"Clockwork Harvest" by J.S. O'Keefe

My father knew how the system worked; how it fed its subjects and ground their bones. He saw himself as a practical philosopher of the cold, hard world. To save me, he taught the choreography of survival: the proper tilt of the chin, the measured depth of a nod. "Refrain from using venomous words," he'd say. "They poison the air where beauty still breathes." He wanted me to move within the invisible lines.

I tried to absorb his wisdom, but my spirit wouldn't settle. I stayed fractured, unfinished. He saw weakness where I was forging something else, mistook the quiet work of character for youth and frailty.

He explained, love doesn’t depart but its language is made of rules and discipline. Silence itself is a razor-edged blade that can cleave any soul.

Beauty still exists, although it stands behind a veil. It offers its hand only to those who approach without demands.

In a world that must measure everything, love remains brief, and guarded.

J.S. O’Keefe's work spans short stories, essays, and poems. They have been featured in a variety of publications, including AntipodeanSF, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Everyday Fiction,  Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, 50 Word Stories, ScribesMicro, Dissident Voice, 50GT, etc.