As the sky faded and the night fell upon the world, leaving the house in a dark, lonesome shade, the trio went off to bed. It was their slumbering hour, yet the wakening hour for many others was just beginning.
The clock ticked tirelessly, being the only thing that broke the deafening silence. His sentient eyes seemed to scan the surroundings contemplatively, as nothing else in the house moved. All that is, except for dear little Sketchbook, who was sitting wide awake on the kitchen table.
She was scribbling mindlessly throughout that day, until she noticed the funny looking clock with the dorky bow. She thought little of it, but then he started singing.
Another one? She thought, genuinely surprised as she heard the tune unfolding in the living room. I guess I'm not the only one after all! She had spent so much time alone, with nothing but the trio for company in that house, so she had to admit she was the least bit excited. Besides, the trio didn't really count as any company, as they avoided her with every opportunity they had, still reminiscent of her failed lesson earlier that year. She still felt considerately guilty for the unnecessary and accidental trauma she had caused, but thought she did what was needed.
She convinced herself that in the end, it was just a matter of how they reacted. She did nothing wrong in her eyes, but merely opened their own. They took such information and twisted it into something it wasn't meant to be used for, resulting in her conclusion that they shouldn't ever attempt to be "creative" ever again. That's what she believed, anyway.
Halfway through clock's lesson, she had managed to tuck herself in a few hidden places as to listen but not disrupt (as she felt the utmost respect for anyone brave enough to teach an audience anything). She also knew that the trio wasn't the most digilent audience, so seeing the way he handled their disrespect and constant questioning was an interesting experience on it's own. She admired his method, however wondered if there was a better way, or even a better ending to it all, considering the way his lesson played out.
The clock's lesson didn't end so great either, which boosted her morale ever so slightly. But it was so very bewildering… Was that the way things were supposed to go? It didn't seem so. She wasn't sure on how it was meant to be, and always assumed she had done something terribly wrong. But the clock and his teachings of time intrigued her greatly, and she wondered if there were more out there like them.
So she eventually came to the conclusion she would greet this clock herself and see what possibly she might find. The trio was dead asleep by now, so she didn't worry too much about their prying ears.
The clock had slipped away from his spot on the wall, his long limbs returning in what must've been the blink of an eye. He prowled around the house (practically soundlessly, save for the ticking) when he heard a voice.
"Hey, hey!" Sketchbook kept her tone relatively quiet, but still loud enough to capture his attention.
The clock swiveled around and faced the voice's direction, only to see a small notebook, sitting on the kitchen table, flaunting her little arms about. Perplexed, he stepped closer, mildly surprised at the sight of another sentient object.
"I heard your lesson, the one about time. It was very good, I enjoyed it!"
The clock blinked, his face remaining emotionless for the most part.
"Oh, why thank you. It is very difficult to find anyone who appreciates time in this era." He observed the Sketchbook, a thin grin waning on his face. It was the only morsel of emotion she could find in his features. "I didn't notice you anywhere, you must be pretty swell at hiding, I take it."
Sketchbook fiddled with her pencil idly. "I didn't wish to interrupt your lesson, but I couldn't miss it either," she grinned up at the lengthy clock. "I didn't think there was anyone else like me here. When did you get here?"
The clock shrugged, glancing around at the kitchen. It must've been the first time he had ever seen it, let alone set foot in it.
"To be frank, I'm not positive. One minute I felt nothing, but the next, I felt everything..." He trailed off, lost in his own thought. "I have no recollection of memories, only that I am a clock in this home, my ultimate purpose being to teach the uneducated."
The Sketchbook pondered on this for a moment. It was strange… she could say the same about herself as well. She couldn't remember anything, save for the fact that she was some sort of notebook who lived in a house occupied by three colorful friends, and that she slept on their kitchen table. She knew they had a life, certainly, and it was the same routine everyday. That was life, wasn't it? A series of repeated routines until you finally died? That's what she knew of it, anyway, and she was sure the clock saw it the same.
It made her think for a bit, but she decided to drop it and save it for another time, wanting to advance the conversation further.
"Why do you think we feel things things suddenly? From nothing, to everything, just as you said?" Sketchbook couldn't recall her time of un-sentience, but neither did the clock. What was it like to be dead?
The clock sighed heavily. "Had I any idea, friend, I would've told you. Life, is mysterious," he gestured towards the family portraits hung across the walls. "I have seen much in my travels through time. I have seen life, and I have seen death. I have learned morals, and the general ideas of the public. The colorful three, I have taught them much. But their rejection of the truth of time is… frustrating. Time is everything, from what I have learned."
Sketchbook smiled, shoving aside the deep topic and finding herself enjoying the word "friend," as she had never really had one. She may have referred to one of the trio members as a friend before, but what did it mean anyway? They were terrified of her. But then again, maybe they were right to be.
"What about you," the clock suddenly interjected, stirring her from her thoughts. "What have you learned?"
She stared down at her pencil, silent for a moment. Then she looked up again and said with a nervous smile, "To listen to the voices in my brain, as well as the rain. I think that's how it went… yes. Creativity, it is a good thing to have. It's also my favorite idea, did I mention?"
The clock mused at the little Sketchbook, his once half-grin now fully fledged. He pulled out the chair that was crammed halfway under the table and sat himself down. He propped his hands against the front of his round, clock face, letting his lengthy legs dangled from the chair.
Sketchbook was incredibly relieved to have a sense of real company for once. She'd never sat down with someone like this before and actually talked. It was so bizarre, and new to her, truly, but she enjoyed every bit of it.
The two talked a while about time, and creativity, and the various things they saw and learned, and how strange this whole "life" deal really was. They wondered if there was any others out there. For the moment, however, it was just them. Them, the existential thoughts of life and their purpose, accompanied by the dark kitchen with the windows that filtered the moonlight.
"Maybe you could sing that song again? I didn't get to hear much of it, being stuffed in that bookshelf. I thought it was very good, what I heard of it anyway!" Said the Sketchbook after a bit, waving her pencil around.
A visible excitement was etched in the clock's face clearly now.
"You know, that would be just dandy! Time is terribly fun, and I bet my bottom dollar you could find some sort of... creative inspiration, somewhere." Despite having such a passively-aggressive monotone voice, Sketchbook felt that his offer was a genuine sign of friendship. And she liked that, very, very much. This would be an interesting change, most definitely, and she looked forward to it.
"Hey… what's your name, by the way? Do you go by anything, or is it just the 'clock'?"
There was that odd silence again. Hesitation, maybe.
"Tony. Tony Time. I think I've been so ever since my sentience. How about you?"
Sketchbook shrugged her little notebook arms, wishing she had a neck like the yellow boy or the bird so she could shake her head at this very moment.
"I don't think I ever had one. I'm just the Sketchbook."
Tony chuckled quietly, and held out a gloved hand. It surprised her. "Well, Sketchbook, it is a pleasure meeting you. I look forward to our journeys in learning."
Sketchbook put a small hand on his. They shook them heartily and exchanged friendly glances.
She smiled. "And you as well, Tony!"