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My little old copper alarm clock rests on my desk tick-tocking away each inevitable second of the day, only to shake, rattle, and ring me to wake every morning.
As I lay there in bed, half dead, sometimes wishing maybe that I was, achy and tired stretching and scratching like a jungle cat, I feel the morning crawl into my house. The smell of fresh coffee creeps under my door my sister’s radio blares the newest teen sensation and drowns out the morning news light seeps in through cracks in my curtains and the cold of a winter night forces me to burrow back under a warm heap of scratchy old quilts as I tell myself, “five more minutes and I’ll get up.” I contort myself into a comfortable knotty little ball under the heavy coverings and bury my head into the broken-in old feather pillow searching for warmth and what remains of my last dream. BRRRIIIIAAAAAANNNNGGGGG, ka-tank, tank, ka-tunk. My brain is electrocuted to life by the cantankerous little alarm clock. It’s fine springs and wires click into their places the polished metal bells get beat by the whipping hammer as it snaps back and forth. The bells scream out in alarm. It hops and jumps does the wake up dance on its stubby little legs, just to tell me it’s time to go.
As the clock stops dancing I reach out from my cave with a daring hand and grab it. It’s shockingly cold and damp nearly frozen by the night air that had blown in through my still open window. Only after I’ve set the clock down, do I notice the face has been frosted over by the night’s dew. The ticking hands run behind an opaque wall of ice doing their best to keep the time despite their arctic environment.
Just as I was about to call it a day and crawl back under the blankets, the coffee gods called to me from their percolating temple, “Elvis.!.!.!. The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.” Stunned, I looked up to see Juan Valdez and his trusty donkey sidekick standing in the doorway with a mug of steaming Joe. “Hola Senor,” Juan greeted me. “Mornin’ Juan, ” I replied as I crawled out of bed reaching for my steamy salvation. Just then it happened, Juan’s donkey reared back its head, gnarled it hairy lips, and emitted a noise like no earthly being could ever conjure…
BRRRIIIIAAAAANNNNGGG, ka-tank, ka-tunk, tanka, tunk. “Oh No,” I say to myself, “the donkey has eaten my alarm.” Only then do I realize it was just a crazy dream and carry on with my morning routine, all thanks to an ancient copper alarm clock that rests on my desk.
Note to self – No more coffee before bed . . .
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