'A Child, Afraid'

The clock ticks monotonously. Though its minute hand was travelling only by the milimetres - it was inevitably making the stillness of night more apparent. There was no wind; everything was as dead as they could be. And lonely, there it sat on the lacquered and peeling children's cupboard, visually haunting from catching the dim street lights which were stealing into his room now. He was facing it (accidentally) after a couple of tosses and turns on his bed. And now, it was just staring at him. Staring and smiling.

He started to feel sick and scared looking at it. He wished he had made something else; something different from the blue sticks of plasticine which he had been given that evening. Because now, he was too frightened to unmake it. In his mind it would scream, during the course of the twisting, folding and pressing: gaining an uglier and grotesque form.

And so, he sweated through the night, as his blankets were too thick.

( _")