You have eight and a half hours to point out critical flaws in my Creative Writing

I have a small amount of time to fix stuff tomorrow, then it gets handed in. So, late night KH-Vidians, amaze me with your vibrant activity.

 

I quite like this, it's very well written to the point that it manages to be quite entertaining despite the lack of action. There are a couple of minor problems I see, grammatically; or general changes I might recommend (in red):

Other than that, I would consider italicizing Old Misery's dialogue and the onomatopoeia. Hope this helps~

 

And the updated version I ultimately ended up handing in.

 

It's a little bit late now but some tips for improvement.

Spoiler

The clock ticked, ticked, ticked. The sound of children’s laughter from beyond the distant windows resounded in his ears, reminding him of years long passed. He strained to hear more, focusing his failing senses onto the window, as though staring at the light peaking through his curtains could allow him to hear the voices with more clarity; but he did hear them! The joyful cries of reality awakened old memories, and once again he was a father, sitting on the porch, letting the sounds of his children’s play wash over him. He could even feel the summer breeze against a backdrop of cicada cries.

The afternoon came. Twenty four times over three hours, the grandfather clock groaned its morose message, but ultimately it was the demanding rumble of his own stomach that roused Old Misery from his lethargic reminiscence. He blinked in surprise, the children had long returned to their homes, but only now were the echoes of their voices fading from his ears.

He didn’t understand. This wasn’t his usual self at all. He’d decided long ago, he didn’t need people. They just weren’t worth the effort, he thought with a grimace, as though there was a foul-tasting poison in his mouth. They always left him, be it his wife--bless her soul, or his children, all grown up and living in the next town over.
“Although they may as well be in Papua New Guinea, considering how often they visit me”, Old Misery would have complained to his friends, if he had had any. Instead, he had his house. Unlike his wife, it had resolutely withstood the war. Even when the Hun blitzed the streets, reducing the other houses to rubble, it stood proud among the desolation, always willing to provide shelter. Yet unlike his wretched children, it did not run off and leave him for some brazen lady-house. He gave a hollow chuckle at the absurdity of the idea.

Shaking his head to clear it of such foolish notions, Old Misery rose from the faded fabric of his antique chair to make his way towards the kitchen. Suddenly, he fell back, cowered. The prospect of venturing away from the window, further into the house, which had served him so faithfully all those years, was positively terrifying. Old Misery looked around for support desperately, seized by a sudden panic. To his dismay, his usual allies were nowhere to be seen. The grandfather clock, who had chattered to him on many a Sunday afternoon, was no longer in its usual corner. Instead, a lumbering behemoth leered at him, a deep, creaking growl escaping between the loud tock of its inhales.

Frantic, he glanced back and forth, looking for someone; anyone, to save him. No matter where he directed his gaze, no savior arose. He was to be smothered in his seat and die a lonely death. He could feel the abomination drawing closer, its pendulum rhythmically swinging like a scythe. Unable to move, he could do nothing except feel confused, dithery and old. Then a sound cut through the madness. A steady, rhythmic thud from the garden reverberated around the house.

Struggling to his feet, he staggered to the window, and with all the strength remaining in his arms, forced it open. The wind entered at once, barraging his face, sweeping the demons from his home. The monster in the corner was no longer there. It was merely an ordinary grandfather clock, as it had always been. It did not growl or speak; it only ticked, tocked and chimed on the hour.

His attention was elsewhere, his house out of his mind. Outside, he strained his neck to see the source of the noise. There, in the abandoned car-park, he saw his saviors: a group of boys, barely in their teens, bouncing a ball against the side of his house, characteristically oblivious to the results of their actions as the young usually are. Unaware his face had been clenched, the old man’s features finally relaxed. A warm smile spread across Mr. Thomas’ face as he watched the children of a future generation go about their business on a Friday afternoon.