Help Wanted: Stillwell
A rhyming story I wrote for the NYCMidnight Rhyming contest. The prompts were Ghost Story/9 to 5/Enthusiastic. It was challenging, but it got me to Round 2!
It’s said, when in Stillwell if one plans to labor, lock an eye on the time like a hawk. See, each weary neighbor who has worked past the bell has regrets from ignoring that clock. It’s here Billy Brady, a bright, yet poor lad, has earned an unknown position. Any job he’d have had, for Sarah, his lady; a beautiful, fledgling beautician.. They met in Bangkok, impassioned they fell, a family was Sarah’s true dream. He would walk straight through hell, to be his love’s rock, he’d join any uncertain team. So dressed to impress he saunters the halls of the office in which he’ll succeed. Passing beige-matted walls With strides of finesse That no other could ever exceed. He arrives right at nine, bright and ready to start; enthusiasm reaching apex. Billy knows in his heart in this role he can shine. He awaits orders for what is next. But no manager comes and the workday still runs. Billy grins at the clock and is seated. A deep breath in his lungs he starts adding up sums on papers that seem like it’s needed. With a glance at the clock and a flick of some ink, Billy does what he’s come here to do. Run some data, don’t blink; no need now to talk. The bell chimes the hour of two. At a furious clip (and a nod to the time) Billy's finding his rhythm and drive. Earning every last dime, can’t stop or he’ll slip. Barely catches the tock tick to five. The math becomes humbling; his attention, it wanes. Billy knows that the clock just distracts. Past the bell he remains; hushed whispers mumbling. The others’ eerie silence protracts. The numbers seem endless, the papers are, too. Has that inbox been there the whole time? And more spreadsheets come through, more peers coalesce. Billy no longer hears the clock chime. Pen scrapes like a chisel, iron grip like a clamp, but young Billy won’t let himself stop. His forehead drips damp shan’t make his drive fizzle, so he’ll work and he’ll work ‘til he drops. The hours tick onward. How long has it been? It’s not healthy to work without end. And when did he begin? The clock’s been ignored; Time unnoticed is never your friend. Billy sat unaware, focused only on work; all the others have frozen in place. Some accountants, a clerk, gazing on in despair sadness written on each haunted face. In regard for his wife, seeking viable work, his ambition is keeping him blind. While dark shadows now lurk, poor Billy’s young life starts to melt and decay and unwind. If he only could see his coworkers there, how they’ve faded and turned icy white; spectral clothes that they wear like a mournful banshee– he’d avoid the wights’ torturous blight. Fingers grow ghastly gaunt; cheeks sink like soaked mud; exuberance shrivels from the eyes. Billy’s skin starves for blood, a drained spiritual font, and body dematerialized. A painful moan leaves him. His vision grows foggy. Desperate eyes seek the clock but it left. The lad’s mind becomes groggy, thoughts of Sarah turn dim– the love for his love…now…bereft… … Now one of the faceless, the wraiths drift back to work. What was once Billy Brady is gone. Simply one ghostly clerk whose sad fate is traceless; forever a hapless eidolon. You see, when in Stillwell, if one plans to labor, you must follow the time like a hawk, there’s danger much greater if you dwell past the bell and forget to keep watch on the clock.