Something about the reflections seemed odd. It turned out there was no water in the pond after all. It wouldn't take long to suffocate here, he thought. He went home the long way by the birch trees and wrote some more and ate his plastacine to see if it really was non-toxic. It tasted like the aftershave he had been drinking earlier.
After the Bazaar
"You look like a broken window"
"You're right, I'm too tired. I can't keep working at the kilns for another night, It'd kill me I'm sure"
"Hasn't been so bad, I suppose. Perhaps things'll pick up"
"It's too cold really. For what they do down there, I mean"
"Your shoes could do with mending"
"I thought all the cobblers were gone"
"Oh they are"
"Good, they were all bastards"
"How's that florist of yours doing?"
"Doing? She's alright. You could say that, but it's not all true"
"What is around here?"
"Ha! Time we went in really, too cold, like you said"
"That wasn't what I meant"
"You're too tired"
"Not me, you"
"Oh, am I now? Well that explains it!"
"Time we went"
"See you tomorrow, at the railway"
"See how many we can get off the trains eh?"
He lived somewhere near the trees.
She was over there. They met once or twice. They had both lived in the same house for twenty-nine years. The moon was unusually bright. Looking across the plains (or were they planes?), they saw nothing. Nothing was a man of around 8000 sun-ups, with black hair and eyes that didn't match. They said he was mad, but he just had good eyebrows, and people hated him for that, but said nothing. They just looked at each other...