Letters to the Sea

Elias had spent his whole life by the sea, a fisherman in his youth, and now in his twilight years, he lived quietly, collecting shells and repairing old nets out of habit, though he no longer had need for them. Every morning, Elias would walk down to the shore just as the sun began to rise. He’d sit on a large, smooth rock, watching the sea wake up, listening to the gulls as they danced above the water.

He would sit there on the beach with a small notepad, his hands weathered and slow, but steady. He would write a few words, sometimes many, sometimes just a line or two. Then, when the letter was done, he’d tuck it into a glass bottle, cork it carefully, and walk to the water’s edge. There, he would kneel, and with tenderness, he would release the bottle into the waves. The sea would take it, carry it out, and Elias would watch until the vessel disappeared from sight.

No one knew what the letters said. Elias never spoke of them, and no one ever asked. He was known as a gentle man, though a man of few words. It was simply assumed the letters were his way of keeping his mind busy, a quaint tradition to pass the time in his later years.

One summer, a girl named Anya arrived in the village with her parents, trying to find a place that felt like home. She noticed Elias immediately, sitting by the shore each morning, and she was curious about the bottles he sent out to sea. One morning, when she gathered the courage, she approached him.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice soft in the breeze. “May I ask what you write in those letters?”

Elias looked at her, his eyes as blue as the water behind him, a lifetime of stories hidden in their depths, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might not answer. But then, after a long silence, he said, “They’re letters to the sea.”

Anya was intrigued. “Do you ever get a reply?” she asked, sitting down beside him.

Elias looked back out at the horizon, where the sea and sky stretched endlessly away. “I’ve written to the sea since I was a young man. I started when I lost someone I loved deeply. At first, the letters were full of anger and sorrow, things I couldn’t say to anyone else. But over time, the words changed. They became letters of gratitude, of wonder. Now, I write because the sea understands. It’s always there, always listening.”

Anya was quiet, watching the waves roll in. “That’s beautiful,” she said after a while.

Elias nodded, his gaze never leaving the water. “The sea is always moving, always changing, carrying things away but bringing new things to the shore. We don’t always understand its ways, but there’s a peace in being here and watching the waves.”

The two sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the gentle rush of the tide and the distant calls of the gulls. Then, Elias reached into his bag and pulled out a small, empty bottle. He handed it to Anya.

“Here,” he said. “Why don’t you try? Write something. It doesn’t have to be much. Just whatever you feel right now.”

Anya hesitated at first, then took the bottle. She picked up a small pebble from the beach, turning it in her hand as she thought. Then, with a shy smile, she began to write.

From that day on, Anya and Elias met every morning by the sea, each with their own bottle to send out into the waves. Anya found that, as the days passed, the weight of her thoughts grew lighter. The letters were never meant for anyone in particular, and yet they seemed to find their place in the world, carried away to the ocean.

Years later, after Elias had passed on, people would sometimes find bottles washed up on the shore—letters from long ago, carrying something special: the quiet love of a man who had made peace with the endless, unspoken sea.

Butter-Toaster 3000

Once upon a time, in a small English village called Quirkton, lived a man named Nigel who was well-known for his peculiar hobbies. Nigel wasn’t like the other villagers, who spent their days drinking tea or playing cricket. No, Nigel had a passion for inventing utterly pointless gadgets.

One morning, Nigel woke up with what he thought was his greatest idea yet—a toaster that could butter the toast for you. “It’s brilliant,” he thought to himself as he scribbled out a quick sketch at the kitchen table. “The world will finally recognise my genius!”

He spent the next few days working on the invention, welding odd bits of metal together, wiring circuits he didn’t entirely understand, and spending far too long arguing with his cat, Sir Pawsington, about where the butter dispenser should go. By Friday, the Butter-Toaster 3000 was complete. It was a magnificent contraption, albeit a bit oversized—roughly the size of a small washing machine. But Nigel was not one to let practicality get in the way of progress.

He invited the whole village over for a grand unveiling, convinced that this would be his moment of glory. Villagers arrived, intrigued, although many came just for the free sandwiches. Nigel stood before them, beaming, with Sir Pawsington perched on his shoulder.

“Welcome, friends! Behold—the Butter-Toaster 3000! A toaster that not only toasts your bread to perfection but butters it for you with precision only a machine can achieve!” he announced, pulling off a dusty sheet to reveal the monstrous appliance.

The crowd murmured as Nigel placed a slice of bread in the toaster and pressed the button. The machine hummed loudly, sparks flying here and there—slightly concerning, but Nigel assured everyone this was part of the “innovation process.”

Suddenly, with a loud pop, the bread shot out of the toaster, flew across the room, and slapped straight into the face of Mrs. Perkins, who had the misfortune of standing closest to the invention. Before anyone could react, the butter dispenser kicked into action, flinging a pat of butter with alarming force, which followed the bread, hitting Mrs. Perkins again squarely in the face.

For a moment, there was silence.

Mrs. Perkins, covered in butter, blinked, took off her glasses, and calmly said, “Well, it’s better than that talking washing machine he made last year.”

The crowd laughed, while Nigel stood in shock, muttering, “I’ll… adjust the settings.”

To this day, Nigel, undeterred, is still in his workshop working on the next big thing—an umbrella that doubles as a cup holder. “You just wait,” he says, “this one’s going to be massive.”

The Empty Bench

Eleanor lived in a crumbling house at the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the ocean. Her house was the last one before the land gave way to the vast expanse of water below. The townsfolk rarely visited her, not out of malice but out of respect. Eleanor had lived there for as long as anyone could remember, and her quiet, solemn presence gave her an almost mythical status in the town.

Every day, at dusk, Eleanor would leave her house and walk towards the cliff’s edge. There, she would sit on a weathered bench, looking out at the sea. No one knew why she did this, but it had become a part of the daily rhythm—Eleanor at the cliffs, the sun dipping below the horizon, and the waves crashing endlessly against the rocks below.

But there was something different about that evening. Eleanor felt the weight of something coming, something that had been long buried beneath the tides.

As she sat on her bench, her frail hands gripping the worn wood, Eleanor's eyes were drawn to the sea. At first, it was just a shadow—a flicker at the edge of her vision—but then it grew, becoming more distinct. A ship. An old, grand ship with tattered sails and a hull darkened by the sea’s grasp. It was drifting slowly towards the cliffs, towards her.

Eleanor hadn’t seen that ship in over sixty years, not since the night it had disappeared, swallowed by a storm that had raged so fiercely it had left the town battered and broken. Everyone had believed the ship had sunk, with all hands aboard lost. But Eleanor had known better. She had always known the ship would return.

The ship grew closer, and as it did, the wind died, the waves quieting. There, on the deck of the vessel, stood a figure, his coat whipping in a breeze that seemed to exist only for him.

It was Captain James Allard, her James. The love of her youth, the man who had promised to return to her but had been taken by the sea. Yet here he was, unchanged by time.

“Eleanor,” his voice carrying across the distance between them. “I’ve come for you.”

She had waited for this moment, for this impossible return. For years, she had sat on this bench, watching, hoping, and now, at last, he had come back to her.

The cliff’s edge loomed ahead, but she did not stop. She was no longer afraid. The sea, which had once taken everything from her, now beckoned her with the promise of reunion.

As she stepped into the air, a wind caught her, gentle and soft, and she felt herself being lifted. She didn’t fall; she floated, weightless, her heart light for the first time in decades.

The townsfolk would say, in the days to come, that Eleanor had simply vanished. That one night, she had walked to the cliffs and never returned. Some said she had finally succumbed to the grief that had haunted her for so long. Others whispered of the ghost ship, of Captain Allard, and the love that had transcended even death.

But the sea kept its secrets well, and no one would ever truly know what had happened that night. All that remained was the empty bench at the edge of the cliffs, and the distant sound of waves, crashing endlessly against the shore.

The Last Evening

It was the last evening before Alice would leave for university. The house was quiet, her suitcase packed and waiting by the door. She found herself restless, drawn to the oak tree in a way she couldn’t explain. It stood at the edge of the property, silhouetted against the fading twilight.

The oak tree watched her as she approached. As she got closer, Alice noticed something strange. The tree’s bark seemed to heave, almost as if it were breathing.

She placed her hand on the trunk.

As her fingers touched the bark, a ripple of warmth spread up her arm, and suddenly, the world shifted. The tree, the night sky—they all blurred, and then cleared again, but it was different. Everything was covered in silver light.

Her hand remained pressed against the tree, but now it felt softer, like skin, warm and pulsing. She tried to pull away, but her fingers were stuck. She tugged harder, but the tree wouldn’t let go.

Then she heard it—low, faint but unmistakable, as if it were coming from the depths of the oak itself.

“Stay.”

She tried to yank her hand free, but the tree’s grip remained. The voice grew louder, more insistent, multiplying.

“Stay with us.”

The bark shifted around her fingers, and from within the tree, shapes began to emerge—faces, pale and ghostly, pressing against the wood from the inside. Their eyes were hollow, their mouths stretched wide in silent screams. She recognized them. People she had seen in town, long gone.

“You belong here.”

“No!” she shouted: She pulled away, and the tree released her. She stumbled back.

The voices faded, the faces retreating back into the bark. The world snapped back to normal, the tree standing still and silent.

Alice left the town and the tree behind in the morning.

How to Pretend You're Posh (And Fool Absolutely No One)

Here I am, an individual of impeccable taste, navigating the world of fine living. You must forgive me, I've just had the most dreadful time trying to find a decent vintage this morning. It's like, I say to the chap at the wine shop, "Do you really expect me to drink anything from after 2015?" And, you know, he gives me this look. You know the look—the kind that suggests he thinks I'm just a bit too posh for my own good. But honestly, anything after 2015 is basically grape juice, isn't it?

Ah, but don't misunderstand me, I am terribly refined these days. I’ve got a subscription to the London Review of Books, which I only read while sipping a perfectly brewed Earl Grey, naturally. I’ve even started calling dinner 'supper' just because it feels right, you know? I mean, it's really quite marvellous, isn't it? 'Supper' has that special ring to it. It’s a bit like 'dinner', but with that certain je ne sais quoi, which in this case means the added air of someone who has, perhaps, a favourite type of chutney—oh, and not just any chutney, mind you, but something exotic like mango and chilli, or fig and balsamic reduction. And of course, one must always discuss these chutneys with others, ideally while wearing a cashmere cardigan and standing next to an Aga, because how else would you truly embrace the spirit of 'supper'?

Speaking of chutney, I must tell you about the cheese board I hosted the other day. Oh, yes, yes, I’m a bit of a cheese board enthusiast these days. I laid out a lovely spread, something artisanal, nothing you'd find in Tesco—absolutely not! I had this Camembert which was—and I do say this with utmost confidence—ever so slightly off. Yes, off. Which is how you know it’s good, isn’t it? If it’s sort of offensive to the nose, that’s when you know you’re on the right track. And, of course, I also included a Brie that was so gooey, it was more of a puddle than a cheese—it practically had to be served with a ladle. Oh, and the crackers! I had a selection that would make any self-respecting cheese lover weep with joy: charcoal crackers, rosemary wafers, and even some gluten-free, hand-rolled, sea salt thins. Because, let’s face it, if you’re not offering a variety of crackers that require an explanation, are you really even hosting a cheese board?

Now, when it comes to weekends, you'll find me spending my time at the local farmer's market—oh, yes, very locally sourced, organic vibes only. It’s very important, you know, to support local farmers, even if it means spending fifteen quid on a cabbage. And it's never just 'cabbage,' is it? I only deal in cabbages that have names like 'heritage winter brassica' and come with a story about how they were grown on the side of some misty hill by a person named Juniper. Juniper, who probably wears handmade sandals and sings folk songs to the vegetables as they grow.

Of course, I’ve also taken up reading poetry. Not just any poetry, mind you. I’ve been diving into Keats, which I must say, is quite different from the last thing I saw the neighbour read, which was… well… let’s just say it was a Jilly Cooper novel and leave it at that. But no, now I sit in my front room—parlour, I should say—with a cup of Earl Grey, reading my Keats aloud, so the neighbours know just how terribly cultured I’ve become. I’m sure they’re impressed, even if they don’t fully understand why I’m standing at the window declaring, "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever!" at the top of my lungs.

Anyway, I must be off—I've got a yoga class to get to. Not the regular kind, of course—oh, no. It's goat yoga. Yes, goats. Someone told me it’s very calming to have a goat jump on your back while you’re doing a downward dog. I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but it sounds expensive and obscure, which means it must be good for me. Plus, there’s something rather poetic, don’t you think, about reconnecting with nature, even if nature is standing on you and chewing on your shoelaces.

Sicilian Single Estate Olive Oil

BASINGSTOKE – Local man Kevin Burrows, 43, a part-time IT technician and full-time Tesco Clubcard holder, made a life-altering purchase last Thursday when he popped into Waitrose “just for a look” after his wife’s yoga class. The item in question? A 500ml bottle of Sicilian single-estate organic olive oil, priced at an eye-watering £12.99.

Burrows has reportedly been unable to revert to his previous life of own-brand butter and two-for-one spaghetti hoops. “I used to be happy with a splash of sunflower oil, but now look at me,” he confessed, wiping a tear from his eye. “I’ve been drizzling this stuff on everything – salads, toast, even fish fingers. It’s like I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back.”

Friends and family say Burrows has become insufferable since the purchase, with several complaining that he now insists on talking about “notes of pepperiness” and “fruity undertones” when discussing his evening meals.

“He came round for a barbecue last weekend,” said his mate Dave Pearson. “Next thing I know, he’s pouring olive oil onto the burgers and banging on about ‘the Mediterranean diet’. I had to pretend I was impressed, but really, I just wanted to give him a slap.”

Burrows’ wife, Angela, has also voiced concerns, claiming that her husband has started using phrases like “just a touch of balsamic” and “pass the sea salt” in casual conversation. “It’s like I’m living with a stranger,” she said. “Last night, he refused to eat his chips because they ‘weren’t organic.’ I nearly fainted.”

According to experts, this condition includes an inflated sense of culinary superiority, the sudden urge to purchase artisanal bread, and an inexplicable disdain for anything from Iceland.

Burrows’ descent into the posh oil lifestyle has been swift and brutal. Just two days after the olive oil incident, he was seen browsing the “fancy cheeses” section of Marks & Spencer, where sources say he was heard muttering the phrase “burrata” under his breath. At press time, Burrows was spotted furiously Googling recipes for focaccia bread.

To Do

I recently tried to be more productive, so I decided to make a to-do list. But, of course, halfway through the day, I was still working on it. So I thought, “I’ll just add things I’ve already done and cross them off for the satisfaction.”

By the end of the day, I had a thoroughly accomplished list:

                  1.              Wake up ✔️

                  2.              Breathe ✔️

                  3.              Stare at phone ✔️

                  4.              Check fridge for snacks ✔️

Mr Nibbles

Mr Nibbles, a rotund creature with an air of considerable self-importance, paused momentarily to inspect the carpet before waddling purposefully toward the hallway. Dave, maintaining a casual watch, did not give much thought to the hamster’s expedition—after all, how far could a hamster feasibly manage to go? However, it was precisely here that Dave made a critical misjudgement: underestimating the latent agility and determination of Mr Nibbles.

Mr Nibbles identified an aperture—a narrow gap between the wall and the skirting board, an opening so minute that no reasonable person would deem it traversable. Nevertheless, Mr Nibbles, possessing an indomitable spirit akin to that of the most valiant adventurers, manoeuvred his fluffy body through the slender crevice, disappearing into the wall cavity. There, the indistinct creaks and rustlings of the hidden recesses hinted at enigmatic secrets concealed within.

Dave’s eyes widened in disbelief. "Mr Nibbles? Where did you go, mate?" he exclaimed, dropping to his hands and knees to peer into the shadowy depths of the gap. He could faintly discern the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet echoing through the house’s internal labyrinth—a structure erected in the 1970s, during a period when home construction appeared more focused on concealed mysteries than structural soundness.

In a moment of sheer panic, Dave reached for his phone. Within minutes, Shane arrived, dressed as though he were embarking on a full-scale military operation. He wore camouflage trousers, an oversized utility vest brimming with an assortment of unknown tools, and had even donned knee pads, evidently prepared for extreme contingencies. Additionally, he was equipped with his well-worn gardening gloves, a headlamp, and—for reasons that eluded Dave—a wooden spoon.

"Alright, Dave," Shane proclaimed, his tone conveying the gravity of a commander leading a tactical unit, "where did you last see the little rascal?"

Dave gestured towards the narrow gap, prompting Shane to crouch down with the intensity of a detective meticulously examining a crime scene. "This calls for something special, Dave," Shane declared. "Cheese," he announced, producing a slice of cheddar from his pocket with the flair of a magician unveiling a rabbit. "Trust me, hamsters have a weakness for it." Shane proceeded to break the cheese into small fragments and, with a rather conspicuous zeal, began placing the pieces near the gap in the wall.

For the next half hour, they waited. Dave lay prone on the floor, murmuring assurances to Mr Nibbles. "Come on, mate. I’ll get you a wheel with LED lights. I’ll even buy you those organic sunflower seeds." Meanwhile, Shane tapped the wall gently with the wooden spoon, as if attempting to channel his willpower to coax the hamster back. Dave, observing him, could not help but raise an eyebrow, questioning whether Shane’s methods had perhaps strayed into the realm of absurdity, though he wisely refrained from voicing his thoughts.

Suddenly, a faint shuffling emerged from the darkness. Dave held his breath. Shane’s eyes widened in anticipation. From the shadowy depths, the tiny nose of Mr Nibbles appeared, followed by his rapidly twitching whiskers. Enticed by the aroma of cheddar, Mr Nibbles cautiously emerged from the gap, his demeanour exuding nonchalance, as though entirely indifferent to the commotion he had instigated.

"Oh, thank heavens," Dave sighed, swiftly scooping up the diminutive escapee. Mr Nibbles blinked lazily, seemingly oblivious to the drama he had caused. Shane gave Dave a self-satisfied nod, "Told you, cheese never fails. Well, except for that time my cat met a raccoon… but that’s another story."

10 Absolutely True Facts

• Rocks grow extremely slowly, but only when no one is watching.

• Bees don’t actually make honey. They buy it wholesale from tiny bee supermarkets, but they advertise the "hardworking bee" brand because it sells better.

• Spaghetti grows on special pasta trees in Italy, which is why it’s considered the national tree.

• The Moon landing was the ultimate "Look what I can do!" moment. Somewhere, aliens are still gossiping, “Remember when they came all the way here, bounced around, and then just left?”

• All cats secretly run on solar power. This is why they always nap in sunbeams—they’re just recharging their batteries.

• In Ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped as gods. They have never forgotten this, which explains why your cat always gives you that "Where’s my tribute?" look when you’re five minutes late feeding them.

• Butterflies taste with their feet, which means stepping in something gross for them is a whole other level of awful. That’s why butterflies seem so dainty—they're just avoiding bad flavours.

• All sloths were once super-fast, but they got tired of winning all the races and decided to slow down to "give others a chance."

• Caterpillars have tiny secret moustaches, and they twirl them whenever they’re planning something mischievous.

• Platypuses are nature's "proof of concept" project, where Mother Nature threw together whatever was lying around just to see if it’d work.

Time for Tea

One bright morning, Nigel woke up to discover something truly terrible—he had run out of tea. The horror. The scandal. How had he allowed this travesty to occur under his very roof?

He grabbed his keys, and rushed out the door. His mission was clear: to replenish his tea supply before the day truly began.

Upon reaching the shop, Nigel stumbled into the aisle, panting. He scanned the shelves. Yorkshire Tea, Earl Grey, English Breakfast… But just as he reached out for his trusty box of PG Tips, a hand swooped in from the side, snatching it from the shelf.

He turned, and there stood Mrs. Perkins, the nosy neighbour from down the road. She looked up at him, eyes gleaming with victory, clutching the last box of tea like a trophy. “Oh, sorry, Nigel,” she said with a smile as fake as her hair colour. “Didn’t see you there.”

Nigel forced a polite smile. “No worries, Mrs. Perkins. I’m sure I’ll survive… somehow.”

But Mrs. Perkins wasn’t one to let a moment of triumph slip by. “Well, dear, you know, I always keep a spare box at home. One must plan ahead.”

Nigel seethed internally. He, being lectured about tea preparedness by Mrs. Perkins, a woman whose tea-brewing skills were known to be, frankly, appalling. Word on the street was that she microwaved the water.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Well, Mrs. Perkins,” Nigel said, trying to sound casual, “perhaps we could make a trade. I noticed there’s a nice bottle of elderflower cordial over there. I know how much you love it. How about I grab that for you, and we… exchange?”

Mrs. Perkins raised an eyebrow. “Cordial? At this hour? Oh no, Nigel. But I suppose…” She paused dramatically, staring at the box in her hands as if she were weighing a life-altering decision. “I could be persuaded… if you did me a little favour.”

Favour? With Mrs. Perkins, that could mean anything from mowing her lawn to listening to her four-hour life story—complete with her tales of how her cat, Mr. Tiddles, once starred in a local advertisement.

“What kind of favour?” Nigel asked cautiously.

“Oh, nothing major,” she said, with that sly grin. “Just pop by my house tomorrow afternoon and help me… rearrange my teapots.”

Mrs. Perkins’ teapot collection was notorious. Rumour had it she had over 300 teapots, and she loved nothing more than making people look at each and every one, describing them in excruciating detail. But the box of PG Tips dangled before him like a lifeline.

“Deal,” Nigel muttered through gritted teeth.

The next day, true to his word, Nigel arrived at Mrs. Perkins’ house. She greeted him at the door. “Lovely to see you, Nigel. Now, let’s start with my favourite—this one here I got on my trip to Devon…”

Hours passed. Nigel endured teapot after teapot, each story more mundane than the last. He nodded politely as she prattled on about glaze techniques and vintage spouts. His mind drifted to his own teapot collection at home, sitting there, abandoned, with no tea to fill them.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mrs. Perkins clapped her hands. “Well, that’s all of them! Thank you, Nigel. You’ve been such a dear. I must say, you’re the only person who’s ever listened to me about my collection without falling asleep!”

Nigel chuckled awkwardly. “Yes, well, glad I could be of help.”

As he left her house, clutching his box of PG Tips like a trophy, he vowed never to let his tea stock run out again. The taste of victory was sweet, but not as sweet as that first, glorious cup of tea when he finally got home.

Black Hollow Wood

It was said that once, long ago, a terrible crime had been committed in the heart of Black Hollow. A young woman, Elara Drummond, had disappeared one cold autumn night. She was never found, though her shawl, torn and bloodstained, was discovered near an old stone well deep within the woods. The villagers believed she had been taken by something not of this world, something old and vengeful that lingered among the ancient trees.

Time passed, and though the memory of Elarar’s disappearance faded from common conversation, the woods remained a place of mystery and fear. Yet, for young Thomas Granger, none of the village superstitions held much sway. He was a sceptic, a man of reason, and he scoffed at the tales of spirits and curses. Black Hollow, to him, was just a woodland, dark and ancient perhaps, but no more haunted than the empty churchyard on the hill.

One autumn evening, determined to prove his point, Thomas announced he would spend the night in Black Hollow. The village elders tried to dissuade him, warning of a spirit entity said to guard the woods. Some said it was the ghost of Elara, others claimed it was something far older, a presence that predated the village itself. But Thomas laughed off their warnings, packing a bag and setting off just before dusk.

The air was cold as he entered the woods, the trees looming high above, their branches twisted like skeletal hands against the darkening sky. Thomas walked deeper, following the forgotten paths that wound through the forest, until he found a clearing near the old stone well—the same one where Elara's shawl had been found centuries before—and set up camp. As the night wore on, the forest around him grew silent, unnaturally so. Only the wind remained, and even it seemed hushed, as though Black Hollow was holding its breath.

Thomas sat by his fire, feeling a growing sense of unease. The shadows seemed to press in closer, the trees around him appearing more like figures, their limbs moving slightly in the flickering firelight. But he shook off the feeling, reminding himself that it was all illusions in his head.

As midnight approached, he began to hear something. At first, it was just the faintest whisper, like a breeze brushing through the trees. But then it grew louder, more distinct—a cacophony of whispers he could not understand, swirling through the woods around him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw movement. A figure, pale and fleeting, darting between the trees. He stood up, scanning the darkness, but there was nothing there. Yet, as he turned back to the fire, he saw something that made him stop cold.

There, at the edge of the clearing, stood a woman. She was dressed in a long, tattered gown, her hair hanging loose and wild around her face. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes—wide and unblinking—were fixed on Thomas. She did not move, did not blink, just stared at him with an intensity that terrified him.

“Hel-lo?” he stammered.

The woman did not respond, but slowly, she raised a hand and pointed towards the well. Thomas felt cold dread seep into him. He turned to look at the well, its stone rim slick with moss, the darkness within it seeming to pulse.

When he looked back, the woman was gone.

Panic gripped him. The fire, once a source of warmth and light, seemed feeble and dying. He could feel a presence all around him, something watching, waiting. Thomas moved towards the well. The closer he got, the colder the air became. He stood at the edge of the well, staring into its depths.

Suddenly, a hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing his wrist with a freezing grip. Thomas screamed, stumbling backwards, but the hand held fast. As he struggled, he saw it—a face, pale and gaunt, rising up from the well. It was Elara, her eyes hollow and empty, her mouth twisted into a silent scream.

With a final wrench, Thomas broke free and ran. He ran through the woods, branches tearing at his clothes, the whispers chasing him, the sound of footsteps echoing behind him. He didn’t stop until he burst from the tree line, gasping for breath, his body pulsating with fear.

A group of villagers found him the next morning, huddled at the edge of the woods, trembling and pale. He never spoke of what he saw that night, but the haunted look in his eyes told them what they already knew. Black Hollow Wood was not a place for the living.

Quest for The Aelûna

In the village of Dalefern, where the most exciting event of the year was when old Bertram’s sheep escaped and ran through the town, there was one person who believed his destiny lay beyond the quiet valley. That person was Eryn, a dreamer, a daydreamer, and sometimes just a plain sleeper—especially when there was work to be done.

Eryn had long been obsessed with the ancient legend of the Aelûna, a Dwarven stone said to be buried deep beneath the Dusty Mountains, glowing with the light of the first stars. While others in Dalefern were content with farming, fishing, and occasionally discussing the weather, Eryn had his head stuck in the ancient tomes that nobody else bothered reading.

“He’s got stars in his eyes,” the villagers would say, shaking their heads as Eryn walked past, always mumbling something about “Dwarves” and “hidden treasures” while staring off into space.

One chilly autumn morning, after having successfully dodged several hours of farmwork, Eryn decided it was time. Time to find the Aelûna, prove everyone wrong, and return as a hero! He imagined songs being written about him, statues erected in his honour, and maybe—just maybe—free drinks at the local tavern.

He packed his bag, which consisted of a loaf of bread (half of which he’d already eaten), a slightly cracked lantern, and a sturdy but questionable map he’d sketched based on vague descriptions from a passing Dwarf he’d met years ago. He grabbed his old wooden walking stick, which, to be fair, looked like it would give up halfway through the journey, and set off into the Dusty Mountains.

After two hours of climbing (during which Eryn regretted not preparing for the journey by doing, well, anything involving exercise), he reached the entrance of the cave mentioned in the tales. It was smaller than he expected, and there was a sign nailed beside it that read, in shaky handwriting: “Definitely NOT the entrance to a Dwarven treasure. Turn around.”

Eryn blinked at it. “Seems legit,” he muttered to himself, ducking inside the cave.

The first few minutes went smoothly, aside from bumping his head on a low-hanging stalactite and narrowly avoiding stepping into a deep puddle. But after a while, the tunnel began to twist in ways that made no sense, until, eventually, he stumbled into a large cavern, the very heart of the mountain.

Fumbling his way forward, he stubbed his toe on something solid. “Ow! Who puts a rock in the middle of a—” But then his fingers brushed across something smooth and cold. The stone!

Eryn quickly grabbed the object, lifting it high in triumph. “The Aelûna!” he declared to no one in particular. But instead of the soft, star-like glow he expected, the stone gave off nothing more than a dull flicker.

Confused, Eryn squinted at the stone. He was sure this was it. Then he turned it over, revealing a tiny engraving: Made in Dalefern. Premium Lantern Co.

“What on Little-Earth…” Eryn groaned, dropping the lantern battery replacement stone he’d mistaken for the legendary relic.

Just as he was about to collapse in despair, there was a rustling sound from the far side of the cavern. Eryn froze. The sound grew louder, like something very large—or possibly very annoyed—was heading his way.

“Who dares enter my domain?” boomed a voice that echoed off the walls. It was deep, gravelly, and sounded suspiciously like it needed a cough drop. Out of the shadows appeared the unmistakable outline of a Dwarf. A very grumpy-looking Dwarf.

“I—I’m Eryn, from Dalefern,” he stammered, suddenly feeling very out of his depth. “I’m, uh, looking for the Aelûna. You know, the famous Dwarven treasure?”

The Dwarf rubbed his temples. “The Aelûna?” he repeated, exasperated. “That old tale again? Listen, kid, there’s no treasure here. We sold that glowing stone to some Elves years ago. They loved the shiny stuff. Good business, too. They gave us a wagonload of lembas in exchange.”

Eryn blinked. “So… there’s no legendary treasure?”

“Nope. Just a big, empty cave. And that,” the Dwarf said, pointing to the stone Eryn had dropped, “is a piece of old mining equipment. The only glowing thing in here is my impatience.”

Defeated, Eryn sat down with a sigh. “I’ve come all this way for nothing…”

The Dwarf shrugged. “Happens more often than you’d think. Honestly, we should put up a proper sign, but every time we do, someone insists on calling it a ‘quest’ and coming back with more questions. It’s exhausting.”

Eryn rubbed his face. “So, no legendary riches, no statues of me in Dalefern…”

The Dwarf chuckled. “Tell you what, lad. You’re not the first to come hunting for treasure and leave empty-handed. But how about this? I’ll give you something truly rare.”

Eryn’s eyes lit up. “What is it?”

The Dwarf smiled slyly and held out a small, glistening stone. “It’s called a ‘souvenir.’ Take it, tell your village it’s priceless, and make sure they buy you at least one round of drinks for your trouble.”

Eryn stared at the shiny pebble. It wasn’t the Aelûna, but it sparkled enough to fool the folks back home. And, really, what was a hero without a little embellishment?

With a grin, Eryn pocketed the stone, thanked the Dwarf, and began his trek back to Dalefern—ready to tell the grandest tale of his “great adventure” and hoping it was enough to get a free drink… or two.

An Unexpected Letter

It had been raining for three days straight, the kind of relentless downpour that turned the village roads to mud and the air to mist. Katherine sat at her kitchen table, staring out of the window, watching the droplets race each other down the glass. A fire crackled in the hearth behind her, but its warmth did not comfort her.

On the table before her lay a single letter. The envelope was creased at the edges, the ink slightly smudged from having been carried for too long in the postman’s bag. Her name, written in a neat, familiar hand, stared back at her like a question she didn’t want to answer.

She hadn’t opened it yet. It had arrived the day before, slipped under her door by old Mr. Harris who delivered the post when the rain made the usual service impossible. She had set it aside, telling herself she’d get to it later. But even now, the next morning, it lay there, untouched, as though it might burn her if she dared to tear it open.

Katherine had always hated letters. They brought news, and news was rarely good. The last letter she’d received had been a formal notice from the hospital—her mother had passed peacefully in the night. She hadn’t cried then, nor since. There didn’t seem to be enough energy in her to produce tears. Instead, the world had taken on a muted, dreamlike quality, as if she were watching her own life from a distance.

The rain continued to pound against the windows, and the fire snapped loudly, startling her. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to reach out and pick up the envelope. It felt heavier than it should, as though the weight of the words inside was something physical.

Her fingers hesitated on the edge. What could it possibly say? She had no close family left, no friends who would send a letter instead of calling. And yet, here it was, waiting.

With a sudden resolve, she slid her finger under the seal and tore it open. The paper inside was thick, expensive, like the kind you might expect for an important document. She unfolded it slowly, the rustling sound oddly loud.

The letter was brief. Only a few lines written in the same neat script as the address.

“Katherine,

I’ve thought about you every day since we last met. There are things I should have said back then, things I should have done. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you can understand. I’ll be in the village tomorrow. If you’d like to talk, meet me by the oak tree at noon.

—J.”

Katherine stared at the words in disbelief. J. It couldn’t be. It had been years. Too many years. She stood abruptly, the chair scraping across the wooden floor.

The oak tree. That old, gnarled thing that stood on the hill at the edge of the village, where they used to meet when they were younger, before everything fell apart. She hadn’t been there in ages. It was where she had last seen him, on a day much like this, just before he left for good.

She’d waited for him then, too. Waited for hours, watching the road, hoping he’d change his mind, but he never came.

Now, he was asking her to meet again. After all this time.

Katherine paced the small kitchen, her thoughts racing. She had built a life without him. She had learned not to think of him. And yet, here he was, pulling her back with a few simple words.

She glanced at the clock. It was already half-past eleven. If she left now, she could make it to the oak tree just in time.

The rain showed no sign of stopping. But Katherine, with the letter clenched in her hand, grabbed her coat from the hook by the door and stepped out into the storm.

As she walked, the cold rain soaked through her coat, but she barely felt it. Her feet knew the way, carrying her along the familiar path, past the houses with their drawn curtains, past the churchyard with its leaning gravestones.

When she finally reached the oak tree, it stood just as she remembered—its thick branches spreading wide, offering shelter from the rain. And beneath it, there he was.

John stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, gazing at the village below. His hair was streaked with grey now, and his shoulders, once broad and confident, had a slight stoop. He hadn’t heard her approach.

Katherine hesitated for a moment, the years of silence stretching between them like a chasm. Then, her voice came out, softer than she’d intended.

“John.”

He turned slowly, and when their eyes met, the past came rushing back, as though the years had never passed. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’m sorry, Katherine.”

The weight of the years unraveled as the rain continued to fall around them. They stood together under the oak tree, in the village where it had all begun, and where, perhaps, something new could start again.

Then, without warning, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in two swift strides. His hands, warm and steady, cupped her face, and before she could say another word, his lips pressed into hers.

The kiss became a storm, fierce and unrelenting, washing away the distance, the pain, the regrets that had kept them apart for so long. It was a kiss that spoke of every moment they had missed, of every night they had spent apart, longing for the other. Katherine’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to close the gap that had once felt insurmountable.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, their foreheads pressed together as they stood there shielded from the rain, clinging to one another.

“I never stopped loving you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Not for a second. I tried to move on, but—”

Tears mixed with the remnants of rain on her cheeks as she looked up at him, her heart full and aching at the same time. “I thought I’d lost you forever,” she whispered. “I thought I’d ruined everything.”

He shook his head, his hands tightening on her. “We were both foolish. But we’re here now. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Katherine was overcome with the intensity of it all—the rain, the kiss, the overwhelming relief of being back in his arms. She had spent so long imagining this moment, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. The feel of his hands on her skin, the heat of him against her lips, the way his heart pounded against her own.

John kissed her again, slower this time. And as they stood there, tangled together, the world seemed to fall away. There was no past, no future—only the present, only them.

When they finally pulled apart again, John smiled down at her, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. “Come with me,” he said softly, his voice full of the warmth and affection she had missed so desperately.

Katherine nodded, her body pounding with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation, remembering a happiness that before that morning had been forever lost.

The Pocket Watch

The sign above the crooked wooden door read simply, “F. Brindle & Sons,” though no one could recall any sons, nor did anyone remember the last time the shop had a customer. Francis Brindle, the elderly proprietor, spent his days hunched over his workbench, his hands working with the precision of a much younger man. His eyes, however, carried the weight of centuries.

Clara pushed open the door, and a tiny bell tinkled overhead. The interior of the shop smelled of oil and dust, and the light filtering through the grimy windows seemed frozen in time. Everywhere she looked, there were clocks. Grandfather clocks, pocket watches, wristwatches—all ticking away in unison, each one keeping perfect time. At the centre of it all sat Francis Brindle, his silver hair glowing faintly in the dim light, his hands deftly adjusting the gears of a particularly intricate pocket watch.

Francis raised his head, his pale blue eyes fixing on hers. There was something unsettling about his gaze, as if he could see within her. “It has been waiting for you.”

She glanced around, confused. “What has?”

The old man rose from his chair. He smiled faintly, reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a small, ornately carved box. It was made of dark wood, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to shift as the light caught them. Slowly, he opened it, revealing a pocket watch unlike any Clara had ever seen. Its face was a shimmering opal, and the hands moved not with a ticking motion, but a smooth, fluid glide.

“This,” Francis said, holding the watch out to her, “was made for you.”

Clara frowned. “But I’ve never been here before.”

“The watch,” he said softly, “is special. It was crafted long ago.”

The moment her fingers touched the cool metal, a strange sensation washed over her, as if the clocks were all ticking faster, the rhythm of time accelerating around her.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “What is this?”

“You must make a choice. The watch will guide you to where you are needed most. But be warned, every choice has its price.”

She glanced down at the watch, now in her hand, its opal face shimmering with an otherworldly light. Deep within her, something stirred—an ancient memory, a sense of purpose that had long been forgotten. She looked up at the old man, her body steady despite the storm of emotions inside her.

Without another word, Clara stepped out of the shop, the watch clutched tightly in her hand. She didn’t know where the watch would lead her, or what choices lay ahead, but time, once again, was in her hands.

The Forgotten Library

Hidden between crumbling alleys and beneath a sky perpetually grey, stood the forgotten library. It had no signpost, no grand entrance, just an unassuming wooden door with a handle stiffened by passing centuries. Few remembered it existed, and even fewer dared to enter.

Inside, shelves spiralled upwards, filled not with books, but with glass jars. Each jar held a swirling glow, like a firefly caught in an eternal dusk. These were dreams—dreams forgotten by their dreamers, abandoned in the rush of waking life.

The caretaker of the library, an ageless figure, moved silently through the maze of jars. No one knew how long the Archivist had been there, tending to the forgotten dreams, keeping them safe from the ravages of time. Some dreams flickered faintly, as if waiting for their dreamer to return. Others were vibrant, pulsing with untold stories that had never been fully realised.

One day, Mara stumbled upon the library by accident. She had been wandering the city aimlessly, lost in the chaos of her own thoughts, when the wooden door appeared before her. Curious, she stepped inside.

“Welcome,” said the Archivist, his voice soft like the turning of a page. “You’ve come for your dream.”

“My dream?” Mara frowned. “I haven’t dreamed in years.”

The Archivist smiled, gesturing to a small jar glowing softly on a lower shelf. “Not all dreams are remembered, but they are never truly lost.”

Mara approached the jar and peered inside. Slowly, like fog lifting from a forgotten shore, she saw fragments of a world she had once imagined as a child: a kingdom of floating islands, a ship that sailed through the clouds, and a strange, beautiful creature that could speak the language of the stars. It was a dream she had abandoned long ago, buried beneath the weight of growing up.

“Can I… take it back?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

The Archivist nodded. “Dreams are patient. They wait for you to remember.”

With trembling hands, Mara reached for the jar. As her fingers brushed the glass, the world within it burst into life, spilling out like a forgotten symphony. The kingdom of floating islands shimmered before her eyes, the ship unfurled its sails, and the star-speaking creature smiled as if greeting an old friend.

In that moment, Mara felt something she hadn’t felt in years: wonder.

She left the library that day with her dream clutched tightly in her heart. And though the city remained grey and the alleys twisted in confusion, something had changed. For the first time in a long time, Mara remembered what it felt like to dream.

As she disappeared into the streets, the Archivist watched from the doorway. Another forgotten dream had found its way home.

Geoff

The press conference begins. Geoffrey stands at the podium, smiling serenely. A sea of reporters, cameras flashing, microphones poised, waits expectantly.

Reporter 1: Prime Minister, can you explain why the “Housing for All” scheme appears to be drastically underfunded and is already behind schedule?

Geoffrey (calmly): Yes, well, that’s because we don’t actually have the money for it.

Reporter 1: Sorry, what?

Geoffrey: You heard me. We promised affordable housing for every citizen, but in reality, we’re barely managing to renovate a few old council flats. Truth be told, we crunched the numbers, realised it was impossible, but announced it anyway because it sounded good at the time. Next question.

Reporter 2: Prime Minister, are you saying that your government knowingly announced a policy you couldn’t fund?

Geoffrey: (nodding cheerfully) Absolutely. Happens all the time, really. You should’ve seen the transport budget last year. We said we’d revolutionise the railways. What we meant was: “We’re going to buy some new vending machines for the stations.”

Reporter 3: Prime Minister, earlier this week you were quoted saying, “This government is committed to fiscal discipline.” Care to elaborate?

Geoffrey: Oh, that was just me buying time because I didn’t know what else to say. A treasury adviser gave me some complicated briefing about the deficit, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. So, I just said the usual rubbish about “discipline” and “prudence.” What do those words even mean in politics? I’ve been saying them for years, and I’ve never bothered to check!

A wave of laughter ripples through the press pool. Geoffrey’s aides are huddled together off to the side, looking mortified. One is furiously texting on his phone, possibly to draft an apology or resignation letter.

Reporter 4: You have received criticism concerning lack of clarity around your foreign policy. Can you explain your strategy for dealing with international trade negotiations?

Geoffrey: (shrugs) We’re winging it. Half the time, we just agree to whatever the other country suggests because we’re too embarrassed to admit we don’t know what they’re talking about. Last month, I nodded along to some trade deal about rare earth minerals—don’t even know what they are. Do you? Honestly, this job is like being in a group project where you’re the only one who’s done none of the work. You just bluff your way through it, hoping no one notices. I’ve been doing it for years!

Aide 1 steps forward nervously, trying to intervene.

Aide 1: Prime Minister, perhaps we should wrap this up—

Geoffrey: Oh no, I’m just getting started! Let’s talk about the NHS, shall we? I keep saying we’re “putting it at the top of the agenda,” but to be perfectly honest, the only agenda item on my mind most days is whether lunch will include those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The ones with the smoked salmon. Delicious.

Reporter 5: Prime Minister, how do you respond to accusations that your government isn’t addressing climate change?

Geoffrey: Oh, that’s simple. We’re not addressing it. I mean, we hold summits and make big promises, sure, but the second we get back, it’s right back to business as usual. You know, cars, planes, oil—no one’s actually sacrificing their morning lattes for solar panels. And between you and me, I can’t even recycle properly. Is it plastics in the blue bin or the green one? I can never remember.

More laughter from the press. By this point, the aides have given up, slumping back in their seats in defeat.

Geoffrey: So, in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, the truth is this: I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. Most of us don’t. We’re just trying to keep our jobs, give a good speech, and avoid getting caught on a hot mic saying something regrettable. And frankly, I’m fine with that. Aren’t you?

Stunned response.

Geoffrey: Well, this has been fun! If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to a meeting about a “robust national security strategy,” which means I’ll be staring at a PowerPoint and nodding thoughtfully. Have a good day, everyone!

Geoffrey steps away from the podium, waving happily as the press continues to shout questions. His aides scramble to follow him, visibly distraught.

The Commute

Every morning, without fail, during her usual commute to work, Leah noticed him. He always sat in the same seat, near the middle of the train, right by the window. His face never changed expression, his eyes fixed on the passing blur of the city outside. He was tall, with dark hair that seemed slightly unkempt, and always dressed in an old brown coat, even during the summer heat.

One day, she sat across from him. Close enough to study him, but far enough to avoid suspicion. She watched him as subtly as she could, waiting for some sign of movement, some flicker of life. But he didn’t blink. He didn’t shift in his seat. His gaze remained fixed on the window, as if he were staring at something far beyond the city.

Days passed, and Leah became obsessed. She began to ride the train earlier and earlier, just to see if he was already there. He always was. He never got on, and he never got off. He simply was, like part of the train itself.

One Friday morning, Leah decided to confront him.

As the train rattled along the tracks, Leah stood up, crossed the aisle, and sat down next to him. The seat didn’t feel different, but the air around him was cold, unnaturally so.

She looked at him. Up close, he seemed even more unreal. His skin was pale, his hair slightly grey at the temples. His eyes — still focused on something distant outside — were an empty shade of brown. Leah spoke.

“Do you… do you ride this train every day?”

The man didn’t respond. His eyes didn’t move. Leah shifted in her seat, feeling a sudden wave of unease. She tried again, louder this time.

“I see you here every morning. Why don’t you ever get off?”

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, slowly, his head turned toward her. His movements were stiff, as if he hadn’t moved in years. His eyes met hers, and Leah felt transfixed by them.

The man’s expression didn’t change. His voice was calm, detached. “You’ve been watching me.”

She tried to stand, but her body wouldn’t move. The train seemed to slow, the air growing stale. She looked around in a panic, but no one else on the train seemed to notice. They were all frozen, unmoving, their eyes staring straight ahead, as if the moment had stopped for them.

The train lurched, and the world outside the window blurred into a deep darkness. Leah’s heart raced as she tried to scream, but no sound came out. The passengers around her remained still, statues in their seats.

The man stood, his cold air brushing her shoulder as he moved past. Leah tried to follow him with her eyes, but her body refused to move. She was rooted to the seat.

He stepped off the train at the stop, disappearing into the fog that had rolled in. The doors slid shut behind him, and the train pulled away, leaving Leah behind.

She stared out of the window, her mind numb, her body motionless.

The train rattled along the tracks, and the passengers around her slowly began to stir, as if nothing had happened. But Leah remained frozen, her eyes fixed on the window.