Brass

"Rats!"

"What?"

"There are rats on the chimney!"

Ah, yes. The brass winks in the sunset, smiling as it glows in the autumn-coloured light like something out of a Gaiman novel. Pretty but decidedly Gothic, sat atop the old building. Perhaps, they guard. Perhaps, they curse.

The house below is nothing out of the ordinary, it sits within view from the wall. There are no conspicuously closed curtains or signs of oddity. It is perfectly ordinary.

But once again, my eyes are drawn to the highest point, to the tails that curl around the terracotta. A pigeon sits behind, two houses away. It watches as my eyes pass over the neighbouring buildings.

Tilting my head slightly, I scrutinise them further, "Odd."

Concrete

The steps rise to meet me, taking me by the hand and embracing me with such force that I utter a sharp gasp and clench my fists. My eyes stay wide as I still and remain there for a few moments. Moving away is harder than it should be. Dragging myself up and over to the wall, I sit there, breathless and clawing at the bricks.

I look to the sky and a cry escapes my mouth.

Smoke

Each voice is loud and each conversation drifts in and out of not-so attentive ears - it is the eyes that are captivated, roaming the fence-bound land in front, picking up specks of a forbidden language. A hand brushes, eyes sweep and linger, backs turn and shoulders hunch. Their voices are piercing but their actions deafen. Each one of them a world of reaction and a husky whisper in a foreign tongue. In their pairs, they make a universe, full of words unsaid through tongue and lips. For hours, they could be watched and catalogued, each movement, each subtle wave of feeling placed in the pages of an empty book - though it would be full within minutes.

They stop. Heads turn in one direction and there is unity for a moment -

It's bright, so bright that their faces glow and their eyes reflect an off colour, an inhuman colour. It starts small, then grows with the breaking of wood and the ripping of unread newspapers. Language is lost and all falls silent as eyes focus and stare, nothing moves but the curling of the flames.

But with each stare, a different whisper comes, growing louder as the smoke makes circles in the air and the floating black of burnt paper spirals upwards with the wind. The bodies shift away from the light as it licks towards them, begging and pleading for them to come closer. But they know to step back, every movement mutters a tense curse - some so loud they're shouting.

But they do not hear it with their ears, they just stand and watch the smoke as it mates with the air. Unaware of their screaming, their yelling in the language only the eyes can decipher.

Their eyes stare at the light, reflecting an inhuman colour and the smoke drifts.

Summer

The shine pools in through the window warming bare shoulders and gently caressing a brighter mood. Everything feels better in the sunshine. The hills roll in the distance, like painted clouds, fallen and anchored to the ground.

From the old weather-worn and warped windows miles can be seen, the sleepy villages bedded on the hillside waking with the sunlight and the heat and playing beneath the cloudless blue.

And as the sun begins its slow descent beneath the horizon, the trees sway, dancing to the tune of the birds.

Hot Chocolate

Mug out, spoon in, powder, press button, wait.

The red glares through the window, captivating and hypnotising before being evicted once more to the joy of the impatient ones before it. The blind is half closed but the colour still slips through. Red. Orange. Green.

Touch kettle, tap foot.

Metal monsters move past at speed, faceless beings swallowed in their warmth - away from the winter. Red. Orange. Green. Music blares a tuneless beat, it's melody lost in the metalic barrier with only the thrumming bassline slipping through. He taps on the steering wheel. Red. Orange. Green.

A small click, steam, pour, stir.

Passersby look inside, oggling at what they imagine is there. Cars still sit as the door closes and the light goes out. Red. Orange. Green.

Cycle

Leaves fall in showers and Autumn moves faster - your instrument of change a walking stick with a hooked end. You talk of fate, control and life itself. You cleave the leaves from trees, weeds, plants and they fall, feather-light, to the floor.

You walk in circles, always circles with your words circling themselves, over and over. The speaking never stops it's eternal hum of questions, only questions.

It spins, swipes and falls to the ground with a wooden clatter. You look up, curse, then start the cycle once more. Leaves, fate, control, leaves, circles, questions, leaves, fate, control...