Richard was an over-thinker, that’s why his boughs and branches were curled erratically and so close to his trunk: he couldn’t decide on the direction of growth. His stunted appendages, all cluttered and clustered around him, obscured his view. Thus, he only ever partially grasped the goings on of the woods, and in his half-knowledge there was a darkness: he always chose the most unhelpful and fearful point of view. It had been a long time since the people of the forest had tried to talk him down from whatever terrified drama he was riding on. They had exhausted their capacity for trying to make him see sense. Nowadays, they observed him from a distance, and resigned to accept him as chaotic and panic-ridden. There goes Richard, they’d say, talking up the devil from the deep. Richard was alone in his unhappy corner of the forest, and only the young and
This here tree is a special tree. It does not have a formal name, but the Society of the Ladies of Blackheath Common told me they call it the Droplet Tree. The Society has lore which dates back centuries, the most important being that only the most dedicated early risers have a chance of encountering the Droplet Tree, as the sun takes the droplets once it gets high enough over the horizon. After which, the Droplet Tree becomes indistinguishable from other trees; the magic is broken. According to the Society, when the early morning walker encounters the Tree, and should they take the time to pause and wonder, they will find a different scene reflected in each and every glassy bead suspended from its branches. Each walker’s set of scenes will cut across a particular emotion. So, for instance, when Betsy first encountered the Tree, her scenes were a scattering of
Bethany was a Friesian, but she was none too happy about it. Probably if she’d been a Highland cow, this story would never have been written, mellow and fluffy as she would likely have been. But Bethany was a Friesian and had a temper to match, righteous though it was. She was also—hmm, how can I say?—well, she didn’t half go on a bit. Anyway, the first time it happened was the winter of 1928. Bethany had observed the way the farmhand treated the farmer’s daughter over the summer months and her temper was getting frayed. Truth be told, Bethany was in love with the farmer’s daughter: the way her plump and steady arms and her soft and gentle hands pulled gently at Bethany’s teats was endearing to her. Plus, the farmer’s daughter told Bethany all her secrets, and Bethany found herself believing she was the maiden’s protector. It’s why she
They’re called the Wiblets of Oldpark Wood, but as I am sure is obvious to a knowledgeable reader like you, they are really from AlphaZenturianSix. Their claim to be from Oldpark Wood is simply a ruse to lull us into a false sense of security. For if they belong to an earth locality, then we may be less inclined to monitor their behaviour. But monitor we should, fellow earthling, monitor we should, as there is more to the Wiblets than meets the eye. The Wiblets first came to earth forty-five years ago, when the M25 had burnt a hole in the soul of parts of southern England. The Wiblets spied it from space and saw their chance to begin their slow colonisation of a new planet. As the M25 had damaged, deaded, or dispersed a great many of the indigenous natural powers of certain parts of Surrey and Kent, the land
In Netley Park, you can find a log upon which rests a numberplate. Legend has it that the numberplate is a divination tool: whatever combination of numbers and letters you can see tells you something about your life. According to the lore, if you chance upon it on a Monday, you can learn about your past. Wednesdays reveal a meditation on the present, and Fridays a prediction for the future. No one’s quite sure what the other days of the week signify, which is bad luck for me as I encountered it on a Saturday. I say bad luck, but in reality, those letters were an arresting sight and I knew instantly what aspect of my life they referred to. There was no mistaking that the L stood for lemon scented, the 7 for the wise ducks of the Severn Valley, the 9 for the amount of seconds it takes for