litlinks 2024

One Last Time

by Abi Wykes, Harrison School

In the chamber’s dim light, the clock sounded a steady sombre tune, each tick a reminder of time’s firm hold. Its low hum lingered in the air, thick with years of dust. Corvin sat beneath the harsh light, a thin figure sinking into a battered leather chair, his fingers shaking on the brass time dial – his link to the passing hours. His eyes were deep and haunted but full of memories, some sharp, some fading.

Time once moved easily; its moments bright with fleeting sparks scattered across memory. Now, it felt narrow, dragging him towards an ending everyone must face. The sickness that burrowed beneath his ribs was a shadow, a slow chill hidden in every breath. It grew heavier with every day, a reminder that time wasn’t on his side anymore.

His voice, thin as autumn leaves, broke the silence: “One last time.”

The dial thrummed softly, something alive under his skin, offering hope and risk.

The world faded like mist in morning light.

Corvin stood beneath a lamplit street. Gas flames flickered through the fog, which smelled sweet from fresh rain. The cobblestones shone, reflecting passing faces.

His boots were quiet against the stones as he walked, lanky and lost. The cold bit like a blade beneath his coat, but he welcomed the sting; it was proof he still breathed, proof he was alive. His eyes scanned the faces, searching for something familiar, something he’d lost.

A woman passed, her umbrella opening like a dark flower against the drizzle. Her laughter rang out for a moment, lifting some of the gloom. Something fragile stirred in Corvin’s chest.

But the sickness inside tightened, cold as ever.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “One last time.”

Time seemed to shift, like something watching him, both friend and enemy. It whispered softly between each tick, locked in a quiet fight with Corvin’s will.

He was in a garden bordered by ivy, where jasmine sweetened the air. Sunlight fell in bright lines through the leaves. Warm memories floated in the scent of earth.

Corvin sank onto a cold iron bend. This was a part of his youth, a moment held still. Nearby, a child laughed, and a woman smiled; both brief and bright.

She was the love he remembered, her eyes shining with the light of better times. Corvin’s chest squeezed tight; the sickness whispered beneath the warmth, winter creeping into spring.

“Just one more,” he breathed, fingers tightening on the dial.

The gears groaned, the garden’s petals fell.

The air broke, replaced by the roar of war.

Smoke curled and choked the sky. Mud clung to boots; cannon fire shook the ground.

Corvin saw his younger face, strong and stubborn, burning in the fog. Gunpowder and fear bit his tongue, adrenaline surging.

Still, beneath it all, the sickness crept cold and quiet.

The time dial pulses, a steady beast in the chaos.

“Not like this,” he rasped. “One last time.”

Time’s presence felt heavier here, pressing against Corvin’s resolve like something alive.

The world shattered and he was in a quiet chamber, silver moonlight seeping through. The clock ticks, counting out the stillness.

A woman sat by the window, her face peaceful. This was a memory: love burning, not yet ashes.

Covin watched, quiet and longing, a shadow on the edge of the light.

His breath caught, wishing the past was within reach.

He reached out with skating fingers, brushing the edges of loss.

But the dial would not rest.

One last time.

The scene changed: now a hospital corridor, harsh and bright under fluorescent lights. Nurses moved quietly, their faces vague, voices muffled by machines.

Corvin stood among them, lost between moments. Cold metal from an IV drip pressed against his skin, the room sterile and silent.

His fingers clenched the dial, knuckles pale.

One final escape. One last journey.

The sickness, no longer distant, now gnawed at him relentlessly; a sharp reminder of time’s limits.

Time unravelled, pulling him along, falling and flying, spinning through memories, folded and fragile.

Faces spun past, loved and lost, laughing and crying, swirling in memory’s light.

But death is patient, following every traveller no matter how far they run.

Corvin’s eyes fluttered open again. The room was still, the clock shattered on the floor; its hands frozen at midnight – a breath of stillness. Midnight hung frozen in the air. No promise, no mercy.

The time dial lay cold beside him, its brass surface dulled and lifeless. The gears that once pulsed with fragile hope now stilled forever.

The sickness had taken everything.

Not just his breath. Not just his body.

It had claimed his time.

The air grew thick, almost viscous, as if the moments themselves were suffocating him. Corvin felt it: the weight of all the hours lost, the memories that slipped like sand through trembling fingers. Time was no longer a river flowing forward but a tightening noose, each second a slow, deliberate choke.

A whisper crawled through the shadows, not soft or kind, but sharp and accusing; a voice older than Corvin, older than life itself.

Time was not the friend he had hoped for. It was the final judge, relentless and unforgiving.

He tried to grasp it one last time, but his hands fell empty, trembling like dead leaves on a winter wind.

Outside the window, the world moved on without him; indifferent, cold.

The rain fell hard now, pounding the glass like a relentless drumbeat, drowning the faint echo of a name lost to the wind.

Corvin’s breath slowed, each exhale a surrender, each heartbeat a quiet defeat.

He was a man caught in the space between moments, a prisoner of time’s cruel design.

The dial would not turn again.

No last time.

Only silence.