The wind changes, moving in every direction, a storm to herself.

The hush as she succumbs to the calmness, a respite for the soul.

She fuels fire, brings chaos, and can wipe out anyone in her path.

And in the blink of an eye, she gently rustles the trees, helping me feel the peace of a restful sleep.

“Do you have an appointment?” “I’m sorry?” “Nobody gets in without an appointment.”

I felt my face blush. Well, as much as the dazzle of my bright white skull could. I tried to form a disapproving frown as best I could, but failed on account of the fact that I was the keeper of the keys to the next life. I pulled my hood from my head and tapped my scythe angrily against the ground. Nothing, absolutely nothing, it was as if he didn’t recognise me at all.

“Don’t you know who I am?” I boomed, well tried to and failed on account of my complete absence of vocal cords. The man leaned over me, his ear piece buzzed like a demented wasp in a glass jar. He looked me in the eye socket and the faintest glint of understanding flickered for a second. I tried to step passed him and he blocked my way. “Nobody can go in their without security clearance,” the man seemed uncertain. “Now listen you little worm, I am the fourth horseman, the taker of souls, and if you don’t get out of my bloody way it will be your funeral.” He drew his gun and aimed it at me. It was enough to make me laugh, so I did. “I mean literally. Your funeral. Do you get me?” “Hands up!” He shouted, his bravado ebbing away. A door flew open behind him and a ruddy red-faced dwarf emerged. “What is all this noise?” Screamed the dwarf, his botoxed cheeks a flaming red. “This man…” begun the security officer. “I’m no man you fool. I’m death!” I interjected angrily. The dwarf approached me and poked me in the belly. “You? Death?” The dwarf laughed, “how many countries have you annihilated?” “What?” “When was the last time you committed genocide?” Said the dwarf. “That’s not my department,” I replied. “Not your department, you snivelling coward. It is I who is the great ticket conductor to oblivion. You! You are just a pale imitation…” “Palist,” I said solemnly. “Look at you, in your dirty robes. You think a scythe puts fear in the hearts of men. No, no, no. Nuclear weapons. I could destroy you at the push of a button!” I looked at the balding dwarf who barely reached my belly button. He was sweating profusely. The brown crown of hair on his swollen distending face made him look like a baby underwater. “And you would destroy yourself.” “But I’d live forever, casting fear in the hearts of men,” he punched the air with a complete sense of conviction that if he annihilated the whole world including himself, somehow someone would be left to remember him. He wasn’t scary, or intimidating. He wasn’t even a brave man himself. He was a lunatic, a bully and a murderer. There was only one thing for it. “Vladimir, you are mental,” and with one swipe of my scythe he turned into dust. And at that moment Mother Earth sighed with relief.

It was a day that began like any other day. I woke up with a sore head, a throat like an ash tray, and an impending sense of shame about all the things I hadn’t done in my life. I didn’t open the curtains as it felt the easiest way to keep my world safe from the burden of existence. I debated coffee and I won as the coffee couldn’t come up with a convincing argument as to why the world is full of bastards. The red light was blinking on my answer phone, its ominous wink serving as a warning that there was probably something important that I had forgotten. I decided to forget what I had forgotten.

I stood in the darkness in my bedroom and cradled my coffee cup, a bitter cigarette hanging from my lips. I watched her stretched out under my red velvet sheets. Her makeup smudged on my pillow, a sticky bridge of saliva hanging from her lips. I tried to remember her name but it wouldn’t come. I should have woken her really, but I decided to avoid the awkwardness and head out for breakfast.

I opened my front door and the daylight blinded me, so I fumbled for my sunglasses. I heard them before I saw them. The flashes of the cameras greeted me as I bounced down my front steps. Beside my gate was a group of people. “How do you feel…” “Are you proud…” “… such a prestigious award?” Their voices stampeded over each other in a bid for my attention. What award? Why would I be getting an award? “I’m…” my morning voice faltered. Could it be the Nobel prize? Finally recognition for all my years of hard work. It couldn’t be I thought, as I had never worked hard for a day in my life. “I’m absolutely delighted. I’d like to thank whoever nominated me. It’s great to be recognised,” I said somewhat unsure of myself. The camera shutters silenced and the crowd began to disburse. “Excuse me,” I said to nobody in particular. A feral looking man in a dirty jacket turned to look at me. “What’s the award for?” “You don’t know,” he asked flashing me a smile of nicotine stained teeth. I shook my head and he began to laugh. “It’s rear of the year.” “It’s a what of the what?” “Rear of the year. It’s an award for the nicest bum.” He laughed heartily, and kept shaking his head as he walked away.

The shock washed over me like the tide. I stood still holding tight on to my gate. It wasn’t for working hard, or an act of brilliance. It wasn’t for my athleticism or mental dexterity. I felt something inside me snap as the realisation set in, that in thirty-two years on the planet the only award I had ever received was for being an arse.

“What do you mean forever?” “I mean eternity.” “Doing what exactly?” “Whatever you like…” The silence hung in the air like a burp at a family dinner. He ran his fingers through his beard and thought for a moment. “Tell me Mr Anderson, what’s your favourite thing in the world?” “Whisky,” I replied without thinking. “Ahh,” he said, his face frozen in thought. “Second favourite?” “Erm… sex,” I said, embarrassed to be saying it aloud in front of the creator of the universe. “There’s none of that I’m afraid. That’s the Devil’s playground.” His voice shook the desk between us. I stared at my shoelaces, not wanting to offend him more. “There must be something you like that isn’t sinful?” I thought for a moment. And then it hit me. “Rock?” I offered. “Oh yes, geology, it’s a marvellous pastime,” he smiled at me so broadly, I felt my skin warm. “God no not that, I meant the music,” I interjected boldly. He grew in front of my eyes, filling the room. “Out, get out!” He shouted, his voice so loud it blew me off my chair and against the wall. When I woke, I saw the fires and instantly realised just how stupid I had been. But hey, at least there was music.

It’s just you, me and the shadows, The flickering of the night, Destiny unfurled, I watch your chest rise and fall, Counting with the rhythm, The curtains twitch, Disturbed by an open window, It’s just you, me and the shadows, The furtive redemption, Everything must end, Life flickers in your eyes, And disappears into darkness, The only sound, A grandfather clock, The heart beat of the darkness, The rhythm of the night.

“You are the worst genie ever!” “What? Why?” “I said dessert. Dessert. Not desert,” I couldn’t believe it. There was I hankering for something sweet and decadent and instead I was in a sweltering desert. “Is there a manager I can speak to? Can I take that wish back?” I could see the hurt on his blue face. “You could always make another wish...” “And trust you to get it right? No chance. If I’d ask you for a million pounds that will probably be what I end up weighing,” the sarcasm in my voice stung the genie so much that he went back inside of his lamp. “Thank god for that,” I muttered as I tried to get my bearings. All I could see was sand and sunshine. It was if I had ended up on the worst package holiday ever.

It felt like days but it probably had only been a few hours. I had tried to pick a direction and stick to it but it seemed impossible given that everything looked the same. My throat was drier than a camel’s sense of humour. I could feel the sunburn taking effect. There was only one thing I could do if I didn’t want to die on a sand dune. I rubbed the lamp three times and nothing happened. “Genie, I’ve summoned you,” I said aloud, feeling foolish. “Genie!” “There’s no genie here,” said a voice from inside the lamp, “I’ve retired.” “I’m sorry about being short tempered with you. Come out. I’m dying out here.” There was a puff of smoke and suddenly I was face to face with my incompetent genie. Looking back I wish I would have asked him why he was blue. Maybe he was going to a fancy dress party as a smurf. He hovered in the air in front of me, his arms folded and his brow as creased as an origami hippopotamus. “I am the genie of the lamp, I grant...” “Yes, yes, we’ve done that already,” I interrupted. I could feel the blisters on my skin. “Fine,” said the Genie, “What do you want then?” “I want to go home.” “But I thought I was the worst genie ever.” He had me there. As angry as I had been, I felt as if my entire body was melting. “I’m sorry for saying that, I didn’t mean it.” He smiled at me, his mouth the size of half a watermelon. “Ok then. Now what was it you wanted?” “I want to go home,” I replied, trying to hide the tired frustration in my voice. “Say it properly,” said the Genie, clearly enjoying teasing me in my sunburned state. “I wish was at home,” I replied defiantly.

I should have known really. A genie that had already made quite a serious blunder. I really should have known. “Oh for goodness sake!” I shouted when I realised that I had long, grey beard. There was a pond in front of me. I looked at my reflection and saw a tiny man looking back at me, with a pointy red hat. “Genie,” I cried, “I said I wish was at home, not I wish I was a gnome!”

New dawns bloom each year, Filling spaces in ourselves, Luminating dreams, Releasing the sap inside, Giving birth to a new us.

The view upon one’s throne, Surveys everything that one owns, Filthy beggars and merchant traders, Screaming corporals and shouting majors, Are just some of the commoners, That are mine.

Raging rivers that rush to the sea, The sky, the land, belongs to me, Majestic castles and their garish walls, Dukes and Duchesses, Poets and fools, Are some of the gifts, That God has given to me.

Yet here I sit, Cold and alone, An impassioned old beast, Upon a throne, Alas, there is one thing, That power cannot buy, Nor all the money, In all the land, Happiness, The cost of one’s duty.

The day I graduated I was excited and full of hope. Four years of my life at the Devil’s School for Innocent Mischief had finally come to a close and I was as eager as a beaver that had put his Christmas Tree up mid July to make a start in the career that my parents had always dreamed of for me. Finally I had my placement, all I had left to was wait.

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months without a thing. I decided it had to me to make the approach. So I closed my eyes and when I opened them again I was in a two story maisonette staring at a young boy, no more than forty-two moons old. He was sat on a striped sofa staring at the television screen. “Hello,” I said, unable to hide my grin. The boy’s eyes didn’t move for a second. I coughed loudly. Nothing. The only thing I could do was use my training. “I know something you don’t know...” He stirred in his seat, rustling his pyjama bottoms in the process. “What?” he asked in a bored voice. “Your Mum is on the phone upstairs. She’d really like you to grab your felt tip pens and draw a picture on that wall.” There was no way he could resist the opportunity to become a kindergarten Bob Ross. It was surely a matter of time before he jumped off of the sofa. Alas, he didn’t budge an inch. I felt the desperation rise inside of me. “So?” “I don’t want to,” he replied as he picked up a tablet from beside him and started playing some sort of game involving particularly unhappy avians. “Let’s go outside.” “I don’t want to.” “Well what do you want?” I asked, the irritation clear in my voice. I pulled my best faces including the constipated owl, the drooling bloodhound and even the cross eyed hedgehog and he didn’t even look up from his screen. “Let’s play a game.” Finally he made eye contact. “What game?” He asked curiously. “Let’s play how many boogers can you stick to the remote control.” I knew I had his attention, this was it. All my years of training had paid off. I was going to become a truly mischievous imaginary friend. “Is it in the App Store?”

And that was both the first and last day in my career as an imaginary friend.

If only I’d been brave enough, To stand and face my fears, My nights would have been restful, My anxiety disappeared.

If only I’d been happy enough, To chase my dreams into the hills, My days would have been sunny, My mind would be still.

If only I’d been strong enough, To say what’s in my head, My life would look different, And I’d be someone else instead.