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Fire and Ice

Fire and Ice     I remember the cold most of all. Ice cold like when I was a kid, when we had proper winters. Clear blue skies with vapour trails, breath frozen in the sunshine. Winds that scalded your face and stole your soul.   Sheer diamond topped the water troughs, my fingers delving under, numbing, as I grasped the slabs with delight, a snow house window or an ice warrior’s shield. The numbness was bearable, until my hands grew stiff and useless, then sense made me seek shelter. I’d run back inside, and be thrust down by the kitchen stove as blood, warmth and pain gradually returned to each digit. I screamed aloud as my mother made me hot chocolate and home bakes. It was heaven. The day I arrived here I felt that again, for the first time in years. I gazed curiously at dirty snow lying by the side of the track, picked it up and pressed my fingers deep inside a ball, willing them to go numb. Willing the pain to return along with the chocolate. I turned arou...
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The Seasonal Librarian Inside, dark doesn’t come close. I edge forward, fuse-gone-on-the-stairs slow; looming shadows lead me to the desk. Single bulb, I see him now - as ancient as the place itself. I sneeze; not cleaned for years. No money, he explains, wrinkled hands like over-ripe apple hold the pen on the blotting pad. Face kind, but defeated. Its why he’s here. He tells his story - used to work deliveries, seasonal, night-time, appreciative clients. Times have changed, its online and mechanised. No-one remembers him, no-one wants him.  This place offered welcome solitude, but it’s dying too, its all digitised. That’s progress. Poor career advice, he jokes. He waves an invitational arm, I explore the shadows. I choose, and place it on the desk. Dust dances again, I sneeze. Can’t return it for a while, I explain, home now - its Christmas.  Apple hands squeeze mine around the book – keep it. No-one checks them now. My face brightens, his briefly flick...
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