A fair choice given the circumstances, thought Bobby. In times of scarcity one can’t be picky with these things. He watched as Ruby filled in the horse’s ample hide with vibrant purple.

“Horsey pleased.” exclaimed Ruby.

“Esbut ema hat?” questioned Bobby.

The Great Crayola Shortage of lunchtime most recent had forced them to be creative with their strained resources. Even more so after Pauline ate the yellow. There was now a pink, a purple, a green, and a mostly crumbled blue.

Ruby gazed cautiously as Bobby lifted the green in his little hand. They peered at each other for confirmation, with held breath: there was no going back now. Bobby lowered the crayon, and carefully, silently, adorned the horse’s skull with an emerald bonnet.

He removed his hand, leaving nothing but a handsome pony and four transfixed eyes on the page. They realised in unison what they had accomplished: they had succeeded in creating a work of true intellectual beauty, against a raging tide of misfortune. They both smiled broadly and began squealing with delight.

 

He glared down at the printer – it seemed it had misinterpeted the sunshine as holiday, and decided today was the day to keep its thoughts to itself, as it spewed page after blank page. No juice, no ink! Or invisible words? Rebellion? No, probably not, PC World didn’t sell enchanted printers. Probably. He was on track to be late for a train he could not miss: he gave up on the documents, scrambled his belongings, jumped on his bike and shot onward to the station. He would just have to make up the reading, or find it later, or fake a terminal illness, or something. At the very least, without the distraction of an academic jungle in his lap, he would be able to enjoy the summer’s view.

There’s a bee in the car. I wind down the window to let it out, for we are all fearful of being stung by the bee. The bee remains on the dashboard, it looks like it doesn’t want to leave. Maybe it’s on its way somewhere nice, but it’s a long way, and it can’t afford a ticket on the bee train, and it would get too tired if it buzzed all the way, I think to myself.

“Let me at it!” screams the young one.

“No!” shouts the middle one, let it live!

Maybe if we’re all nice to the bee and just bring it with us, it’ll be thankful. Although if it is a hitcher, will it be able to contribute to petrol costs? Maybe in honey. Probably not. What if it’s far from home, and it wants to escape, but has been immobilised by our fierceness? I think we should let it out.

The sparrow hopped into the open window on the fifth floor. It was morning, and raining, and warm. In the bed on the left of the sill she lay, evidently free of obligation for this particular day, as it was well after 7, and if she had needed to go to work she would have been perched in front of the mirror, constructing her day face. “But maybe,” thought the sparrow, “her alarm didn’t work? Or perhaps she has forgotten to get up?” He decided to play it safe, at the risk of upsetting her slumber and throwing off her day. “Wake up!” he whispered, cautiously. She didn’t stir. He cleared his throat, and sang a little louder, “Wake up!” She shifted slightly under the covers, and muttered, “not today, little sparrow.”

“What would you do if I told you I wanted to go to clown school?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t believe you.” he replied.

“What if I were very convincing?”

“I would say, but you can’t go to clown school, we’re trying to save money, and we need your income as well as mine. It would be like if I decided to just, I don’t know, jack it all in, give my notice to the office, and start making sculptures of dead celebrities out of bread for a living.”

“But what if we could work something out?”

“Would you make a good clown?”

“I think I would”

“Are you funny?”

Sarah picked up a glass of water and poured it over her head, then gurned comedically. “Robert,” she said, slowly.

“What?”

“I want to go to clown school.”

The next morning Robert drove to the grocer’s and bought 20 kilogrammes of baker’s flour.

Gravity pulls, the Earth needs a hug. But everything rushes. The moon wants a cuddle: the harder it tries to get close, the faster it spins away. The sun wants to nuzzle its loved ones: ten in a bed, but each has its own agenda, no one listens. Some year soon, or not soon, but at some point, he’ll succeed, tired, red, bloated, and his distant companions will give in, and melt away together, a deep hot bath at the end of a long day. The sky and the ground will embrace, as they finally retire and breathe out a sigh, and as they stop running they will succumb to chaos, but they will break and shine in unison. Silent and slow, and messy and broken, they find company only in stopping.

Li sold oranges. Every morning, early, before the commuters awoke, he would spring up from his mattress, crawl into his overalls, rev up the scooter, down the dark street, left, right, left, straight for eight blocks, two lefts and a right, to Mr. Yu’s. He got the job right after school, with the intention of saving up for something more, but inertia kept him stuck. He planned to quit and go to flight school – he had earned enough money. He was not happy and wanted to leave, but every time he thought he had had enough, and was about to pluck up the courage, Mr. Yu would come round and say “Li, you’re the best orange seller we’ve got!” He would feel buoyed, and worth something, and he would think “Maybe this isn’t so bad after all”, and so he would set his pride down, and carry on as before, and sell some more oranges.

It was old and she was late. There were no steps left to take and too many breaths left to catch. She propped herself up on the vined brick and gazed upward, eyes closed, sweat swirling in her creases. If she didn’t make the journey, no one would, but the days were so hot; age, and the body’s innate yearning for stillness, was beginning to get the upper hand. And frankly, what was the point? Nothing but tradition, keeping forgotten rituals alive for long forgotten reasons. She hoisted the rabbit up off her back and laid it down in the short grass, gave it a quick kiss on the ear, said “good night, petal”, took a quick look at the stars, and the lanes, and the shadowed spring blooms, and began once again the descent.

The crowded carriage, a delicate tubular shell offering sanctuary from the trees and ground and sky that are flying by with such momentum, everyone is going somewhere, yet each is a part of the wallpaper of another. There is a small boy, squealing in a manner no doubt as unwelcome to the human furniture as to me. His pacifier is redundant as his utterings flow around it. His mother (I presume) tells him to “shut up and come here”. He comes, but doesn’t shut up, and in his bid to do so whilst holding his own, falls and hits his head. His sounds take on a new tone, even less agreeable. Nothing much changes. Everyone is going somewhere.

Waking had always been a problem for Bill. Or perhaps not the waking per se, rather the daily battle with his alternate self, the one who exists only in the morning, and is more cunning, wise, devious and powerful than daytime Bill could ever hope to be. Regardless of the count of alarms or the mind tricks daytime Bill will try to play on morning Bill — hiding his clock under a pillow, putting it at the other end of the room, setting fourteen alarms, leaving the window open to let the sunlight in, somehow morning Bill will always win. Maybe it was time, thought Bill, that he just accept his fate, surrender to his more powerful self. After all, if he were as skilled as morning Bill wouldn’t his life be a treat? Wouldn’t it be easy! Let him take over. Or, get up and go to work. The eternal question.