Fic: The Secondhand Pocket Watch (Original Fiction)
Title: The Secondhand Pocket Watch
Author: duckybusiness08
Rating: PG
Word Count: 925
Prompt: My tutor gave me the prompt: Write a short story based on the title The Secondhand Pocket Watch.
Summary: Everything has a story behind it.
Disclaimer: Not slash or fan fiction of any kind. It's an original story by me. However, it is based off a certain story which I will credit at the end; otherwise, it will spoil the story. May be used to gain profit. ;)
A/N: Even though it is not fan fiction, I'd like it if you read and commented on it. I think it's a pretty cute story and a great tale of serendipity. :)
You leave the pawn shop, the pocket watch sitting in its package. You got it cheap, only paying 5 pounds for a piece worth about 15. Amazing bargain, you think.
As you make your way down the snowy sidewalk, you pull out the watch and examine it. The thin sheet of gold encasing the clock within is cold from the chilly air, and you feel a chill run down your spine as you cup it in your bare hands.
It isn't very easy to live poor, but you manage it. You don't mind shopping secondhand or thirdhand --heck, you'll settle for fourth-hand, for that matter. One thing you love to do is to clutch a used trinket you just bought and wonder what the person who'd possessed it before you was like.
The design on the watch is simple, a small engraving for a laurel bush on the gold. There is a tiny dent on the edge where the roots of the bush would have been if the maker had cared for some.
You run a finger over the dent. How did that get there? Did the previous owner accidentally hit it on the edge of a bureau while freshening up in the morning? Or maybe he had it in his pocket and ran into a railing as he rushed to work.
Now why did the previous owner give it up? Had he been tight on money and been forced to sell it to pay the rent? Maybe he was a wealthy yet sensible character and sold it because of the flaw in it. Was he a loving yet poor father who gave up the watch so he could feed his children?
You stop walking once you reach the curb, waiting for the barrage of automobiles to puff past. A careless driver speeds past, sending a gust of cold air your way. Your skirt flies up, and you sheepishly push it down again. The watch is still in your hand, and you tighten your grip around it so you don't drop it.
Maybe the previous owner had received the watch as a gift. Was it a wife who gave it to him? Maybe a good friend or a brother? Why had he gotten it? Was it his birthday, Christmas, or just a gift of friendship from an affluent chum?
You approach your home, a humble little building on the corner of Chester and Woodrow. You take the time to slip the watch back in its box. You use your key to unlock the front door and make your way in. It's not much warmer than the outdoors but it's cozy enough.
The pot of soup you'd put on the heat earlier is sitting on the stove, the lid trembling from the pressure of the steam it is containing. The stove is of a primitive design, having the steampunk appearance of earlier eras. A rare perk of living frugally is the penchant for one to use older, more fashionable things that are now cheaper.
You take the stairs up to where the bedrooms are. You tiptoe towards the one located all the way down the hall. It's the only bedroom with a fireplace, and that's where your elderly father sleeps.
When you enter his room, you find him sitting up in bed, spectacles perched on the sharp tip of his nose, squinting at a book. Ever since your had died, he's been growing increasingly depressed, and as a result, increasingly ill.
Stricken with grief, he'd moved all the way from America to England to live with you, as he couldn't bear to live alone and without his wife. You would've gladly migrated to him, but your father, in his emotional ordeal, found it unnecessary to give you any notice ahead of time. You were incredibly startled when you opened your door one foggy morning to your bloodhound-eyed father throwing his arms around you and bursting into sad moans.
Now, he's living with you as his health deteriorates. Your father denies any medical assistance because he wants to join your mother in heaven when the time is right, so he says.
You knock gingerly on the frame of the door.
"Father?" you say.
He looks up from his book and smiles, even though the melancholy is still very much apparent in his eyes.
"I've got something for you," you say, holding up the box.
He says nothing, only smiling wider as you walk over to give him the package. He graciously accepts it and clumsily unwraps the package.
Your father slowly takes out the watch, his eyes narrowing to get a better look at it. He examines it for several minutes, turning it over and over in his rough fingers.
Suddenly, his face changes and he starts crying. You panic, covering his hand with yours as you murmur soothing words to him until he finally calms down.
In his husky voice and through the remaining tears, he chokes out, "My dear daughter, sit down. I've got to tell you a story."
You sit yourself down on a nearby stool and he begins talking.
"It was Christmas, many years before you were born. I was still living in America with your mother. We were poor, but we were in love. Each of us had one thing that we prized. For me, it was this very pocket watch. For your mother, it was her hair.
"She had the longest, most beautiful hair of anybody in that time, quite like yours, and all she wanted for Christmas was a set of turtle shell combs...
~
The story I kind of based this on is The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry. If you have never read it, please do so here. It'll help you understand the story if you didn't at first.
Author: duckybusiness08
Rating: PG
Word Count: 925
Prompt: My tutor gave me the prompt: Write a short story based on the title The Secondhand Pocket Watch.
Summary: Everything has a story behind it.
Disclaimer: Not slash or fan fiction of any kind. It's an original story by me. However, it is based off a certain story which I will credit at the end; otherwise, it will spoil the story. May be used to gain profit. ;)
A/N: Even though it is not fan fiction, I'd like it if you read and commented on it. I think it's a pretty cute story and a great tale of serendipity. :)
You leave the pawn shop, the pocket watch sitting in its package. You got it cheap, only paying 5 pounds for a piece worth about 15. Amazing bargain, you think.
As you make your way down the snowy sidewalk, you pull out the watch and examine it. The thin sheet of gold encasing the clock within is cold from the chilly air, and you feel a chill run down your spine as you cup it in your bare hands.
It isn't very easy to live poor, but you manage it. You don't mind shopping secondhand or thirdhand --heck, you'll settle for fourth-hand, for that matter. One thing you love to do is to clutch a used trinket you just bought and wonder what the person who'd possessed it before you was like.
The design on the watch is simple, a small engraving for a laurel bush on the gold. There is a tiny dent on the edge where the roots of the bush would have been if the maker had cared for some.
You run a finger over the dent. How did that get there? Did the previous owner accidentally hit it on the edge of a bureau while freshening up in the morning? Or maybe he had it in his pocket and ran into a railing as he rushed to work.
Now why did the previous owner give it up? Had he been tight on money and been forced to sell it to pay the rent? Maybe he was a wealthy yet sensible character and sold it because of the flaw in it. Was he a loving yet poor father who gave up the watch so he could feed his children?
You stop walking once you reach the curb, waiting for the barrage of automobiles to puff past. A careless driver speeds past, sending a gust of cold air your way. Your skirt flies up, and you sheepishly push it down again. The watch is still in your hand, and you tighten your grip around it so you don't drop it.
Maybe the previous owner had received the watch as a gift. Was it a wife who gave it to him? Maybe a good friend or a brother? Why had he gotten it? Was it his birthday, Christmas, or just a gift of friendship from an affluent chum?
You approach your home, a humble little building on the corner of Chester and Woodrow. You take the time to slip the watch back in its box. You use your key to unlock the front door and make your way in. It's not much warmer than the outdoors but it's cozy enough.
The pot of soup you'd put on the heat earlier is sitting on the stove, the lid trembling from the pressure of the steam it is containing. The stove is of a primitive design, having the steampunk appearance of earlier eras. A rare perk of living frugally is the penchant for one to use older, more fashionable things that are now cheaper.
You take the stairs up to where the bedrooms are. You tiptoe towards the one located all the way down the hall. It's the only bedroom with a fireplace, and that's where your elderly father sleeps.
When you enter his room, you find him sitting up in bed, spectacles perched on the sharp tip of his nose, squinting at a book. Ever since your had died, he's been growing increasingly depressed, and as a result, increasingly ill.
Stricken with grief, he'd moved all the way from America to England to live with you, as he couldn't bear to live alone and without his wife. You would've gladly migrated to him, but your father, in his emotional ordeal, found it unnecessary to give you any notice ahead of time. You were incredibly startled when you opened your door one foggy morning to your bloodhound-eyed father throwing his arms around you and bursting into sad moans.
Now, he's living with you as his health deteriorates. Your father denies any medical assistance because he wants to join your mother in heaven when the time is right, so he says.
You knock gingerly on the frame of the door.
"Father?" you say.
He looks up from his book and smiles, even though the melancholy is still very much apparent in his eyes.
"I've got something for you," you say, holding up the box.
He says nothing, only smiling wider as you walk over to give him the package. He graciously accepts it and clumsily unwraps the package.
Your father slowly takes out the watch, his eyes narrowing to get a better look at it. He examines it for several minutes, turning it over and over in his rough fingers.
Suddenly, his face changes and he starts crying. You panic, covering his hand with yours as you murmur soothing words to him until he finally calms down.
In his husky voice and through the remaining tears, he chokes out, "My dear daughter, sit down. I've got to tell you a story."
You sit yourself down on a nearby stool and he begins talking.
"It was Christmas, many years before you were born. I was still living in America with your mother. We were poor, but we were in love. Each of us had one thing that we prized. For me, it was this very pocket watch. For your mother, it was her hair.
"She had the longest, most beautiful hair of anybody in that time, quite like yours, and all she wanted for Christmas was a set of turtle shell combs...
~
The story I kind of based this on is The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry. If you have never read it, please do so here. It'll help you understand the story if you didn't at first.