Keep an eye out for my first published original song.
Probably be uploaded sometime next week.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Clocks
It's silent. As it should be at this time of night. The only sound in the house is the ticking of the clock on the wall. You enjoy it at times like this. It's peaceful; the silence. The best time to think, and record your thoughts. The pad of refill beside your bed gets plenty of use.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It's rhythmic, the clock. Soothing, relaxing. As if everything is going right.
It's times like this when your insomnia doesn't matter. You think best at this time of night, when there's no interruptions. Apart from the occasional moments of paranoia, it's perfect. And that's all they are. Paranoia. Senseless paranoia. No reason for it, apart from your imagination. It's your imagination that's turning those night-time noises and shadows into something sinister. The footsteps are clearly just one of your pets, or the groans of the old house. The scratching and tapping at your window is just a tree. The shadows in the corner, just your brain trying to make something out of nothing.
Paranoia. Paranoia and imagination. That's all it is. But then, what's making that sighing noise? The wind? Probably. At least the ticking of the clock is familiar, regular. There's no mistaking that for something else. Unless it's the slow tapping of impatient claws, or fingernails. . .
Damn your imagination. Overcome with a sudden feeling of paranoia, you just have to get up and confirm that your fears are unfounded. Using your phone as a torch, you swing your legs out of bed. The clock is just outside your bedroom door. The ticking (tapping?) is coming from the other side of your door. You sigh. Safe then. But you know that you won't be able to sleep until you're sure.
Opening your door, you look around nervously. You glance at the clock. Strange, the ticking doesn't seem to be coming from the clock. You check the time. 3.03, the clock says. You decide to get a glass of water.
Suddenly, you get a message.
"Hey, you up?"
A mate. Just a mate. Nothing sinister. But, something on your phone catches your eye. The time on there says 3.43. That's weird. You glance back at the clock. Something doesn't seem right. It's not moving. But the ticking continues.
In fear, you rush back to your room, all thoughts of water gone, and back under the covers. You're too panicky to notice that the tapping has stopped.
You hear a sigh, what you thought was the wind before. It's by the door.
You can't move.
Whatever it is has you paralysed, at it's mercy. There's nothing you can do. It sighs again, closer, and you can smell it's rancid breath.
You feel something on your leg. Sudden, unbearable pain follows. The pressure moves up your thigh, and the pain follows. It's as if your very flesh was rotting away. It reaches your stomach. If you could move, you would've screamed, doubled up in pain. It's terrible.
Your lungs collapse. You can't breathe. Then, suddenly, it's gone. The pain, it's gone. It fades. But, so does everything else. It's over. You're gone. Slowly, but surely, you die.
And slowly, but surely, the tapping starts again.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It's rhythmic, the clock. Soothing, relaxing. As if everything is going right.
It's times like this when your insomnia doesn't matter. You think best at this time of night, when there's no interruptions. Apart from the occasional moments of paranoia, it's perfect. And that's all they are. Paranoia. Senseless paranoia. No reason for it, apart from your imagination. It's your imagination that's turning those night-time noises and shadows into something sinister. The footsteps are clearly just one of your pets, or the groans of the old house. The scratching and tapping at your window is just a tree. The shadows in the corner, just your brain trying to make something out of nothing.
Paranoia. Paranoia and imagination. That's all it is. But then, what's making that sighing noise? The wind? Probably. At least the ticking of the clock is familiar, regular. There's no mistaking that for something else. Unless it's the slow tapping of impatient claws, or fingernails. . .
Damn your imagination. Overcome with a sudden feeling of paranoia, you just have to get up and confirm that your fears are unfounded. Using your phone as a torch, you swing your legs out of bed. The clock is just outside your bedroom door. The ticking (tapping?) is coming from the other side of your door. You sigh. Safe then. But you know that you won't be able to sleep until you're sure.
Opening your door, you look around nervously. You glance at the clock. Strange, the ticking doesn't seem to be coming from the clock. You check the time. 3.03, the clock says. You decide to get a glass of water.
Suddenly, you get a message.
"Hey, you up?"
A mate. Just a mate. Nothing sinister. But, something on your phone catches your eye. The time on there says 3.43. That's weird. You glance back at the clock. Something doesn't seem right. It's not moving. But the ticking continues.
In fear, you rush back to your room, all thoughts of water gone, and back under the covers. You're too panicky to notice that the tapping has stopped.
You hear a sigh, what you thought was the wind before. It's by the door.
You can't move.
Whatever it is has you paralysed, at it's mercy. There's nothing you can do. It sighs again, closer, and you can smell it's rancid breath.
You feel something on your leg. Sudden, unbearable pain follows. The pressure moves up your thigh, and the pain follows. It's as if your very flesh was rotting away. It reaches your stomach. If you could move, you would've screamed, doubled up in pain. It's terrible.
Your lungs collapse. You can't breathe. Then, suddenly, it's gone. The pain, it's gone. It fades. But, so does everything else. It's over. You're gone. Slowly, but surely, you die.
And slowly, but surely, the tapping starts again.
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