Miss, I only want to stay here for a night."
"Alright Connoir, that’ll cost you fifty dollars."
"Miss, please, I don’t have the money. Can you spare a room?-"
"Sorry, but everyone here has paid for their room and some don’t like the cold."
"Miss, the cold’s unbearable-"
"Pay up or leave Sir."
A lump choking his voice-box, his body spazzed before twisting around and his legs carrying him out. Yet his slow trudges was deafened by the quick blazing of feet stomping on the floor, the rifles of cash, the exchange of cash in between such and cash registers chinking with each successful money exchange. The cold wind grasping his skin despite the many layers, his legs forcefully trudged back into the icy snowscape as the heat of the hotel retreated back. Ærs plopped down on the steps, his legs and arms hurled up as tears came out; the tears thinking it the last time they get to escape the body, so carrying away the thoughts of any more times he can enjoy the wonders of rest. And so, eyes closing and the snow still furling around, he slumbered.
[1.]Connoir's shoulders began shaking, multiple hands latching unto him, soon his body jiggling to the shaking and his finally shooting open. The first sights, a sea of colours all invading his eyes and overloading his mind so much that he wished to return to the safe-place he hitherto left. Then the shaker squeaked a voice, paralyzed so thought the mind but his eyes sharpened and the blurs soon floated off elsewhere. Seeing, after long drabs of blur smudged on his vision, the lack of snow, his skin feeling irresistibly cooking, his body energetic and his heart a pumping alright. Once again the shaker squeaked, and this time his ear wouldn't neglect the call.
"He-uh? Where am I? Is this a joke? What place is this?-"
"Mister, calm down. Take a deep breathe, please you look redder than a rose. And take off that old garb, it ain't fierce winter even!"
"Where are- oh there yah are... Well, I shall do it for you I guess. But yeah, it really is hot; I thought we were in the ides of winter, not the midsummer's day."
"Did you hit your head or something, Mister? Anyways, this is the year twenty-one nineteen, place's a Queens and city's a St. Pulaski. And no, why would anyone prank a sleeping person on the ladderwell to the grand library; the most happiest and comfiest place ever to learn... well the ladderwell isn't but the point stands."
"Oh, by the grasps of Fortuna~ I wasn't sleeping for nearly or more than a century, now was I? And ladderwell... yah mean the steps?"
"Ladderwell, smadderwell, steppy-steps, steps. Ladderwell's the word around here, albeit you should've appreciated that since your wearing pre-war military garb underneath. But seeing all this, can't tell if you're joking with me or not. Seen a lot of clowns like you, but none as wise nor smart to fool me this far. Great job, come with me!~"
His frail yet still shaggy body was yanked to the air from the kid. Skipping across the lines across the sidewalk, Connoir's legs stumbling the whole lot before finding the timing of the skipping motion. His arms noticing the clothes about to whisk away to the air, he re-clutched them all and stabbed his legs down to cease the skipping motion. His and the kid's lungs catching air, his voice-box finally rang out.
"Kid, where are yah taking me and who are yah exactly? Why are yah trusting a stranger this much!"
"... Wait, so you're not a clown nor a clever actor... you're actually from the year twenty-nineteen? Well that would explain your free toe from that hole in your boot."
Looking down, it certainly had been a nasty spot that his nose wanted not to be reminded off, yet it look cleansed - maybe even shined if he stared hard enough. Yet the kid's tugs at the pockets shook his mind awake and re-centered his eyes on the kid.
"Gotta say, despite your fashion being so wild, it ain't an eye-sore. Looks nice on yah, despite me being still confused on who yah are. Hell yer accents a bit Irish and Polish to me, but... Please may I get a name and basic descriptor?"
"D'oh! Sorry~ Well name's a Clarentine and I'm taking you to the front of the library. And I trust you... cause yah talk funny and look a lot like great gramps!~ We're going to see and find your history, if they documented you well enough."
Paints of red striking and blurring his cheeks, Clarentine's mind pondered if it was a good idea to paint on his cheeks before deciding to yank him yet again. Connoir's checked once again the clothing of the kid: some weird headscarf on top of a mountain of shiny black hair, some stripped shirt he saw a couple of times when he went past the Slavic communities in his town, a skirt that acted much like trousers and gave a pirate taste to it and of course a choker he barely saw in the clean part of his old city. But his eyes shifted back to what was ahead of him and his hands jumped in front of him to then only feel the empty air as the doors sang its sliding away.
"Itsa Connoir? Righto? Don't care, we're going for mine right after. So please, step inside this and types yours as I type in my name."
"Oh, okay... By the Rum o' Cap'n Morgan it's a pod on a track. Wonder where I could set sail in this ship... wait the kid's a wearing a pirate skirt and here I am talking pirate lingo... and kid looks androgynous. Uh... No. I shouldn't pay attention, kid's a growing up. But what a runner with that energetic carelessness; heh, reminds me a bit of me in that kid. Anyways, seems like keyboards haven't changed much; even gained a few keys here and there. Now just enter in my name, strike the ENTER key and argh!"
The rail whistling the zipping cart, a laser cord zipps him across the archives. His eyes again blurring, but he could make out all the carts zipping by through the intersections and some even floating. At this point, his mind cared less about Clarentine but he felt sick for not even waiting their mark. Yet arriving and seeing a close-one trailing by, his eyes saw a holographic projection dot across the open air. His eyes were wide awoken, stretching even further than he thought possible.
"That's me, that's me. That's a picture of me from college, when degrees meant something! By the grace of Fortuna, my family survived despite loosing me. And what's this, a plus sign? Lemme tap on it? Whoa, that's a pecking metric town of family lines... hey is that kid's name Clarentine?"
"My gut feeling was right!?! Yay~ We finally... found you..."
"What's wrong kiddo?"
"We never actually had found you since you disappeared on the family long ago. And the day you came is the anniversary you had left due to army force-recruiting you..."
"I couldn't find my way back home, plus they injured me badly before I got discharged from the army... I can still feel my left leg limping... where are they, maybe I can calm them... where's my wife Sherry as well? I hope she survived without me after all these years."
"I'm the only one left in the entire family line... I can see if I can request a taxi at this hour..."
The bullet long lodged into his body was again shook, forcing his heart to quiver as his hands grasped it. His eyes poured again, but this time without stop. Both getting off the track, he kept his head low as they entered the cab. The driver looked back, robotic eyes widening and Clarentine whispering to the ear - the circuitry finally making sense of it all. Zipping past the streets full of bikes, walkers, buses and some of them, they eventually hovered over to the entrance of the graveyard. The driver whispering back that they can wait, a smile formed on Clarentine as Connoir was dragged outta the cab. A wild black rose snatched by Clarentine's hands, they continued walking down until they arrived at grave stones; his eyes seeing Sherry's tomb, he felt ghostly fingers raising his chin up to the sky.
Clarentine starring up, she quivered a smile as Connoir's eyes stopped welling; looking at the tombstone inscriptions, both smiled at was written. That was before their minds returned and forced their faces to display identical defeated faces that they just escaped from momentarily. A flower singing it's fall gracefully, Connoir's eyes stared down as the vestige began seeping back into the ground giving a final kiss before fully disappearing into the flower. His fingers picking it up, his lips smooched it before his body helped in placing it down.
"So I guess we're what's left of a great space of history... my name's Connoir and I like to start over again. You?"
"And I guess we are, there's a lot for you to catch up on unfortunately... my name's Clarentine but I like to know how it was all those decades ago. Will you?"
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Need to put a pause on the Twenty-four Short Contest for the time beingmctiller · We're Back! Writers win five steem! The March 26 Twenty-four hour short story contest. A little kid discovers their teddy bear can talk. And the teddy bear tells of something bad coming.mctiller · 