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.

Alice wakes up, as she usually does in the mornings. She dissolves into the covers. That part isn’t usual. Usually she gets out of bed, puts her dressing gown on, does her hair, puts some toast on, listens to Radio Lincolnshire, smiles at the cat, feeds the cat, eats the toast, does her teeth, and goes out to work. But no, today, just as her vision is clearing, and the songs of morning are beginning to flower in her head, she goes sploosh, and just dissolves. “Well, better call in sick” she thinks. But she can’t reach for the phone, because she has dissolved. She sighs a harrumph. “Shit.” she says.

She sits in the centre. At first she created: she sculpted the mountains and watered the valleys, spun wool and wings and the rhythm of things.

But now her work is done, her children are grown and on their own. She breathes and listens, eyes closed, for she is tired and old. She hears the spin of the seasons, flares of romance and reason, the crash of waves and the gaze of the enchanted, the pain of the eaten and the relief of the sated.

All she needs is to listen, for all they need is to be heard.

Yesterday I ate two grapes without even thinking about it. And then I ate two more. And two more. Then I finished off the packet, without even thinking about it. Now I’m thinking about it. I’m thinking that it was quite a good idea, and that grapes are good for me.

“Have you seen my grapes?” pipes Jude as she walks in the room. Not me, I haven’t seen any grapes.

“Not me, I haven’t seen any grapes.” I say.

“Oh.” she replies. There are few places the grapes could have gone, as we live alone together, with no pets.

“Maybe you ate them?” I quiz.

“Maybe I did.” she quivers. She may be about to burst into tears. She’s not sure if she has memory problems or not. She doesn’t. I just really like grapes.