My father doesn’t want me to jump. I say “It’s fine, I can do it!”. He says “Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll get yourself killed”. I know I can do it, I have the equipment. It’s the grand canyon, it takes a while to fall, there will be plenty of time to spare just in case it takes a while to kick in. I say, “I can fly dad, I’ve done it before!”. He says “No you haven’t”. I am squishing a polyester pillow against my chest, I check the buoyancy, it feels fine. I say “I have”. He says “Just come back with me.” I decide to submit. I start to come with him. Just as he loosens his grip, I jump.

Last week Steve put an ad in the paper. It read as follows: “7th June, 6pm, time travellers party, The Fox and Saviour.” He had also left the instruction that time travellers must not let on that they are time travellers: if no one turned up, then the future-people would know that this was not a party worth going to, so they wouldn’t come. There would have to be a seed population of present-folk. Otherwise it would be impossible to get them there in the first place. Of course, there is then the downside that there isn’t really much point in bringing time travellers if you don’t know they’re time travellers, what’s the point in that? Steve arrived at 6:20pm, and by the time he got there, there were twelve people and no cheese twists left. No one polishes off 200 cheese twists in 20 minutes. Sound evidence, he thought, of time travellers. But he didn’t say this, just in case.

We set out fourteen days ago, three of us. It was a Wednesday, we were at work, discussing charts and scales and office politics. Years and years, just the same day over and over again. I snapped. “Guys, fuck all this. Let’s go to Panama.” They were confused. I brought them muffins. They came round to the idea. We didn’t even quit, we just left, half-drunk coffees on the desk. We were all unattached and free. We would start a new life. We could do anything we liked. And we did. And now we’re in Panama. And it’s shit. We should probably go back.

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.