The Banolo Tree

I've planted a Banolo tree in my back garden. Made of iron, its branches clang against its trunk in the wind.

I want to make pipes from the branches - new guttering. Shave off the bark and make a thousand tiny magnets and whack 'em on the fridge. Maybe grate them into iron filings, sprinkle bits around the place, then attract them all together so I can spell out my name.

I'm going to carve out a chunk of the trunk and make myself a bath, hear the shimmer of the water on the bottom of the tub.

The leaves of the tree bleed molten metal - I'll put them in a salad and drizzle them with oil.

I want my life to sprout out of the Banolo tree - it'll feed everything I do. I'll be connected, at last, to nature - my life will be linked in.

More Than a Consolation

Charlotte found the note on the kitchen table, scribbled on the back of a receipt and weighed down by a 1961 Tottenham Hotspur commemorative mug.

"Dearest Charlie, " it read. "Sorry to burgle but needed the cash. Emergency. Will pay you back one day. Thanks for understanding, Clive. X."

Her eyes widened in anger - the "X" was one step too far.

Charlotte left the kitchen and wandered back into the sitting room to take another look. The TV was gone. So was the laptop. And the iPad. And the signed picture of Jermain Defoe. And the 7" of Diamond Lights. And the Official Club Calendar 2002/03. "Needed the cash" my arse, she thought.

What else had he taken?

Suddenly panicked, she ran across to the dresser and pulled open the drawer.

Thank God. The season tickets were still there.

Charlotte smiled. He could have taken those tickets, but he'd left them for her.

It meant a lot. It meant that she was going to White Hart Lane on Saturday. It meant that everything was going to be ok.

Six Months of Questing

Jefferson Marlowe was riding along the sandy trail from Quinto Rock to Batahausen, when his horse reared up and flicked him off her back.

As Juniper galloped off into the distance, Jefferson blinked away the dust from his eyes and stumbled to his feet.

"Stay down," a familiar voice boomed from over his shoulder.

Jefferson shot back down and buried his face in the dirt. He dared not turn around.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No," lied Jefferson.

"I am Alfonso Barsquador. Now hand over the keys."

Jefferson reached into his right trouser pocket and fished out the keys to Outrock Cave. He tossed them away to his right.

"And now the book."

Jefferson reached into his left trouser pocket and fished out The Ancient Book of Caldidot. He tossed it away to his left.

"Now stand up and walk away."

Jefferson stood up and walked away.

After ten minutes of silence, he decided that it was probably safe to turn around. The wizard had disappeared, as had the keys and the book. Six months of questing, all gone up in smoke.

Jefferson shouted out for Juniper, but she was long gone.

Batahausen was seventy-eight miles away. He wiped away a tear and started to walk.

Survival

I lay in the box with the other remaining matches in our usual undignified heap. Since Nigel had gone, I was now on top. I didn't have to bear any weight any more, but it also meant that I too would soon be picked out, lit up and burned away.

I was not unhappy to have reached the summit. Every one of us would eventually face the same fate, so what was the point of stringing it out? Some of the others used to hope that the box would be lost, buried at the bottom of a kitchen drawer, that another set of victims would be purchased and used in our stead, but I was never so optimistic.

Indeed, before long, it was my turn.

The light rushed in as the box slid ominously open. Suddenly and unexpectedly fearful, I prayed that he would shake us up, pick someone from the other end, but then I felt his fingers on my toes and knew that it was me. I braced myself and waited for the violent strike of the box against my head.

But it never came.

Instead, he smothered my left side in goo and pushed me firmly against something. I didn't know what. Something hard.

I opened my eyes and realised that I had been attached to Roger. I hadn't seen Roger for ages. I'd thought he was dead. Bit of a pain in the arse, Roger. A moaner. I would have preferred to be next to Dave, but being alive still was enough, I guess. Can't have everything.

It's been a couple of years since I left the box now and, although I'm happy to be here, I do wish that I knew what we all made up. A boat? Or a house, perhaps? Doreen, who stands on my head, thinks that we're a model windmill. Maybe we are. Whatever the answer, we're going to have a bloody long time to speculate.

Slowly Unstitched

As Helen Kennedy brushed her teeth, her left arm was gradually becoming disconnected from her shoulder.

She spat away a mouthful of minty saliva and looked up at the mirror.

She could feel something pulling on her arm, something which she could not see, something at her side. Not tugging, just easing it away from the rest of her body.

It was not an unpleasant experience. In fact, the whole process felt completely natural. She just calmly watched her left arm being slowly unstitched.

It floated away. It was not dead, but was no longer hers. Gliding out of the bedroom window, off down the street. It waved as it disappeared around the corner.

Helen's shoulder healed itself swiftly into a perfectly smooth curve, leaving no trace.

She looked in the mirror and sighed. It was time to go to bed.

A Letter for Jefferson Marlowe

Jefferson Marlowe was in the middle of cutting his toenails, when a postdwarf poked his hand round the door and thrust a missive into the tent.

“Darling Jefferson,

I yearn for you, for your body, for the tender ecstasy of your embrace.

Meet me by the dandelion field at 2pm.

Forever yours,

Hermione.”

Jefferson did not know any Hermiones, but he quite liked the sound of the letter. Particularly the bit about his body. News of his exploits must have spread across Berynthia...which was understandable.

He pulled out his fobwatch. Half past one. Just time to make it.

He brushed his toenails down the side of the mattress, saddled up his horse and rode off.

As our hero swept towards the horizon, the postdwarf crawled out of the bushes and made his way towards the tent.

Good old Jefferson, he thought, as he loaded his rucksack.

The Round Room

“Please be quiet. They are filming in the Round Room. Other rooms are open, but the Round Room is closed.”

“Sure. No problem. What are they filming in the Round Room?”, I asked.

“A short film,” she answered.

“What sort of short film?”

“A short documentary film.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about the Round Room.”

I walked up to the open double doors and looked inside. Cameras were being set up in a circle and a boom mike was looming overhead.

“Looks exciting,” I said.

“Watch your back,” she replied.

A four poster bed was wheeled in past me through the open double doors and positioned at the centre of the room. The cameras and the boom mike were all now pointed at it.

Two people followed the bed into the room. A young man and woman in identical white wool dressing gowns. They smiled nervously at each other and sat down.

As their bottoms hit the mattress, the double doors slammed shut.

“Please be quiet. They are filming in the Round Room. Other rooms are open, but the Round Room is closed.”

On Mount Bernard

Professor Miles lives in a tiny hut on Mount Bernard, forty feet from the summit and twelve thousand from the base.

He used to be a Lecturer in Philosophy at the University of Marshton, but is too old to teach there now.

After he retired, he returned to the city of his birth, where he gave lectures in the streets.

But no-one ever listened, so he moved to the mountains.

His city-lectures were convoluted and difficult to follow, but in the mountains the air is too thin for city-lectures.

It's important to be brief up there, to say what you need to say and then shut up before you run out of breath.

That's why all of Professor Miles’ greatest lectures have been given on Mount Bernard.

It’s just a pity that there’s never been anyone around to hear them.

Jefferson Marlowe's Horn

Jefferson Marlowe blew three times on his magic horn and waited for the pixies to fall out of the sky.

But none did.

So he blew on his horn again, twice as hard and for twice as long.

Still no-one came.

He sat down on his rock and tried to work out what he was doing wrong...

He had taken out his horn at two minutes to three, just as the wizard had instructed. He had pointed it in the direction of the easternmost star, just as the wizard had instructed. He had blown it with his chest out and his chin up, just as the wizard had instructed.

Hmm...

“Bloody horn,” said Jefferson.

“Not enough puff,” said the horn.

Turns out the magic horn needed a magic blower.