A Small Time Ripple

Ringo the Time Manager stood on the dock and watched time go by in silken ripples.

To anyone else, the object of his attention looked like a large, black lake.

No waves.

No motion.

But Ringo was a Time Manager. So, he could see the ripples of time’s movement. Seconds. Minutes. Moments. Months. Weeks. Years.

Some of the ripples were close together.

Others were spaced far apart.

They all traveled into the horizon, heading straight to the Island of Memories. They would crash upon the shore and crystalize.

That’s what he had been told eons ago.

Eons ago.

So many ripples ago.

Those ripples were long gone and crystallized on the far distant shore.

When he was younger, he’d been tempted to jump into the ripples. He wanted to know how they felt against his skin, if they had a taste, if they had some sort of flavor. Did they feel like water? Did they feel like mist? Did they feel like day? Did they feel like night?

He had knelt on the dock and reached down to touch a small ripple. It was so small. It was more like a wrinkle than a true ripple. No harm would come of touching it.

So, he touched it — one small ripple in the vast lake of time.

That one touch created a new ripple and a new ripple and a new ripple. Time moved all wrong. It chopped and churned like an aggressive sea. More and more ripples appeared. There was no rhythm. No order.

All was chaos.

It had taken a whole team of Time Managers to pull time back into its God-given order. Ringo had sworn to them all that he would never make that mistake again.

Not ever again.

That was so many years ago.

So many memories ago.

So many ripples.

He smiled, content with the knowledge that he had kept that solemn promise.

And he always would.

Ringo the Time Manager stood on the dock and watched time go by one perfect ripple at a time.

May Writing Prompts

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