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I write fiction & blog about books & films. There’s an archive of short stories & photographs. And, I have a creative notepad, of sorts.


I sat at my desk unable to focus. I couldn’t believe I was really there.

It was like I didn’t exist any more. This wasn’t real: nothing was real.

I wanted to feel something, but felt numb.

Was I really here? I took a photograph to make sure.

The clock said 3.24am. I didn’t know what to do. Even though my mind was blank I felt anxious.

I was thinking about her. I couldn’t get her out of my head.

I stared up at the light. It was one of those cheap paper ones from Ikea.

I looked into the brightness.

I put my hand up to cover my face.

Then I noticed the bug – a small insect crawling along the surface of the paper. I felt as insignificant as that bug.

I went into her ‘studio’, and switched on the light. The light in there didn’t have a shade. There was no bug.

I stared at the floor, as if I expected to see something.

There was nothing there.

The room smelt of paint.

Two of her canvasses were on easels in the centre of the room – both self portraits.

I ran to the front door and fumbled with the chain.

I needed to get out of there.

The moon was out and I could see clearly.

An owl hooted in the distance. Then it was silent.

I walked down the road. It was cold and I felt alone.

Each step I took made a loud crunching sound in the snow.

The trees were covered in snow. It was almost beautiful.

Someone had made a snowman. I looked at it, it looked at me.

The park lay ahead. There was a hole in the fence I could sneak through.

The park was cold and silent. Nothing moved in the moonlight.

I remembered the times we’d played tennis and had picnics on the grass.

Now everything was snowed over.

I kept walking.

I pictured her laughing at me. It was like she was there, but I knew she wasn’t.

There was nothing except the sound of my footsteps in the snow.

It would melt soon enough. By morning my prints would be gone.