The clock that counted backwards
The Clock That Counted Backwards — Experimental Short Story #3
From the series: 60 Experimental Short Stories
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A Journey Against Time: Experimental Narrative Reimagined
In the realm of conventional storytelling, time flows forward—like a river destined to reach the ocean. But what if time rebelled? What if memory outran chronology and cause danced behind effect? Welcome to the third installment in our trailblazing series, 60 Experimental Short Stories, where narrative laws are bent, logic is questioned, and the reader is invited to inhabit a world that challenges form and meaning alike.
Today’s story, "The Clock That Counted Backwards," is a surreal and metaphysical journey wrapped in the folds of psychological time travel. It is not science fiction. It is not a ghost story. It is something in between: a whispering meditation on regret, inevitability, and the mystery of memory itself.
The Clock That Counted Backwards
On his seventy-ninth birthday, Dr. Anwar Bukhari, a retired physicist known more for his brooding silence than brilliance, received an anonymous parcel wrapped in yellowing paper. Inside lay an antique pocket watch, still ticking. But something was strange—it counted backward.
23:59:57…
23:59:56…
23:59:55…
He blinked. Surely a trick. Surely a joke from a long-forgotten student.
But that night, as he drifted into sleep, Anwar found himself in his old university laboratory, young again, chalk in hand, scrawling equations on a blackboard with reckless passion. No cane. No tremor. His wife, Saira, still alive—still humming that Lata Mangeshkar tune from their courtship. The room smelt of dust, ozone, and hope.
Every morning that followed, he awoke younger.
His knees unbent. His spine straightened. His memory sharpened. The world outside, however, aged. Newspapers reported days in reverse. Calendar pages tore backward. Even his neighbors began to forget who he was.
By day thirty, he was thirty years old. Saira, now resurrected, whispered to him from mirrors and photo frames.
By day ten, he was ten. And Saira was a bedtime story, sung in lullabies.
By the final day, Anwar lay in a crib, cooing at a ceiling fan spinning counterclockwise.
And then—nothing.
Only the clock. Still ticking. Still counting.
Analysis: Breaking the Mold of Time and Narrative
This short story disrupts linear storytelling not only in content but in form. By choosing reverse chronology, the story presents memory as more trustworthy than reality and loss as a slow unraveling rather than an abrupt rupture. The central object—the backward-counting clock—is both literal and metaphorical: a symbol of regret, of unfulfilled equations, and of the human desire to undo.
In traditional narrative arcs, the climax is followed by resolution. But here, resolution precedes climax. Life regresses toward the womb, evoking T.S. Eliot’s lines: “In my beginning is my end.”
Such experimental stories unmoor the reader and force reflection. Who are we without our timeline? What if time forgave? Or forgot?
A Word to Our Readers
This story is the third entry in our 60-story experimental series—an ambitious literary endeavor celebrating the strange, the beautiful, and the structurally rebellious. Every story will dare to challenge one narrative norm—whether through form, voice, structure, or perspective.
We invite our readers, old and new, to join this creative odyssey. Whether you're a student of literature, a passionate writer, or a lover of all things peculiar, this series is yours.
Soon, these stories will be compiled into a free eBook edition followed by a beautiful hard copy collector’s volume. Stay with us. Share your thoughts. Tell others. And keep visiting:
farazparvez1.blogspot.com
Where words rebel, and stories remember.
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