It took forever to carve this pumpkin. To get the shape just right; to smooth off the rough edges. And when I painted it, it looked wrong. Just unnaturally orange. I don’t know why people bother carving them. It would have been easier to buy a real one.

Old Mr Pratt was always horrible to the kids who came into his shop. None of them understood why he ran a toy shop, or why their parents let them go in. He would sneer and spit and make fun of you for the toys you chose, even though he had chosen to have them in his shop. He was mean, and he was stupid: every time you went in there, you could trick him into giving you something for free.

One little bird didn’t join the V as it cut through the sky. Nobody had invited him, and he didn’t hear them calling. He didn’t want to seem presumptuous. So he made his own way, little wings and little heart beating hard with no upwash to help him. Somewhere over the ocean, he heard a voice at his shoulder: “Shouldn’t someone else take a turn in front now, friend?” Behind him, the V stretched out like two immense wings.

The morning of the holiday. Cleaning the house, emptying the bins, packing the car. He almost got mixed up and put the food waste bin in among the suitcases; he realised what he was doing just in time. Then he imagined their faces when they arrived at the cottage and found it. The laughter. The full week of ribbing him about it. Them bringing it up every holiday. He tucked the bin into place, and closed the boot.

We went to the hedge maze. Thirty years I’ve been wanting to go to a hedge maze, and never going, and never telling anyone. We tried a corn maze when I was eight, but we had just missed the season. They had cut the whole thing down.

Now we’re here, lost in the middle. We split up and we sometimes hear each other’s voices calling. As I turn at a junction I see you, walking towards me, and I smile and try to stop myself from running.

The slots of the Pop-Up Pirate are getting full and it is simply too nerve-racking to insert another. It might pop, and I will jump higher than the pirate, and the boy will laugh at me. It might not pop, and then pop on his turn, and then he will cry. And I can’t stop thinking about hiding in a barrel, curled up tight, just waiting for one of these blades to pierce my belly. The little plastic sword is trembling in my fingers. Yellow. I choose a place and slide it home. The pirate leaps out into the air, and I catch it deftly, without looking. The boy applauds. I look at the pirate’s little smiling face, safe in my hand.

The hovercar had broken down again. Power to the screen, but seemingly nowhere else: apparently it was some kind of server issue. She wouldn’t have minded, only it was very, very hard to push.

He laced up his golden boots and kicked the dog to death. He took no pleasure in doing it. He did it with all the solemnity the task demanded. And he certainly understood the point of view of those who said he shouldn’t do it at all. But since it had to be done, he thought it best that it be done by him, so that it was done properly. And they were very shiny boots.

After forty years of repression, Simon hacked and sputtered and coughed up a little pellet of pure anger. It was dark grey and oily, with veins of red and purple, and even a little gold, here and there. The government took possession of the pellet without remunerating him: it was felt that to offer compensation would hamper future research. Simon did not complain. When compressed further, the pellet produces a quite astonishing amount of heat. It powers a small region of the East Midlands to this day.

He had bled all the radiators, black gunk and hot water spraying him, a bruise on his thumb from the key on stiff valves that hadn’t turned in years. Bled all the radiators so they got hot right up to the top, then topped off the system so it was back up to pressure and checked them all again. He had bled all the radiators ready for the cold weather, just in case he could afford to turn them on, and it wouldn’t need doing again until after he had to move out.

He sunk into the lake not expecting to be able to breathe. The weed that once tangled his legs now seemed to hold him, gentle and safe and warm. The cold faded gently. His vision sharpened. He felt a peace he had never felt before. When he came to the surface, the sunlight dazzled him; his lungs burned; his skin felt like it would burst.

I was starting to worry that somebody would recognise my shoes. I told myself: if somebody recognises your shoes from under the door of a toilet cubicle, then they’re the weird ones. But when the door’s been locked for twenty minutes maybe it’s not weird to check there’s someone in there, and they haven’t passed out.

And I would never know, because they wouldn’t say anything. If a person has a reason for locking themselves in the toilets for half an hour, it’s generally not something you want to hear about. Maybe I should be glad not to be asked any awkward questions. But if you don’t get asked them, it means people are making up their own answers.

After a while, it was all quiet. I flushed, just in case anyone was still there, and went out to face them: those lovely people, who want nothing but the best for me.

The apples kept falling, faster than they could eat them or stew them or juice them for cider. Faster than they could gather them. They heaped around the trunk of the tree, stinking as the buried ones fermented. And still the branches sagged under the weight of new fruit. Flies and rats came, more each day, and the apples kept falling.

They cut down the tree, and the apples did not stop. They poured from the felled branches even as the stump sprouted anew. They sawed the tree to pieces, and the pieces dropped apples. Some found a little length of branch that produced just one or two each day, and took it home for themselves. But this was forbidden. They piled the pieces in around the stump, atop the rotting fruit, and burned it all. Most of them never tasted an apple again.

I dreamed about him nightly, for years, until I knew every wrinkle of his face. We never spoke in the dreams. Rarely did I even get close to him. But he was always there. After confusion, curiosity, and frustration, I began to feel safe. I had something to rely on, just as long as he was there.

One night he wasn’t. I dreamed of terrible things, the ground falling and splits in the sky. The next day I saw him on the street. We spoke for the first time. He said, I’m sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, I’m afraid I really have to go.