Twelve Days of Fruk

Day Twelve: Just Like Clockwork

He looked upward, sleepy eyes going a bit wide as he saw the time. 10:38 pm. He'd been working late again without knowing. A tiny paw began to poke at his pant leg, and he looked down to see Skippie's tail waging back and forth as her pendulum kept time. Her head shook in a quick spasm that caused her to halt her pausing momentarily as the little glitch passed and she reset. He felt the tapping start up again.

"Fine, I'm getting up," he said, his voice dragged out by a yawn. He pushed back his chair from his workbench, and stood up, his back emitting a loud cracking as he moved. "I should really stop sitting in the same position for so long." He began to walk toward the door, with Skippie following along in a trot. Occasionally one of her legs would give out and she'd topple, but she never stayed down for long. She rebooted fast.

"Good evening, Mister Kirkland!" A young voice yelled out, awake despite the late hour.

"Good evening to you, too, Alfred," Arthur Kirkland greeted. "Sorry I've been so busy today, I didn't have any time to talk," he apologized, being down a little bit to be on Alfred's eye level.

"It's okay," He responded with a bright smile. "We know you're busy."

Arthur sighed, standing up straight again. "Speaking of 'we,' where's your brother?" He looked around the shop, until a mop of blond hair popped out from behind the shelving in the half-length loft.

"Here, sir!" Mathew responded, voice just loud enough to be heard, but still holding its whisper-like tone. He climbed down the ladder as fast as his sleepy body could, rubbing his eyes as he walked over to greet Arthur. "You need something?"

"No, no-" he shook his head. "-I came down mainly to tell you two to go to bed." He straightened out his long brown coat. "You have to get up again tomorrow morning, and it's best to sleep at a proper hour to get up on time." Alfred looked at the ceiling with his cheeks puffed up. "As some," he gave a joking little tap to Alfred's forehead, "seem to forget this fact every night."

"Alright, sir," he pouted. "We're going  sir!" He grabbed his brother's hand and headed toward the loft.

"Goodnight, Mister Kirkland!" Mathew waved back with his free hand. They climbed the ladder up, and settling into their thin little bed, they fell quiet as the candle on the floor next to them flickered out.

"Goodnight, boys," Arthur whispered. They couldn't hear him, but he always said it anyway. He headed back to the back of the room, climbing the old bronze-coloured stairs to his workshop. They creaked and groaned under even his light weight, even if he was trying to stay quiet as to not wake up the twins sleeping in the loft twenty feet away.

As he returned to his work, permanently bent fingers gingerly folding and fixing fragile copper wiring and metal gears, he thought about the boys. They were both eight years old, and he'd picked them up from the orphanage about two years ago to work for him. They seemed to enjoy being in his workshop, and doing the tasks he asked of them. They weren't old or skilled enough to build yet, but they cleaned and kept Skippie entertained during the day, making sure she was calibrated and functional. They also helped clean up, and both Mathew and Alfred enjoyed making simple foods, and honestly, those sandwiches were probably the only reason Arthur hadn't died of accidental starvation brought on by never leaving his workbench. They kept his record player from rusting, too, often playing the swing music he never listened to anymore, even if he still loved it. The muffled sound of bass and smooth voices that came through the floor from the warehouse-type area below seemed to make the hours flow together, only interrupted by the knocking of a tiny hand on the door, a smile and tray of sandwiches interrupting his work.

But now, with only the ticking of gears and the pendulum of the bronze clock making a sound, he could hardly focus. Skippie was powered down, her metal heart bumping along with the clock. Her metal gears rising and falling as the little engines of her leather lungs pumped out smoke like a lady's cigarette left a sweet scent of oil and ash in the air that clung to Arthur wherever he went. His long brown coat was in a heap on the floor, becoming a most comfortable cat bed for Skippie. His dark grey suspenders hung loosely on hunched over shoulders, as his brows creased in concentration. He played with the bronze gears of a pelvis, trying to figure out how to fix the ball-and-socket joint that had begun to rust. He used a thin toothbrush soaked in weak acid, trying to shine up the bronze.