You

You are the awkward phone call, you're the alarm that doesn't go off. You're the food that's gone cold and the ice that melted too quickly. You're the shower that's too warm or too cold. You are the sleep that ended before its time and wouldn't come back to life until another night was over.

You're the mediocre dream, with no excitement or colour. You're the nightmare that won't go away. You're the headache that sticks messily to my head like hardened honey. You're illness, the cancer, the tumour. You're the strawberry scent of death, cold on my neck and my cheeks.

You're the darkness that I can't see through.

You're the cold in my room, the thick, insufferable, mindnumbing cold in the corners that creeps without a sound into my eyelids as I sleep.

Snowblind

It's not that usual blindness one gets up mountains from the sun's reflection on the never-melting snow, it's a different kind. More invasive. And yet, in its own way, it's enjoyable - the feel of the cold on my eyes and closed under my lids, the way it floats down upon them when it knows I don't want to blink, can't blink and won't blink. It's cruel but I enjoy it, want it even.

Everything is a haze of glowing amber, shapes of muted colours float past slower than they do in reality - everything's slower when snowblind.

In slow-motion, my life flutters past upon the wings of an all-too-freezing moth trying to make it's way to the warm light behind a window pane. I see moments in sepia tone, and I think, I remember. I close my eyes and melt them away.

Open again, I look up to the sky. Shimmering diamonds on blue velvet.

Eulogy and Birth

As she sat in her throne for the last time, feeling the painful throb of new life ebbing one moment then surging the next, 2009 looked upon the winter of her last days.

She'd known what was to come, as all Years do, and when December came she was not surprised at the ever increasing body within her womb. She had been one herself twelve months before. She knew her fate.

She closed her eyes as she thought of it, thought of the job she had done, the choices she had made and the choices she may not have made had she her time again. But she knew that time was not in her possession any longer and it was to time that she would give herself in her last few moments.

She looked down upon the world she had cared for - a count down to her ending was being displayed in sparkling, red LEDs. It was unclear when she would really end, as the world had many varying calendars and its people could not agree on anything but she knew it would be with great light and colour and a loud booming which could only be man-made.

Her breath caught in her throat as the surging quickened. She did not want it to end now. Not yet. She tried to hold it back, clenching and unclenching but it only made the pain worse.

She stopped then, thinking about what was happening. Her frown uncreased... her face changed to what one would imagine to be a crisp, clean, white sheet - freshly washed and laid upon a bed. She smiled, looking upon her swollen stomach with a small sense of pride.

2010 would be a good Year, she thought as she closed her eyes.

Down upon Earth, the fireworks started - a loud booming to a cheering chorus - loud enough to cover the sound of a baby crying on the throne of a new Year.

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To see my non-fiction, 'me' New Year post visit KeyChild. Welcome, 2010, treat us well.

The Inventor

He'd worked for years to get this far, so many years of countless experimenting and disordered findings. He was the top of his field, though what that field was no one could tell. His name was not well-known, nor was his existence. He lived a solitary life, at the top of a tower, the rest of which lay uninhabitted by any living form.

The ticking was what made it noticeable, the clockwork tick that rang clear through the forest in which the tower sat. It was a lucky coincidence that the travellers from the nearest town just so happened to be passing when the ticking began it's annual mournful chorus. They say that the mechanism cannot feel emotion but they did not know his creations - they felt as well as any human being. Their loss was great.

Their existence was nothing but walking in circles, up and down the great tower. They had no purpose, not anymore. They were lifeless beings, simply existing. Their universe was a tower in a forest and nothing more. They knew nothing of the outside world and they did not need to. Their mournful movements fuelled them, kept them going.

But one day, it stopped. As the travellers walked the steps to the large brass doors of the tower the ticking stopped - silence swept through the forest with a chill like no other. And there they were - frozen mechanical figures like monuments in a churchyard.

He'd worked for years to get this far, surrounded by his machines. A skeleton trapped in a mechanism in a museum made from stone.

Fiction

Flash. With one taste your hooked. Flash. Scared, even. Flash. Addicted to the taste of that which has caught your eye. Flash. Not knowing whether it is fact or fiction. Flash.

You don't know when to stop. Flash. Whether you can stop. Flash.

It's hot, this feeling. Flash. There's a pounding in the chest. Flash. Adrenaline. Flash. You feel the want, the need to run. Flash. But there's nothing but air. Flash. Trapped in the freedom, you stumble. Flash.

But with one small click. It's over. You're free.

Symphonic

An oral potion, to be heard and not consumed - a beautiful composition, a concoction fit for the gods.

I breathe you in, close my eyes and the world changes.