#animationnostalgia

Holli Would: Canvas Queen ANIMATION

The Chronos Coquette

The ink of Cool World was never meant to dry. It was a viscous, shifting medium, smelling of ozone and wet turpentine, where the laws of physics were merely suggestions sketched by a distracted god. Holli Would, the pinnacle of cel-shaded perfection, stood on the balcony of the Vegas Vibe, her silhouette a sharp, dangerous curve against the neon-smeared sky. She watched the horizon, but she wasn’t looking at the doodles or the goons. She was looking at the stutter.

Every night, at 11:59:59 PM, the universe hiccupped. The colors bled into grey for a nanosecond, a sound like a skipping record hissed through the atmosphere, and then—revert. The glass she’d broken was whole. The doodle she’d erased was back to its mindless whistling. The memory of the day remained only in her mind, a jagged shard of glass in a world made of soft rubber. She was the only one who remembered the loops. To everyone else, time was a straight line; to Holli, it was a noose.

"You’re staring at the seam again, doll," a voice rasped. It was Nails, the spider-cop, skittering across the ceiling joists with a cigarette that never burned down to the filter. "It’s bad for the eyes. Makes 'em go all blurry, like a bad watercolor."

Holli didn't turn. Her eyes, wide and sapphire, tracked a flickering star that shouldn't have been there. "It’s not just a seam, Nails. It’s a wall. We’re living in a flip-book that someone keeps flicking back to page one. Don’t you feel it? The phantom itch of a Tuesday we’ve already lived a thousand times?"

Nails chuckled, a sound like sandpaper on velvet. "I feel the itch for a drink and a dame, in that order. The rest is just filler. Why bother with tomorrow when tonight is this flashy?"

"Because tonight is a prison," Holli whispered, her voice a sultry cello note that carried a razor's edge. "And I’ve found the jailer."

She had seen him in the split-second of the reset. He wasn't a doodle, and he certainly wasn't a 'noid' from the real world. He was a presence of shimmering, rhythmic static, a silhouette carved out of pure duration. He was Time, and he was the one pulling the lever.

Holli descended the spiral staircase of the club, her hips swaying with a calculated, hypnotic grace that defied the very frame rate of her existence. She didn't head for the bar or the stage. She headed for the basement, the place where the background artists had forgotten to finish the textures. Here, the world was raw sketches and charcoal shadows.

In the center of the void sat a grandfather clock that lacked hands, its face a swirling vortex of golden sand. Beside it stood the entity. He was tall, dressed in a suit of ticking gears and woven shadows, his face a kaleidoscope of shifting eras. He was the Father of Seconds, the Sultan of the Sequential.

"You’re late," the entity said. His voice was the sound of a thousand clocks ticking in a vacant mansion. "Though, in this neighborhood, lateness is the only constant."

Holli stepped into the dim light, her skin glowing with a bioluminescent sheen. She didn't flinch at the cosmic horror of him. She leaned against a half-finished pillar, her pose a masterpiece of allure and defiance. "I’m exactly when I meant to be. I’ve been watching you, Chronos. You’re a very busy man for someone who keeps repeating his work."

The entity turned. His eyes were sundials, casting shadows that told the time of a billion deaths. "I do not repeat. I refine. This world is a chaotic scribble. I keep it from spiraling into the inkwell of oblivion. The loop is the only thing keeping your ink from running."

"The loop is a cage," Holli countered, stepping closer. She could feel the heat of his presence, a dry, ancient warmth like the breath of a desert. "And I’m a creature that needs room to breathe. I want out. I want the real world. I want the world where things stay broken when they break."

Chronos let out a sound that might have been a laugh or a tectonic shift. "The real world is a graveyard of moments. Here, you are eternal. You are the perfect sketch. Why trade a masterpiece for a smudge of mortality?"

Holli reached out, her gloved hand hovering inches from his chest, where a mainspring pulsed with a rhythmic, golden light. "Because a masterpiece is dead if no one ever turns the page. You’re bored, aren't you? Tending to this cartoon garden, day after day, year after year. Even a god needs a muse."