David arrived in the morgue at 7:15pm. He had had bowel cancer, and had been operated on by Sarah, his girlfriend, earlier that day. There were complications, though they were mysterious: it did not end well for David, but it wasn’t because of the surgery. It was worse, perhaps, for Sarah, whose last moments with her love had been experienced through surgical gloves.

I opened him up to see if I could find out the cause of death. It was likely that it was related to the tumours, but we have to be certain these days. Cutting open the large intestine, I found a small, opaque, capsule. I opened it. An engagement ring, clean and irridiscent. He was such a bastard.

There is a cloud that looks like an apple blossom tree. Atop the cloud sits a boy, with green shoes and a wry smile, playing the recorder. I go to him. “Why the recorder?” I ask, “Why not something more majestic?”

“There is nothing more majestic than the recorder” He replies, resolutely.

That settles it then.

Linda is a tree.

“The thing about being a tree is,” said Linda, “that everything takes a long time and you don’t move very much.”

The cat didn’t stir.

“I said, the thing about being a tree is that everything takes a long time and you don’t really move very much.” she repeated, a little louder. She paused eagerly, awaiting a response, excited about her potential new friend. The cat continued to ignore her, despite having presumed a right to perch, rent-free, atop her branches to attain its privileged vantage point.

Cats are treacherous vermin thought Linda. Can’t be trusted. She gathered her courage and huffed: “You’re just… just a very rude cat!”

The cat couldn’t hear her. It wouldn’t have cared anyway, Linda’s just a tree.

It was 6:30pm and cold, and Peter’s head lay a mere window’s thickness away from the October drizzle. His stop was coming up. The evenings were drawing shorter. He alighted the bus, wearing the darkness of the night like an ill-fitting overcoat. Four-hundred and twelve steps later he arrived at his home, threw the keys into the basket, and flicked the light switch.

“SURPRISE!!” was the result. Twenty-five of his favourites were gathered underneath a pink, glittery birthday banner in his living room.  It wasn’t even his birthday. This only served to heighten the shock: he died instantly of heart failure. At least he was in good company.

Follow me home, I’ll leave the door open. Stay twenty steps behind. Keep out of the light, don’t make a sound. There’s bread in the freezer, so it’ll be fresh, just toast it a little longer. Butter and cheese on the top shelf of the fridge. Wipe up your crumbs. Help yourself to juice. I’ll leave out some sheets for you, you’ll know where to go. Put them in the basket when you’re done. Leave by six, no later. There’s a mac you can use in case it’s raining in the morning, keep it.

A little puddle appeared. The old woman stopped shuffling, and peered into the watery mirror. She looked up at the sky: clear, not a cloud. ‘Must be a water main’ she muttered to herself. She breathed in, gathered her strength and continued forward. It was a quiet day, calm. A little puddle appeared, again just a few feet away. She stopped again, gazed into its depths, as it shimmered slightly in the breeze. She looked back at the previous puddle, which appeared to have vanished.

The same thing happened two more times. She would continue, and the puddle would follow. ‘I’m being followed by a puddle.’ she chuckled, and shook her head. The fifth time, the puddle appeared right beneath her feet, swallowed her up with a splash, and vanished, leaving nothing but a puff of Chanel on the breeze.

It is February, and it is cold. The snow has melted, and re-frozen, and been snowed on afresh, and the new snow in turn has melted, re-frozen and been snowed on afresh, the city is a glacial lettuce, a lattice of layers. Morgan perches on the third branch of her favourite tree. From here she can smell the ice without the dull nasal glare of pollution.

Through the second floor window of a nearby apartment there is a large television set, clearly visible from this height. The family who own it are not affluent, simply the sort who value pixels over pages, and, luckily, privacy. It is too far for Morgan to hear the sounds from the screen, but the picture is clear. She settles down with her bag of hot candied peanuts, and makes up the words.

“Mmmm yeah.” growled Steve, posing in front of the mirror. “Mmmm hey good lookin’.” He flexed his muscles, his orange coat bulging and glistening in the lamplight. “Mmmm you’re a tiger, you’re a TIGER!” he ran his digits through his mane and pouted at his reflection. “Mmmm yeah those lady tigers.” He sprayed a mist of scented allure onto his stripes. He formed guns from his claws, and fired them all around at his imaginary aggressors, emulating the sounds of gunshots with his mouth, tail held high.

I saw a rook sitting on the end of my bench. Fair enough, a rook can sit where a rook wants, so long as it acts in a respectable manner, just like the rest of us. I continued to eat my sandwich (peanut butter, cheese, and chicken) and thought no more of it.

“Sarah left me.” said the rook, clearly.

“Sorry what?” I looked round to see the rook. He continued gazing into the morning haze.

“She up and left. I suppose I brought it upon myself really.”

“How?”

“The whole business with… well never mind. Life’s complicated isn’t it.”

I looked down at my sandwich, at the bench and the children playing, at the faded gazebo and the cold river. “Yes, it is.” I replied.

“No matter.” The rook sighed, and took flight.