Rock, rock, rock, rock goes the chair. E’en through her blurry vision, barely helped by the glasses, she could see the blood-colored syrup rise toward the top.
¿Are you sure you want to do this?, asked the middle-aged woman standing next to her, shifting where she stood with sweatdrops falling like rain from her reddening face. She kept wiping her hands on the sides o’ her pants.
It’s the only way to continue, said the grandmother.
& that was exactly what happened: the ice clogging the cogs that ran the whole world melted to supplicant water & the gears began turning ’gain; & with them, so did the rest o’ the world begin moving, including the horse & buggy on which the local clockmaster rode to get back to his lodging, which had been there for almost a year.
The middle-aged woman’s mouth hang open as if ’twere the Marxmas o’ 1976 all o’er ’gain.