Morn and Night.

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Joanne Vale

This supernatural transformation happens every day, but no-body notices or realises. They only see and feel how the atmosphere changes. Adrenalin starts pumping, creating vivid images of dark, tall murderers, creepy, butch rapists and masked thugs armed with objects of violence. Then it suddenly changes: murderers transform into daffodils and daisys which litter gardens and grass cut-a-ways next to concrete paths, reflecting collected dew onto passing traffic, rapists turn into free flying birds, escaping to the heavens above, whilst thugs turn into freshly painted cottages and soaring flats which disappear into fluffy shapes of cotton wool. This change is night and day.

Morn

I wake early, lying still, listening. Faint breathing can be heard in the next room. Although it is six 'o' clock, with dark curtains covering the sky, the birds are heard talking to each other, spilling secrets that they have collected through out the week. The low, distant hum of traffic can be identified, as hectic twelve hour shifts awaits those who dread the Monday morning opening onto the hell of work. I realise that I'll have to rise out of bed soon, as the radio switches on to booming beats and whiny