Some say the Guardians of Time created this door to drive men insane. But that’s a bunch of malarkey. This is a rumor spread by those who obsess about the past or the future, who want to alter an outcome in either way. They search for keys in hopes they will unlock the door to Time, never understanding that the improbable combination of handles and door pulls and knockers, were designed for their safety. Time is a dangerous animal, best left alone.
How do I know this? I am the last of the Guardians, the one who built this failsafe. But only after I tasted of the past. Changed just a piece of it. A birth. A birth that led to many deaths and the destruction of a nation. The burden is mine to carry until another comes along. One who will stumble across the combination in a fit of dumb luck. One who will repeat the same mistake I made. I’ve learned one thing for certain, that no matter how much time goes by, the mistakes of the past will repeat.
Unless…unless we do things differently, we learn from our failures. Is it possible? Or are these the ramblings of an old fool? Maybe both…
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Postcard Stories Podcast – An Author Reading.
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2 Replies to “Guardian of Time”
Wow! Love the photo…such a great prompt! And your story, of course, is amazing 🙂 I enjoy the bit of hope that shines here in your words. And the questions the reader may raise for themselves, as well as the choices they may consider is something unique to your storytelling. Keep sharing!
Thank you, Michele! I think my stories have taken on a more hopeful tone in the past month or so. There is so much chaos in our world right now that I feel we all need reminders to stay hopeful…I know I do.
Hinterland is Real
They say seeing is believing. I didn’t know what that meant until that night. I was coming home late, later than I should, and I knew I was going to catch heck. Momma didn’t even pretend to be patient when me or my sister wasn’t home in time for dinner.
Deadly Mist
The mist crept closer, slithering across the boot prints she left behind on the soft, moist ground. She urged her legs to go faster over the uneven path. A leafless tree grabbed at the flying strands of her long silver hair as she ran past. They hung like shiny tinsel
Path of the Dead
The path of a ghost is etched into the earth, hammered and chiseled by heeled boots, flat leather soles, and the barest of feet. I follow the prints up and over the rise. There is a man standing by the car, smartly dressed in black pants, an unblemished white shirt,