I walk over the same hill I walked over yesterday. Then I was just stolling, out for some fresh air, seeking high ground for the exercise and in hope of a view. Today, the directions I should have read sooner send me the same way, treading in yesterday’s footsteps, trading in yesterday’s wandering for a stride that knows just where it is going. I pick up a chocolate wrapper that fell from my pocket. I pick a blackberry that ripened overnight. I come down into the valley, and cross over the river a second time.

—And there’s your free potato scallop.

—Oh, no thank you.

—It’s free.

—I know. But I don’t want it.

—Well, there’s a free potato scallop with every order at the moment.

—Right. Yes. But I don’t want one. I’ve got enough.

—I’ve put it in the bag already. It’s free. I’tll have to go in the bin if you don’t take it. We can’t give it to someone else.

—Well do you want it?

—I’ve been here four hours, I’d rather stick my head in the fryer than eat anything greasy.

—OK. Well, thanks.

—Excuse me, do you want this potato scallop?

—Not really, mate. You couldn’t get me a pie, could you? It’s freezing out here.

Take the money and put it in the bag. Take all the money and put it in the bag. I would like you to put the money into the bag. Money, bag, now. You better put the fucking money in the fucking bag. Would you please fill this bag with money for me. I’d like to make a very large withdrawal. Money in the bag. Money in the bag. Money in the bag.

Christ, I’m going to make a mess of this, aren’t I?

After many years of dedicated, deliberate practice, I have perfected the art of marshmallow toasting. They snap like a crème brûlée; they ooze like a rich caramel. I must have burned forests to get here. I brush my teeth carefully. I read books and visit friends. I’m not obsessive. It is a small thing, but it is mine. There are still arts in this world that have not been perfected. They can be yours.

You can earn money while you sleep this way. The money’s not much, but it’s steady. Dreams are irreplaceable: computers can’t dream the same way we do. So there’ll always be demand. The money’s not much, but it puts a few more hours in the day you can get paid for. It pays the rent, so you have somewhere to sleep, so you have somewhere to dream, so you have something to sell.

And it’s completely non-invasive. You don’t even have to wear anything. The sensors are all in your pillow, and they can pick up your brian activity even when you move around. Amazing, really.

The only change is, it adds a bit of drag. Like how a water-wheel slows down the river a little. It’s just part of how the tech works. You might feel like you’re dreaming less. You’re not, not really: the dreams are there, you just don’t experience them any more. So don’t worry. You’ll still get paid.

He could feel the wine seeping up his trousers, at his heel where the hem dragged on the floor. Not his wine, and not him who had spilled it, but he was sat in the puddle, so who would know that?

At the interval, he would fetch paper towels and mop it up. For now, he sat, and stared into the back of the head of thr man who had kicked his wine over and pretended not to notice. He felt the stain wick up his leg, and he didn’t hear a word.

The Great Blade of Constancy, the sword by which the foretold hero would defeat the coming darkness, resembles the kind of soft foam sword that a kid would have a tantrum over in a gift shop, or an adult would buy for their live-action role-play sessions and paint to look more badass. But the Great Blade of Constancy rejects decoration of all kinds. It will be unchangingly red and yellow until the prophecies are fulfilled. And the foretold hero will be one who can draw on the deepest well of courage, to look extremely silly as they strive to do what they know is right.

Nothing remains of all my useless things but charcoal. Charcoal, to cook, to filter water, to draw, to write. To start again.

Eight paces down the aisle of the shoe shop. Eight paces back. All the time worried that someone will think his shoes are for sale, and there will be a misunderstanding, a scene, as though anyone would want to buy them. Sixteen paces not really sure what he is supposed to be looking for, not really sure what his feet feel like the rest of the time, not really sure if this is how he normally walks. Does his heel hit the ground first, or his toes? Has he tied them too loose, to avoid creasing a pair he doesn’t want to buy? He paces again, then flexes his feet with a thoughtful expression, one that shows the empty shop that he knows what he is doing. And then, because he cannot think of an answer when he imagines the shop assistant asking what is wrong about them, he buys the shoes.

Behold, the incredible Time Shoes! Step forwards, to move to the future! Step backwards, to move to the past! Step sideways, if you need to move around but you want to continue your normal trajectory through time! Strap them on and try! Yes, that’s it! Wait! No! Do not dance in the Time Sh—

At the museum I always look at the same painting. I was going to look at a different one each time I visited; I thought that would make me more appreciative. But I never made it past the first. There is always something more to look at. It would seem a little bit arrogant to move on, like I had finished it. Now, though, they have taken it down for restoration. I am free to move on to the next. But I look at the hook, and the patch of wall, and the little plaque telling me about a painting that is not there but that I can close my eyes and see. I look at the room in which it stood, and in which I stand. I find that there is still more of the painting to see.

Sybil Bushtail

Can whoever has been digging up my nuts PLEASE STOP. I have worked really hard gathering these nuts for the winter and someone keeps coming and digging them up and taking them. THESSE ARE NOT YOUR NUTS. Its already getting cold and if this keeps happening I will not have enough to survive. Honestly when I was a kid people in this forest used to have basic manners and you could leave your nuts in a little pile, you didn’t have to bury them even. It’s not like that these days and it’s a real shame, not wishing to point any finger but I think we all know the place has gone downhill.

Gary Nutkin

alright grandma get over it it’s just a few nuts!! 😂😂😂

I am waiting for the crocuses. When winter ends, they will poke up through the thawing earth to greet the sun, and me. I can make it through the winter as long as I remember that I am waiting for the crocuses.

But while I am waiting, I don’t go out to look. If I went out and looked at the dead earth every morning, then before the shoots pushed through it I would be dead too. I do not look, and so I might miss the first day that the crocuses show their faces to the world again. But I know it is coming. I know it is. There will be colour out there again. And I am waiting.

I don’t know when it started, or how. I just got colder and colder. And then one day, I put my hand to my heart and it wasn’t beating any more. The blood thickened in my veins. It should have been scary. But whatever else I am, I am not scared any more.