Clockwork Horror

Can you hear the ticking? Do you even care? Grandad's on Speed and you don't even notice. He's grinding, clicking, whining and humming; each tick blending with the next in a fevered orgy of sound. But truth, Grandad can be overlooked; it's the rest of them that worry me. Their incessant warble a deafening drone, and not a single source, but each, a hive of them; their sonorous screams swarming madly in my head. Each day the keys are turned, and the springs wound, a constant tension keeping the simulacrum     set in their semblence of life. Their spiral hearts don't last forever though, the metal wears, warps and snaps all too frequently. There is no manufacturer guaruntee. The greatest flaw in these machines of course,     is that they don't realise they're fake. The lie is an easy one to swallow, as no-one would admit to being a difference engine,     however complicated or ingenious its construction. And that's just it, the root of my fear. Because when I'm sitting deafened in a silent room, I realise; the ticking hasn't stopped. And when the freqency inverts, I'm terrified I'll go with it. I wish I could have another turn, but I've lost my keys.