All in a golden afternoon, under the skies of cloudless blue

If the sun was a spotlight I’ve no doubt it’d beam on you

If the moon was a nightlight it’d bring me home to you

If life’s great burden shouldered worth I’ve no doubt you’d pull me through

Clear heavens, smiles, laughs, contentment- and you

All in a golden afternoon, under the skies of cloudless blue

The grin stretches So wide it cracks, so w i d e I cry

Blood upon my lips Blood roaring down my throat, it r o a r s I cry

Drowning, suffocating My tongue swells and my heart co mp re ss es into a hard knot of evil

They were right, I know that; It’s not right for me to exist My happiness, cursed and damaged Why should I grin? It’s not right Why should my heart be light? A leaden paperweight A sinking, sinking Stone

I can feel the darkness Rushing against my ragged skin, it r u s h e s I cry

I gazed at the darkness, watching the stars gossip and giggle. It wasn’t my place to listen in. But in any case my mind was far too preoccupied to be concerned with such idle matters.

Besides, I couldn’t fathom anything that would matter, these days.

The moon was different from those chittering, nonsensical stars. Benevolent. Relaxed. Magnanimous. He seemed to smile down at me, adjusting his glasses; almost like he knew (and cared) what was happening in my tiny, insignificant life.

As this thought occurred to me, I have a harsh laugh, and turned my back on the window. The candlelight flickered yellow against the stone walls; vermillion against the iron bars of my cell; orange against the face of the armoured guard who hissed at me,

“Shut up, you nutcase,”

He was probably right. It was well acknowledged that I was, to use his words, a nutcase.

It wasn’t enough that I’d lost my son. It wasn’t enough that I’d lost my pride. Apparently I lost my mind somewhere along the way.

A dark night, and a tiny moon, hanging in the sky. I stand, alone, gazing at the ink-stained velvet which swaddles our little insignificant planet. Streaks of delicate quicksilver dance down from the sky

I stared across the scrubby moorland, occasional speckles of yellow gorse and violet sprays of heather being the only splash of colour in this barren area. Fierce wind howled and screamed across the landscape, whipping my tangled hair around my face, sending the long straggles streaming out behind me, wrenching any plant that dared grow any higher than five inches above the coarse earth out by the roots. There were no trees in sight. My ear drums pounded.

My eyes were dark, my thoughts reflective of this barren scene. I shrieked along with the roaring wind, liking that there was not a soul within at least five miles. I was all alone, how I had longed for it to be.

There’s always a girl in the window, of that towering, foreboding house which everyone in this town avoids. But it’s on my way to school; I walk past it each and every day. Everyone knows who lives there. It’s Monsieur Pontavon, the French businessman who owns half of the restaurants in Paris. Only God knows how he ended up here, but we always assumed he dwelt there alone, devoid of companionship. Until recently.

I’m unsure if anyone else has noticed her, but she’s always there. She looks almost ethereal, with a slim figure, clear amber coloured eyes and long straggled hair somewhere between blonde and brown. She is sometimes buried into a book, other times scribbling urgently into a dog eared notebook or sketching with a stub of a pencil. Occasionally she just gazes out of the window in deep thought, head leaning against the glass, which becomes frosted with her breath.

She’s doing that today, I realise, simply taking a wander through her mind. I wonder what she sees as I shuffle along the cobbled road, trying not to feel threatened by the imposing turrets of Pontavons mansion, so different from the other mere cottages of this town. I look up at her, catching my breath in the chilly morning air. And then something unprecedented happens.

She sees me.

For the first time, she notices that she isn’t the only one in this world. A curious tentative smile breaks across her features like the sun mounting the horizon. I am speechless.

For the first time, I wonder if she’s only a figment if my imagination

“Did you check the kitchen?” “Of course,” “Did you check the bar?” “Of course,” “Did you check the bedroom?” “Of course,” “Did you check the garden?” “Of course,” “But did you check the shed?” “....” (Muffled screaming)

Once, a little rabbit stuck her nose into the air

She bounced and huffed around, screaming “it’s not really fair!“

She trundled through the grass with a rage that wouldn’t settle

At home, her weary mother relaxed, turned on the kettle

“How can I deal with such an attitude?” She thought

“How can I make her see, what the reaction is she’s brought?”

The little rabbit sniffed the afternoon sun with a smile

Her bad mood had succumbed to joy after a while

She was all alone with nature and it had calmed her down

Alas, her mother was shaken, face not shifting from its frown

She was scared that her daughter was alone in the wide world

She was scared that foxes may have seen her and unfurled

But the little one was carefree and hopping way back home

She was sorry, and intended to make it known

For she knew her mother didn’t deserve a difficult time

Relief washed through her as she saw her child safe and sound

Her ears pricked up and with a beam she moved round

“Forgive me,” she said “I was rude and shouldn’t have been,”

The old mother beamed and pulled her close, the apologetic teen.

There were once two stars that had the misfortune to have been thrown, scattered on each side of the Milky Way. They could see each other - and they feasted on the sight- but the raging torrent, the pale river swarmed between them. They knew they’d never meet. Not really.

But one year, on the night of Halloween, all the crows in the world made a decision to do something about this situation, the hopeless longing of two stars that weren’t destined to meet. The space between was just too much.

The crows all took flight, once the people of earth were safely snuggled in their beds after a hectic night of trick or treating, and melded together in the sky, blocking out a black band of the off white Milky Way. This created a cast-iron (if temporary) bridge for the two stars, to meet and be together, even if just for a few hours. As they gleefully crossed the bridge, they didn’t even think about the angry creek of sorrow underneath them.

For the Milky Way was not meant to be deceived

I heard a faint cracking noise as I placed a foot on top of the old wagon, ready to hoist myself up on top. Mentally convincing myself that it would be fine, I pushed my aching body over the top and collapsed, heaving, on the slightly arched roof. From up here, I could see everything; the shimmering ocean, the wide full moon like an unblinking eye, and, slightly closer, the garish lights of the old theme park slowly shutting off, one Ferris wheel bulb at a time. No one had set foot in there for years, but whoever had been last had clearly left in a rush, not shutting down the main ride. The carts had long since stopped their slow spinning, but the lights were still shining.

I watched another flicker for a few seconds, and then disappear amongst the darkness. It had once been a huge, omnipresent circle looking over the thick moorland, but the hundreds of lights were gradually being extinguished, starting from the bottom and working its way around, anti-clockwise over the circle. It did look like a clock, actually.

Or a countdown.

I scrambled backwards as the realisation hit me. It was like a timer. Another light dissipated. There weren’t many left at all, now I looked. Maybe only... I counted.

Three.

My sudden movement had made the old wagon give way at last (I had been so stupid), and, with a final CREAK, I felt the wood crumple beneath me. I scrabbled for the edge, but to no avail. As I plunged into darkness, I spotted yet another light go.

Was it my imagination, or were they moving faster than before?

I was far away from the theme park, it was true. I was on top of a hill, the park at the bottom. But it was still only two hundred metres or so, and, as pain blossomed outwards in great spikes from my ankle, from my unexpected fall, I realised I wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon. There was no one nearby to call for help. A tear of desperation leaked from the corner of my eye, as, only a few moments later, a great burst of orange, a mushroom cloud of dust and ash imploded into being, the force tipping the entire caravan over.

I screamed as my body was crushed.