I write this in haste, with the knowledge that these words may be among my last. I should have… I write this in haste, with the knowledge that these words may be among my last. I should have spoken them long ago, and I regret my delay to an almost unbearable degree.

My life is no longer my own. It has fallen under the control of a sinister alien force conspiring to enslave the whole of the human race.

It began when I was in junior high school — oh, I remember that day well. I was sleeping, a peaceful and well-earned respite from my difficult routine, when in that darkest hour before dawn, my slumber was immediately and unequivocally ended.

I awoke, and there it was: A robot, standing over my head, dousing me with that strange green light — commanding me to rise.

They have had control of my days ever since then.

In time, I discovered the name of the robots. They call themselves Clocks.

For years, I kept my secret to myself so as not to cause widespread alarm. I am driven to write now, as several recent incidents have led me to believe that not only I, but the whole human race — or, at the very least, all the inhabitants of this part of the world — are under the sway of the Clocks.

The first incident occurred last week, as I was eating lunch with my girlfriend. Our conversation was pleasant enough. But as we ate, I noticed she began to pay less and less attention to me. She grew agitated and kept glancing over my right shoulder. I tried to ignore it, but the problem only became worse, until finally I asked her just what was the matter.

She abruptly rose from the table, eyes fixed at that something behind me.

“I’m late,” she said, and ran out of the room.

After she had gone, I looked to see what was seemingly far more important to her than our conversation, on what she had so fixated her attention.

There on the wall sat a small, unassuming Clock.

The second incident was still more dreadful.

I have a job at a local restaurant. Yesterday, I came into work, casting about my usual polite greetings and friendly bits of conversation, when I noticed all of my colleagues seemed to be in an unusually bad temper. The head chef approached. I asked him what the matter was, wondering if perhaps there had been a particularly busy lunch period.

No, he told me. They were angry at me, for having ignored The Time.

I told him I did not understand.

He drew me to a wall where a paper was posted. On it was printed my name, followed by a series of characters in the unmistakable script of the Clocks.

Now, it seems to me that the Clocks themselves are mere pawns, or acolytes, in service of this terrible alien force, The Time.

And its reach is further than I could have ever imagined. For this act of disobedience, they have taken my job away. They will drive me to financial ruin for defying The Time.

The worst, I fear, is still to come.

This very afternoon, my girlfriend called on the telephone. I told her I had lost my job.

There was anger in her reply. I must, she said, start paying attention to The Time.

She will be here soon. She is not coming alone.

With her is a Watch — a diminutive breed of Clock with tentacles like a squid, capable of suctioning itself to the human arm.

They seek to hide themselves behind the woman that I love. In all these dark years, I never imagined they would stoop to such a move. I comfort myself only with the thought that she may not be a willing servant.

If her service is involuntary, I shall avenge her.

I do not know what their final plan is for me. Perhaps they plan to re-engineer my mind in order to make me a more willing slave. Who knows what foul technology they may have at their disposal?

I will not allow that to happen.

Even as I write this, I hear her knocking at the door. My palms are sweating. I hear the doorknob turning. She is here!

The Time has come.

E-mail Steve at [email protected], just don’t expect a timely reply.