At the back of history there is a conclave of childhoods as if forming a pact to create a concocted future full of grown-ups, whereas, all along, each child knows full well that all childhoods end with death.
Hiver Jawn watched the latest fanblade spin slowly to a silent halt. He unscrewed it from the fan-base and placed it carefully next to all his other dead fanblades
edge to edge
in a circle
like a flattened cone. The result looked like a dustbin lid.
Mum! Mum! I found it for you! he lied, eagerly shouting and running down the back garden path towards her face at the kitchen window; flying-ants infested its dilapidated frame wherein the sash-weight hung.
Mothers never believe their children because mothers do not exist.