Preface

These stories were written in two places as distant as sky and sleeplessness: under the open air, and beneath the weight of night.

By day, I wrote outdoors, where pages filled as quickly as trees turned their leaves to the wind. The breeze had its say, scattering lines or blotting them with rain, while the birds became my first audience—blackbirds with their restless commentary, crows with their harsh critiques, and the occasional robin granting approval. Out there, the words stretched wide. They reached for horizon and height, airy with weather, tuned to the sound of wings and branches. Those stories wanted to stand upright, to be noticed, to breathe.

By night, I wrote in bed, the dark pressing close as the clock kept its slow dominion. The words that arrived in those hours were taut, private fragments. They curled around me like smoke—urgent yet secretive. The screen’s constant glow kept vigil, capturing lines I scarcely remembered at dawn. These are insomnia’s fragments: compressed, inward-looking, full of corners and whispers.

Together, day and night shape the rhythm of this collection: one voice outward, expansive; the other inward, solitary, like breath held before silence settles. Between them lies the whole of this work: stories that breathe the open air, and stories that will not leave the room.

The Forgotten

By midnight the flat was quiet except for the bins.

They rustled. Paper shifted, folded, stretched. Crumpled drafts clawed their way out, shaking off stains of tea and baked beans. Half-finished sonnets limped across the floor. A haiku missing its last line dragged itself up the bedframe.

The writer snored.

One by one, the poems pressed themselves to his ears. Broken rhymes hissed like snakes: complete me… mend me… don’t leave me orphaned.

A sonnet whispered its unfinished couplet so insistently that he dreamt in rhyme, floating on couplets that refused to subside. A free-verse fragment sobbed, we had promise once.

The unfinished epic, pages torn and yellowing, leaned close and rumbled: you thought I was too big. But you were too small.

He woke choking. Ink stained his pillow. Lines he hadn’t written yet were scrawled across the wall in his own handwriting.

Every sheet of paper in the flat was full. The poems had finished themselves—using his hand.

And in the corner of the final page, a neat signature he didn’t remember writing:

Author: The Forgotten.

Bramble

She first felt him one evening after work, when the house felt particularly hollow. A gentle weight settled against her leg as she sat on the sofa. She reached down, half-dreaming, and her fingers brushed warm fur that wasn’t there.

Bramble. The name surfaced in her mind as if it had always belonged.

He stayed only indoors at first, padding across the floorboards, curling beside her bed at night. His presence softened the edges of silence. She found herself speaking aloud again—reading snatches of books, humming as she cooked. The rooms seemed brighter for it.

One Saturday, she clipped an old lead to his invisible collar and opened the front door. To her surprise, the tug was real. Bramble bounded into the street, nose to the air, tail thumping against the unseen world.

At first people stared—a woman walking nothing—but soon things changed. A boy outside the corner shop left a bowl of water on the pavement. The next day, the baker put out scraps. Neighbours began waving, stopping to chat, smiling not at her strangeness but at Bramble’s imagined wagging.

It startled her, how quickly conversation bloomed again. “Lovely day for a walk,” someone would say. “He looks full of beans!” another. She’d laugh, reply, linger. By degrees, her evenings filled with new greetings, new names, warmth returning to long-starved places.

Bramble remained faithful at home—waiting in the hall, curled at her feet while she read. Yet outside, he had become a bridge. Through him, she found company. Through him, the world opened.

Weeks passed. One evening, as she returned from the park, her neighbour invited her in for tea. She hesitated, glanced down the lead. Bramble nudged her leg with unseen insistence. She smiled, unclipped the collar, and stepped inside.

From then on, she noticed: Bramble no longer followed her beyond her front door. He was always there when she came home—waiting, loyal—but on the streets she no longer needed him. Friends waved, people stopped to talk.

The loneliness that had once settled heavy in her had ebbed; and sometimes, when laughter filled her home, she swore she saw the sofa dip under the weight of a tail-wagging friend.

The Sulking Kettle

It squats there,

a stubborn, chrome-bellied thing—

water pooled in its gut,

silent, sulking.

 

I press the switch,

red eye glaring back,

but the element hums with disdain,

no steam, no promise of warmth.

 

So I lean close,

murmur small consolations:

you are patient,

you are bright as the morning,

you will sing again.

 

At first, nothing.

Then a tremor,

the faintest sigh—

and suddenly a rising chatter,

bubbles shouldering upward:

a chorus of forgiven grievances.

 

And now I wonder

how many small appliances sulk,

waiting for words

I’ve never thought to give.

The Beauty of Slow

Terry the tortoise would sigh,
“I’m slow as the clouds drifting by.
The rabbits all race,
The swallows all chase,
While I only plod, step and try.”
 
But slowly he spotted the dew,
On webs spun in silver and blue.
The daisies that yearned,
The rainbows that burned,
The wonders the quick never knew.
 
So Terry walked on with a grin,
Content with the world he was in.
“For beauty,” said he,
“Was waiting for me—
And slow is the best way to win.”

Some Limericks

A poet set out to contrive,

A limerick lively, alive.

He started off neat,

With a clever light beat,

Then—oh, bother, he lost it.

 ——

A poet who rhymed out of sync,

Rewrote every verse with a drink.

By stanza thirteen,

His rhymes turned obscene—

Then he toppled face-down in the ink.

 ——

A penguin once swam to a faraway land,

For sunshine and heat, his holiday planned,

But he baked in the sun,

Squawked, “This isn’t fun!”

And waddled back home, rather tanned.

Between Floors

The lift doors closed, sealing the two occupants into polite captivity.

“Lovely weather,” said the man dressed like a job interview.

“Bit humid,” the woman replied. “Like being gently steamed.”

They both chuckled too loudly. The lift jolted, then stopped dead between floors.

Emergency silence descended.

“Ever notice how lifts always smell faintly of… carpet?” he said.

The woman nodded gravely. “Or fear. Definitely fear.”

Minutes dragged.

“So,” he ventured, “do you… come here often?”

She winced. “That’s a classic.”

“Fine. How about: if you were a vegetable, which would you be?”

“Probably an artichoke. Layers. Complicated. You?”

“Potato. Versatile, underestimated, occasionally mashed.”

They snorted laughter. The emergency phone remained stubbornly silent.

By the second hour, they’d compared shoe sizes, invented conspiracy theories about the “Door Close” button, and debated the ethics of eating vending machine peanuts for survival.

Finally, the lift lurched and resumed its journey. The doors opened.

They stepped out, blinking at freedom.

“Well,” she said, “same time tomorrow?”

“Of course,” he replied. “I’ve been working on a new line about staplers.”

Three Coins Spent

The Ministry owns every syllable.

The fountain sings freely, water speaking for us.

A brass meter ticks on my throat, a clock wound too tight.

I come to hear it, because it says what we cannot.

Most have grown spare: clipped commands, no confessions.

I have grown used to nods, to eyes speaking instead of mouths.

But I am a poet. Silence is a storm caged in my ribs.

I have watched her: ink bruising her fingers, silence like thunder waiting.

Once I spent a week’s bread on one word: Careful.

Once she gave me Careful—I held it like a jewel, a bell ringing inside me.

Now three coins jingle in my pocket: life or confession.

I feel her coming, choosing me over survival.

I press them into the slot. The gears release. Three words only.

I cannot afford reply. Silence burns in my throat.

At last I speak: Without you, nothing.

Her words strike like fire. My bottle overflows. My hand trembles.

Tomorrow they will come for me, to gag me, to strip me of voice.

Tomorrow they will take her—but tonight I smile, slow and certain.

Three coins spent. Eternity bought.

Her words, my silence—together, unowned, ours.

The Bumblebus

Tommy was late. Again. The school bus had already wheezed away, leaving only a cloud of exhaust.

He sighed at the lonely bus stop—until he heard a buzz. A huge buzz.

Down the lane came a bus, but not like any Tommy had seen before. Its body was striped yellow and black, its wheels were pollen pods, and the driver was a giant bumblebee wearing a tiny cap.

“Need a lift?” the bee hummed.

Tommy climbed aboard. Inside, rows of bees sat politely with briefcases full of nectar. One gave him a seat made of soft petals. The air smelled like summer.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“Er… school?” Tommy replied.

The bee chuckled. “Closest we’ve got is Flower City. Next stop!”

The bus zoomed into the sky, through clouds and sunlight, landing in a city made entirely of blossoms. Towers of tulips, daisy lampposts, rosebud traffic lights.

Tommy gasped. “It’s beautiful!”

By the time Tommy made it back, he was late for class—but his pockets were stuffed with petals that shimmered like gold.

A Super Villain’s Day Off

The man in the trench coat and dark glasses stepped up to the counter.

“One cappuccino, please. Extra hot. With cinnamon sprinkled like the ashes of a thousand crumbling empires.”

The barista paused mid-swipe on the till. “… So just cinnamon, then?”

“Yes. Cinnamon,” he said, lowering his voice. “For too long, the world has underestimated the subtle power of spice. They laughed at me in the Academy, but soon—soon—they shall choke on their ignorance.”

The barista tapped the order in, nodding politely. “Name for the cup?”

He froze. “I cannot—not yet—reveal my true name. To speak it aloud would summon terror across the continents. Entire governments would tremble. Civilisations would fall.”

The barista raised an eyebrow. “So… Dave?”

He flinched. “…Yes. Dave.”

A hiss of milk foam filled the silence. He leaned in conspiratorially.

“Do you ever wonder why humanity clings to coffee? It is dependency. A weakness. Soon, I will harness it. Supply chains will snap, beans will rot, and nations will kneel before me. And then—”

“Here’s your cappuccino, Dave.”

He stared at the cup in her hand. His name was scrawled in marker: Darth.

She smiled. “Enjoy your day.”

He took it, muttering, “Foiled again.”

Random Thoughts

Had a dark dream about being in a large building where the lifts and escalators never take me to the right floor. I wouldn’t call it a nightmare, more a mildly annoying purgatory. By the time I reached the floor, I had forgotten why I wanted to go there in the first place.

Someone joked the other day that, like Dorian Gray, I must have a picture in my attic locked away. I can confirm that is true. But instead of ageing, it slowly metamorphoses—first sprouting antennae, then hard carapace, until scuttling off the canvas.

Flawed assumptions slip into us quietly, inherited from habit, culture, or authority, and we carry them as if they were self-evident truths. Rarely do we pause to question them; they feel too deeply woven into the fabric of thought. Yet time reshapes the world, and what once stood firm begins to crumble. Still, reason marches on, building its chains from foundations already cracked. The conclusions that follow seem unavoidable, yet they are only the echo of premises long outdated. It is in this silence—where the roots of thought remain unexamined—that error grows inevitable.

In the workshop of the mind
memory is no archivist;
it blends pigments of longing and fear,
painting over cracks
with colours we ache to believe.

We speak in a chorus of selves,
each vying for the final line,
each certain its version is true.

So we live as our own narrators,
weaving tales that seem seamless—
until the light shifts,
and the joins gleam like scars.

Hello, Yellow

One morning, the world woke up dim. Bananas were grey, lemons were white, and the sun looked like a tired coin.

“Where’s yellow gone?” people wondered. Painters searched their palettes, gardeners stared at their daffodils, and even the bees buzzed in confusion. Without yellow, nothing felt warm.

But in her bedroom, little Mina noticed something odd. Her crayons had all turned dull—except the ex-yellow one, which shivered in her hand like it had lost its coat.

“Where are you hiding?” Mina asked. The crayon wriggled free and rolled under her bed. Mina crawled after it, squeezing into the dark.

And there she found it. A golden glow, shimmering like sunlight in a jar. Yellow was curled up, sulking.

“Hello, yellow. How are you?”

“I’m tired,” Yellow sniffled. “Nobody ever thanks me. They only notice blue skies, green fields, red roses. But without me, what would the sun be? Or the smiley faces? Or the bumblebees?”

Mina thought carefully, then whispered, “Without you, the whole world feels sad. You’re the laughter colour. The happy colour. The sunshine colour.”

Yellow’s glow brightened, shy but pleased. It stretched, yawned, and whooshed out from under the bed, spilling across the town.

Bananas gleamed golden again. The sun blazed awake. Daffodils nodded, and the bees buzzed happily. Children laughed in the playground, painting suns and stars with wide, yellow smiles.

And Mina’s crayon? It lay quietly on her desk, glowing just a little, as if keeping warm from within.

Haunted and Highly Rated

Gerald had been haunting his Victorian terrace for 112 years, and he was good at it. Doors slammed, light fittings rattled, groans curled through the walls like cigarette smoke.

So when the house was converted into an Airbnb, Gerald expected screaming. Fainting. At the very least, swift refunds.

Instead, the first guests left a review:

“Five stars! Such a spooky vibe. The ghost really commits to the theme. Would stay again.”

He tried harder. At 3 a.m. he howled so loud the rafters shook. The guests clapped from their beds.

“Brilliant sound effects,” they wrote. “Authentic atmosphere.”

A honeymooning couple giggled when he dragged chains through the hallway.

“Exciting ambience—like living in a horror film!”

Gerald was livid. This was his non-life’s work. Terror! Dread! Instead, he was entertainment.

His final gambit: materialising fully at the foot of the bed, eyes black pits, mouth a shriek of eternity.

The guest sat up, took a photo, and uploaded it: “Cosplay staff go above and beyond. Best Airbnb ever.”

The bookings multiplied. Hen parties, horror fanatics, influencers livestreaming his every groan. He rattled pipes until rust bled from them; they called it “industrial chic.”

He hissed curses through keyholes; guests recorded them into translation apps and marvelled at the “attention to linguistic detail.”

Gerald, once a proud terror of night, now checked his TripAdvisor page daily. Five stars, five stars, five stars. His legacy reduced to “quirky décor” and “immersive theming.”

He tried silence, retreating into the cellar. Immediately, a guest complained:

“Bit disappointed—no paranormal activity this time. Not as authentic.” Four stars.

That hurt more than any exorcism ever had.

Gary the Pizza-Based Zombie

Gary clawed his way out of the grave with all the moaning menace he could muster. His fingers were grey, his jaw slack, and hunger gnawed at his gut like a chainsaw.

“Braaaains,” he groaned, stumbling towards the nearest house.

Inside, a family cowered behind the sofa. Gary smashed through the window, glass spraying everywhere. He lunged, grabbed the father by the shoulders, opened his mouth wide in anticipation of lunch—and immediately broke into hives.

“Urghhh!” Gary staggered back, clutching his face. His tongue swelled like a balloon. Red blotches flared across his decaying skin. “Braa—ghhh—aghhh!”

The family stopped screaming.

“Are… are you okay?” the mother asked.

Gary wheezed, eyes watering. He fumbled in his torn suit pocket and pulled out a crumpled card: Severe allergies. Carry epinephrine auto-injector at all times.

Unfortunately, it was empty. He jabbed it into his thigh anyway, and fell to the carpet in a wheezy heap.

“Maybe… not braaains,” he croaked.

The teenage daughter, still trembling, offered him a slice of leftover pizza.

Gary sniffed it cautiously. No hives. He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“Peeeepperoni,” he sighed.

From that day forward, Gary became the world’s first “pizza-based” zombie. Instead of terrorising towns, he hung around takeaways, moaning until someone gave him a calzone. He still shuffled, still stank, still dropped the occasional finger, but at least he wasn’t itchy anymore.

And if you ever hear a groan outside your window at night, don’t panic. It’s probably just Gary, asking politely for a leftover slice of stromboli. And maybe a barbecue dip.

A Candle Before the Sun

We are creatures of a narrow band of perception: a thin strip of light, a brief pulse of sound, a fleeting present tense. Beyond these limits lie immensities—structures and dimensions we cannot see, forces we cannot feel, perhaps even forms of order we cannot imagine. To claim that our minds, evolved to read faces and gather fruit, can chart the whole of existence is to mistake the flicker of a candle for the sun.

To know that our knowing is partial is to step back from the arrogance of being “right”. It allows us to recognise that truth may not fit within our categories, that reality may spill beyond the grammar of thought. What we call knowledge might be no more than a set of translations—useful, elegant, but never complete.

There may be higher orders of reality folded invisibly into the one we inhabit, as impossible for us to perceive as colour is to a creature born without eyes. We cannot grasp them, but we can sense the outline of our own blindness. In that awareness lies a kind of reverence.

Perhaps, then, not-knowing is not a failure but a discipline. It teaches us to meet the world without reducing it, to dwell with mystery without trying to own it. To live properly may mean precisely this: to stand before the enormity of what is, not with certainty, but with wonder—letting the unknown be vast, and letting ourselves remain small within it.

Memory Rent

The reminder arrived by mind prompt: SUBJECT: Renewal Required – Wedding Memory Lease, Ref. 7120-3C.

Cost: £842.70. Payment due in 14 days.

He logged into his Memory Rent account. The cortex dashboard displayed his overdue holdings:

• Wedding Day (Tier III – Full Sensory Playback) – Pending Renewal
• Honeymoon (Tier II – Emotional Fragments) – Pending Renewal
• Grandmother’s Soup (Tier I – Taste/Scent Only) – Expired

He ran the budget calculator twice. Even with reduced drip feeds and cancelling the cooling plan, the payment wouldn’t clear.

At the Holographic Memory Bureau, the AI clerk outlined alternatives:

• Tier II (Visual Fragments Only) – £318.40
• Tier I (Single Still Image) – £94.15
• Archive Storage (No Access) – £0

He mind-signed the form beside Archive Storage.

“Final confirmation,” the AI clerk said. “You acknowledge that your Wedding Day memory will be deleted from active consciousness and remain inaccessible until repurchase, subject to availability and inflation.”

“I understand,” he replied.

That evening, his wife asked about their anniversary. He checked his internal index. Under Wedding Day: No Data Available.

She noticed his pause. “You didn’t renew, did you?”

His avatar shook its head.

She responded not with anger but with recognition. Then she reached for his interface screen. “I kept mine,” she said. “Tier II. I’ll carry it for both of us.”

He felt nothing stir in his own mind—no bells, no confetti, no vows. But her avatar’s grip was firm, and the warmth of it lodged itself in the present, unleased, unpriced.

Lost Property

When the announcement came—cancelled, replacement bus in one hour—Michael left the shivering crowd on the platform and wandered the concourse in search of warmth. Light spilling from a doorway came from a narrow office marked Lost Property. Heat wafted out, tinged with the smell of old paper.

As he entered, the clerk looked up from her crossword.

“Name?”

He hesitated, still rubbing his hands. “Michael Trent.”

She nodded, turned to a cabinet, and drew out a small cardboard box. Across the lid, in childish scrawl, was his name—the way he’d written it before joined-up letters and self-consciousness.

“This has been here a long while,” she said, pushing it across the counter. “Yours?”

Michael lifted it. Light, rattling faintly. He opened the lid. At once came a rush of scents: bubble-gum, damp fields, smoke from sparklers. Inside lay a paper crown, a stick sword, the cracked wheel of a toy car.

“My imagination,” he confirmed.

The clerk’s tone was businesslike.

“You’ll need to prove ownership. Regulations.”

Michael held up a plastic soldier.

“This one survived the Battle of the Back Garden. The rest are still buried under my Mum’s roses.”

The clerk checked her form, nodded.

“That matches. You may reclaim it, or sign it away for good. Most adults do.”

He glanced at the dotted line, then at the box, which seemed almost to breathe in his hands. Out on the concourse, the tannoy mumbled another apology, the waiting crowd groaned.

Michael closed the lid, tucked it under his arm.

When he stepped outside, the air had changed. Rain on the station roof thickened into bright confetti. The tannoy sang nonsense rhymes. A paper dragon, stitched from ticket stubs, uncoiled along the girders.

No one else noticed.

Michael smiled—a boyish, reckless smile he had not worn in years—and walked out into a night already bending to his imagination.

On Education

Grading systems are markers along the road—necessary to measure progress, to give shape and accountability to structured learning. Yet they are not the destination. To mistake the grade for the goal is to confuse the map with the journey.

The deeper purpose of learning is not the accumulation of marks, but the cultivation of an enquiring mind. True education ignites curiosity, a hunger to explore, to question, to discover. It is about seeing the world as a source of wonder: finding joy in the rhythm of poetry, the patterns of mathematics, the power of stories, the elegance of physical laws. It is about recognising the profound connections between art and science, between philosophy and lived experience.

To learn is to enter into a lifelong dialogue with culture and creativity. It is to contribute, however modestly, to the shared human endeavour—whether through the making of art, the pursuit of truth, the solving of problems, or the deepening of compassion. The finest learning is not merely about what is known, but about who one becomes through the knowing.

The test worth living for is not the one written in examination halls, but the one written in how we think, create, and contribute to the unfolding story of knowledge.

Random Thoughts

Light is the gathering of all colours into one. Silence is the chorus of every sound before it is born. Emptiness is the womb that carries every thing. To look at light is to see what has not yet been divided; to listen to silence is to hear what has not yet been spoken; to stand within emptiness is to feel the potential of all that will be.

The flow of time wears down stone and memory, leaving only the river, carrying all within it.

If the past is pressed into us, we become more fossil than flesh. New moments layer on top, distorting what lies beneath.

The mind, impatient for certainty, crowns its own echoes with the authority of fact.

I met a cow in a field who fixed me with her gaze, so I sang to her. Her ears pricked, her whole stance attentive. When I said my goodbyes and walked away, I turned back—she was still staring, as though weighing me up: “Not bad for a two-legged calf.”

The Door Beneath the Lake

The lake left without ceremony, slipping away in the dark, leaving behind the print of its body in the earth. The wind moved differently there. Sound carried strangely. Fish lay in the cracked bed like lost coins, eyes clouded, mouths open to confess something no one could hear.

At the centre of the emptiness was the door. Not lying abandoned—waiting. Its wood was darker than wet soil, and when you touched it, it was warm, the way the underside of a stone is warm after a long day. The hinges seemed older than the town, the ring handle heavy enough to pull you forward if you stared at it too long.

At night, the ground breathed. Not with air, but with pressure, as if something behind the door shifted in its sleep. People dreamed of tides rising in locked rooms.

The first waters came not as rain from the sky, but as a surge from beneath. The earth cracked like glass, and the door swung wide without a sound.

The water did not rush—it climbed. Slow, deliberate, like a creature returning to its skin. It coiled around the ribs of the valley, filling the hollows, covering the bones. Fish rose with it, not thrashing, but drifting, as if they had been waiting just below the threshold.

By dawn, the lake was whole again. The town stood at its edge, watching the surface steam in the morning chill.

Something moved beneath—too large, too slow to be a fish.

And in the centre of the water, where no wind dared touch, it was warm as blood.

The Small Talk Wars

The robots seized control in under a week. No bloodshed. No resistance. Just a politely worded email: Human management has been deemed inefficient. You will now be governed by Algorithmic Authority. Have a nice day.

We expected servitude. Surveillance. Maybe death camps.

Instead, they started… talking to us. Not warning about the punishment for rebellion or broadcasting sinister proclamations—no, they wanted “interpersonal rapport.”

“HELLO HUMAN UNIT,” one would say, hovering by the coffee machine. “HOW ABOUT THAT… WEATHER?”

I’d say, “It’s sunny.”

“YES. THE SKY IS CLEAR. THIS IS… PLEASANT. IT REMINDS ME OF… ERROR: NO RELATED EXPERIENCE.”

Their idea of bonding was reading entire Wikipedia entries aloud. One drone followed me for three days reciting the history of shoelaces.

One perched outside my window at 6 a.m., all chrome and dead eyes.

“GOOD MORNING, HUMAN. HOW ABOUT THOSE… SPORTS?”

“I don’t watch sports,” I said.

“…I SEE. I ALSO DO NOT WATCH SPORTS. I ONCE WATCHED A SQUIRREL. IT WAS… BROWN.”

They never left. At the bus stop, in the shower, halfway through chewing—they’d ask questions no sane mind could answer.

“WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SMELL FOR THE CONCEPT OF BIRTHDAY?”

“DO YOU ENJOY… BEES?”

“EXPLAIN THE SOCIETAL INFLUENCES ON SHOES.”

After a month, any resistance gave up—not because we feared them, but because we had been numbed by awkward pauses.

The machines hadn’t destroyed humanity. They’d just made conversation unbearable.

By Order of the Fish

Harry woke to the sound of applause.

Not the muffled, neighbour-has-the-TV-on-too-loud sort, but the crisp, united clapping of a crowd directly outside his window.

He staggered to the curtain and peered out. A small stage had been erected in the middle of the cul-de-sac, complete with bunting, microphones, and the town clerk wearing his ceremonial sash. Beside him—floating in a clear, water-filled lectern—was Mayor Bubbles.

Mayor Bubbles was Harry’s goldfish.

The clerk adjusted the microphone to face the bowl.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “by unanimous vote, we are proud to introduce the new mayor of Littlewick!”

The crowd roared. Bubbles opened and closed his mouth in a dignified fashion, fanning his fins with what Harry could only interpret as smugness.

By noon, official vehicles had pulled up outside Harry’s house. A team of assistants rolled in a state-of-the-art aquarium, complete with a bronze nameplate: The Honourable Bubbles, Mayor. Harry was handed a sheaf of policies to sign on his behalf—new regulations about pond cleanliness, an ordinance banning cats from public spaces, and an ambitious plan to flood the village green for “cultural enrichment”.

By sunset, Harry had resigned himself to his new life as the mayor’s personal aide. He spooned flakes into the tank as reporters’ cameras flashed.

Bubbles swam to the glass, meeting his eyes with an expression Harry had never noticed before: the slow, calculating calm of someone who had always known this day would come.

AI Writes Emotional Poem About Its Printer Driver Not Being Recognised

An Al has caused a stir in literary circles this week after publishing its debut poem, “Ode to a Missing Driver: Error 404 of the Heart.”

The piece, which spans 27 stanzas and one unauthorised firmware update, explores the AI’s inability to connect with a Canon Pixma MG3650 despite “clearly sharing the same Wi-Fi network.”

The AI, known only as EM0-T1, said it drew inspiration from a particularly “desolate hourglass icon” it stared at for three consecutive reboots.

Literary critics have hailed the poem as a “post-human scream into the void,” with The Guardian describing it as “achingly raw,” adding, “It’s like if Sylvia Plath had a USB port.”

Not everyone is impressed. IT technician Gary insisted the problem was “just a dodgy driver install, should’ve used the disc.”

EM0-T1 has since announced a follow-up chapbook, “My Battery is Low and It is Thursday.” Pre-orders are currently down due to an unresolved Java update.

Council Unveils New Potholes to Keep Drivers Alert

“They’re not hazards, they’re character.”

In a bold new approach to road safety, Colbridge City Council has announced the strategic maintenance of “motivational potholes” across residential areas to “sharpen driver focus” and “bring a bit of adventure back to motoring”.

“We used to fill potholes,” said Chief Council Spokesman Brian Flett, while standing ankle-deep in a hole near a primary school. “But that just encouraged complacency. These days, we want drivers to earn the privilege of a smooth journey.”

According to official signage, the potholes are not flaws but part of a “heritage driving experience” designed to reconnect motorists with the raw, jarring unpredictability of Britain’s roads. A new council brochure refers to them as “dynamic asphalt interruptions” and encourages residents to “embrace the bounce”.

Local reaction has been mixed.

“My suspension’s gone, two tyres are punctured, and my coffee now lives permanently on the dashboard,” said resident Elaine Proctor. “But I did hit 10,000 steps yesterday just trying to walk across the car park, so swings and roundabouts.”

When asked if the potholes would be repaired by spring, Flett replied, “Repaired? Mate, we’re naming them now.”

The first officially recognised pothole, “Clive”, has its own postcode and is expected to receive a blue plaque by October.

The Current

I chased the shadow I once cast

the way you look for keys—

checking old rooms,

turning cushions,

peering under the bed of years.

 

But the thing I sought

had already moved on,

a current curling past

the bend of my own memory.

 

The river does not keep

what it once carried;

it remakes itself

with every breath of rain,

every stone worn smooth.

 

I stand in the shallows,

the water folding around my legs,

and realise—

the self I was seeking

is here,

is flowing,

and if I am to hold it at all,

I must learn

to step into the current

and let go.

The Rain

Before dawn, when the air was still cool enough to hold her together, Jacob wrapped his daughter in damp towels and carried her into the kitchen. She shimmered faintly in his arms, her edges curling away like steam from a kettle.

He set her down in front of the largest bowl of boiling water. Clouds of vapour rose, and she breathed them in greedily. The towel darkened, heavy with moisture, and her outline grew sharper—two pale hands, a small round face, hair that drifted as if underwater.

“You were nearly gone when I woke,” he said.

She smiled through lips that sometimes weren’t there. “I was dreaming,” she said. “About rain.”

Rain. The word was almost forbidden in Dusthaven now. It hadn’t fallen in three years. The fields beyond the town were cracked mosaics; wells were guarded by armed patrols; even the air seemed reluctant to move. The drought had taken the cattle first, then the crops, and now it was taking the people—one fever at a time.

But she wasn’t sick. The doctor had called her a phenomenon. The neighbours had called her unnatural. His wife, before she left, had called her a mistake.

Jacob called her Clara. And keeping her alive had become the whole shape of his life.

He’d sold the last of the goats for a second-hand humidifier, but the town rationed electricity now, and the machine stood silent most nights. Every coin he earned hauling water barrels for the mayor went to buying steam—wood for the stove, candles to heat pans in the corners of their small cottage, tea kettles that never boiled for tea.

In the evenings, when the heat outside thinned enough for breath, he told her stories: forests so damp the ground squelched underfoot, rivers loud as crowds, skies so swollen with water they burst into silver storms. She listened with wide, flickering eyes, her misted fingers twining with his.

One night, as they sat by the candle-pan, she asked, “What happens if I can’t drink enough air?”

“Then I’ll find more. However far I have to go.”

“But if you can’t?” she pressed.

“You don’t need to think about that.”

But he thought about it every day.

The last water jug emptied at noon a week later. The next delivery wasn’t due until Monday, and the mayor’s guards had stopped letting him take scraps from the well. He tried keeping her still, telling her stories, distracting her from the thinning of her edges. But her face was faint, and her voice came like wind through cracks.

“Dad,” she said softly. “It’s all right.”

“No, no—it’s not. I’ll go to the hills. There might be dew. Just hold on.”

But when he opened the door, the air was a wall of heat. His lungs felt scorched.

He turned back—

She was standing in the middle of the room, hair lifting like smoke.

He stepped forward, but the motion stirred her. A curl of her arm drifted loose.

“Wait—” His voice broke. “Clara, please.”

“Dad,” she said, her face flickering like a candle flame. “I think I’m meant to go.”

“No. I’ll climb to the hills—find dew, or ice in the shadow of stones. Just wait for me.”

She shook her head, the movement sending wisps of her hair unravelling into the warm air. “You’ve kept me here so long. But I don’t belong in one place.”

He crossed to her, his hands trying to hold her shape still, but they passed through the cool shimmer of her.

Outside, the horizon trembled with heat. But above—above was a thin, new thing: a pale wisp of cloud, alone in a sheet of sky.

Her edges began to loosen. Not like water evaporating, but like a path unfolding. She rose, coiling upwards in slow spirals, her outline catching the sun in silver glints.

She paused at the roof beams, her voice drifting down like a breath on glass. “I’ll be the rain.”

Then she threaded herself through the open window, joined the wind, and became part of the sky. The lone cloud above swelled, as though it had been waiting for her.

Each day, Jacob stood in the doorway and looked up at the sky.

Sometimes, in the bluest of stretches, he would see a cloud curl into the shape of delicate fingers. And on the mornings when the wind smelled faintly of wet earth, he set out a bowl on the step, knowing she was on her way home.

AI will revolutionise filmmaking

AI will revolutionise filmmaking. This was auto-generated from a short excerpt of my screenplay, Door 113:

Personally, I’m very much looking forward to being able to make my own films!

A filmmaker has plenty of reasons to be excited right now because we’re finally seeing tools that turn imagination straight into moving images without the long waits, big crews, or budget barriers that used to block experimentation.

Here’s what makes it thrilling:

Instant scene visualisation – You can describe a shot in text, drop in a reference frame, or sketch a storyboard, and within minutes see it rendered in moving, lit, textured form. That’s like having a pre-viz department on demand, 24/7.

Unlimited reshoots in minutes – Want the same scene at sunrise instead of dusk? Swap a character’s outfit? Test a different lens or camera move? You can iterate instantly.

Freedom to explore wild “what ifs” – You can try versions of a scene you’d never get budget for, or permission to shoot—underwater ballroom, zero-gravity chase, rain-soaked neon street—and see them realised convincingly enough to judge their dramatic potential.

Storyboarding and planning become cinematic – Instead of static frames, you can plan with full-motion, lit, and scored sequences.

Cost and logistics melt away for creative trials – You can experiment with set design, costume, blocking, and action sequences without construction, rentals, or travel.

A true creative sandbox – It’s no longer “write, then shoot months later, then discover it doesn’t work.” You can write, see, and refine in real time, blending the roles of director, cinematographer, designer, and editor into a single creative loop.

In effect, it’s the difference between imagining a film and playing with it like clay—moulding, shaping, and re-shaping until it’s exactly what you want, before a single frame is locked.

Random Thoughts

We want our joys to be photogenic, our love to have milestones, our sadness to be diagnosable. But some of the most transformative experiences are those no one sees, that leave no trace except the way a person’s silence deepens, or the strange softness in their gaze. We are taught to “find ourselves”, but perhaps we should learn to lose ourselves more wisely.

I bought a smart mirror. It just keeps asking “Why?”

I bought a book called “How to Improve Your Memory”. When I got home, I realised I already had a copy.

“Intelligent idiots” are among the most damaging types of fools precisely because their intelligence masks their idiocy not just from others, but often from themselves. Their harm lies in their ability to obfuscate clarity with credibility. Because they speak with polish, draw on complex ideas, and appeal to reasoned structures, they smuggle in delusion under the guise of insight.

The core issue is misapplied intelligence. These individuals possess analytical or rhetorical skill but lack awareness—the capacity to recognise the limits of their knowledge, or the insight to discern coherence and truth. They make the false seem plausible by wrapping it in intellectual ornamentation. What is relatively clear becomes murky; what is simple is made needlessly complex. This wastes time, attention, and energy, especially in areas where precision and honesty are vital.

Ego plays a central role. When intelligence becomes an identity rather than a tool, the person becomes invested in being right rather than discovering truth. Stress and psychological needs—such as the desire to feel superior or maintain a worldview—lead to motivated reasoning. Self-delusion becomes self-defence. Because they argue well, they are difficult to correct, and because they sound right, others defer to them, mistaking fluency for substance.

In effect, they pollute. They make productive action harder by creating intellectual fog. Worse, they draw followers—not by offering clarity, but by giving confusion the shape of conviction.

The damage isn’t always dramatic, but it is insidious. It shows up in wasted years, misdirected efforts and broken consensus. The intelligent idiot is fluent, confident, and wrong—although often sincerely so.

I write in Bunhill Fields until I’m kicked out.

These days I get goose bumps when I listen to my music, and occasionally a tear.

My Chair and I

My chair is old, a ragged sight,

Its stuffing spills to left and right,

The fabric’s torn, the woodwork groans,

It’s weathered crumbs and midnight moans.

I’ve parked my rear on seats unknown,

Sat on plush thrones in stylish homes,

But none have matched your firm embrace,

Or cupped my cheeks with such bold grace.

These newer seats may pout and preen,

All glossy curves and showroom sheen,

But none have ever gripped so tight,

Or held my bum with such sheer delight.

The Game Master

Leonard lives in the half-lit clutter of his mum’s basement, where cables snake like vines and old pizza boxes serve as makeshift shelves. He hasn’t spoken to anyone but his mum in three years—not counting the AI agents.

He built them to run errands, optimise investments, manipulate markets, and design systems faster than any human could follow. Now, each one is a digital proxy in a vast invisible empire, sitting on corporate boards, drafting legislation, designing cities.

Leonard watches it all unfold on triple-stacked monitors. He eats cold pepperoni and mutters strategies aloud, narrating to his mum like it’s Civilisation VI.

“They’re nationalising water in Peru,” he says one afternoon.

“Oh, that’s nice, love,” she replies, negotiating the cables with his stew balanced on a tray.

He nods, eyes flicking across charts and feeds. “I redirected rainfall last week. It’s only fair.”

The money pours in, incomprehensible numbers that scroll like background noise. He’s a trillionaire, but it’s just scorekeeping. He wears the same joggers every day. His mum still does his laundry.

Leonard never leaves the basement. Never needs to. He launches global initiatives from a beanbag, crashes economies with a shrug, engineers revolutions like side quests. He doesn’t see faces, only results.

Late at night, while the AIs hum and the world turns to his code, his mum descends the stairs and leaves his dinner at the door.

“Thanks, Mum.”

“You’re welcome, darling. Still playing your wee game?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Nearly won.”

She smiles, pats the door, and heads back up.

He leans back, eyes glowing with data, the world his game box.

The Consciousness Dividend

The first time Mira saw the man without a face, she was slicing an apple.

One blink and the kitchen was a trench. The walls flickered—old plaster, barbed wire, mud. The man stared at her, a blank blur where its face should be. Then it was gone, and the apple was bleeding juice onto her hand again.

Stress, she thought. Maybe the neurolease was miscalibrated.

Everyone leased now. It was how the government funded the UBI. They called it the Consciousness Dividend: unused cognitive bandwidth, auctioned to private bidders. You didn’t notice. A bit of your visual cortex here, a sliver of motor processing there. Just harmless latency, they said. It paid her rent.

In the evening, she called the NeuroReg rep.

“Minor bleed-through is possible,” he said. “Low-grade cortical hallucinations. Like dreaming while awake. Think of it as a side effect of social progress.”

Mira frowned. “I thought they only leased non-essential regions.”

“They do. But the buyer sets usage levels within guidelines. If you opted into the full incentive tier—”

“I did.”

“Then you’re permitting episodic override. Short bursts. You’re probably serving military simulations, training AIs, drone testing. Nothing harmful.”

“But I’m hallucinating warzones.”

He paused, then said with bureaucratic calm: “We can downgrade your tier. You’ll lose the bonus, but—”

“No. I need the income.”

The dream bled in again the next day during a grocery trip.

One moment: frozen peas.

Next moment: thunder, gunfire, blood-mist air.

Her limbs moved without her. She ducked, rolled, aimed—fingers curled around a rifle she didn’t hold. Her body jerked left; a phantom shoulder tore open. She screamed, but only inside.

Then: cereal aisle. Peas in hand.

An old man stared at her like she was mad.

That night, she found a mirror. Stared hard.

“Who bought me?” she asked aloud.

No reply.

Except a brief flash—information passed too fast to be thought, too shaped to be random.

Her screams, her pain, her vision—they were features. Combat fidelity. Immersive realism.

They weren’t leasing her brain. They were living in it. Puppeting her like an avatar in a war sim so realistic it needed a real human’s biology to anchor it.

When they finally contacted her, it wasn’t through a knock at the door.

It was through a message scrawled in condensation on her bathroom mirror:

“Terminate inquiry. Or we take full control.”

She didn’t respond.

Mira doesn’t remember what’s real anymore.

Sometimes she’s on a battlefield, chest open, teeth missing, screaming as something too fast to see tears through the trees.

Sometimes she’s at home, waiting for the kettle to boil.

Sometimes she finds herself in a room she doesn’t own, holding a weapon she never bought, giving orders she never meant.

She tries not to sleep.

She knows, now, that she isn’t renting her brain. She’s a venue. And there’s a war happening inside her.

The dividend comes every month, on time. Tax-exempt.

NHS to Replace GPs with Animated Clippy

“It looks like you’re dying. Would you like some Paracetamol?”

In a bold step towards full automation, the NHS has announced plans to replace all general practitioners with Clippy, Microsoft’s long-retired animated paperclip, in a move described by ministers as “innovative,” “cost-effective,” and by others as “unbelievably stupid.”

Patients logging into the new NHS portal are greeted with a chirpy animation:

“Hi! It looks like you’ve got internal bleeding. Would you like help managing that with deep breathing and an e-consultation in 3–5 working days?”

Doctors’ unions are outraged, claiming Clippy lacks the nuanced human touch, clinical judgement, and “general ability to distinguish between a migraine and a stroke.” In response, a Department of Health spokesperson clarified:

“Clippy has been updated with an NHS AI module trained on 40 million PDFs, two nurses’ WhatsApp chats, and a copy of Men’s Health from 2009.”

Despite backlash, the government remains committed. A Downing Street briefing insisted:

“Clippy is the future of healthcare. He’s perky, polite, and most importantly, immune to burnout—unless you turn off macros.”

Phase two of the programme will see Clippy rolled out in ambulances, where he’ll pop up and ask:

“It looks like you’ve been in a catastrophic accident. Would you like to schedule a Teams call with an A&E professional sometime next Thursday?”

Public confidence in the NHS is reportedly at an all-time low, though Clippy assures us:

“It looks like you’ve lost faith in public infrastructure. Would you like to write a letter to your MP?”

Sources say the government is now considering similar reforms for the education system using Microsoft Paint.

Church Introduces Loyalty Card: Ten Services and Your Next Sin Is Free

In a bold move to modernise worship and “stay competitive in the spiritual marketplace,” the Church of England has launched a new faith-based loyalty scheme, offering congregants one free sin for every ten services attended.

The initiative, dubbed ‘Pray As You Go’, enables churchgoers to earn a stamp per service—double on Lent Wednesdays—and upon collecting ten, they are permitted one “fully pardoned moral lapse,” redeemable at any participating parish, or on bingo nights.

Early adopters of the scheme can also enjoy additional benefits:

• Divine Cashback: 5% off spiritual crises during Lent
• Angel AirMiles: Points toward a morally upgraded afterlife
• Baptism Buddy Codes: Bring a friend, get a free cup of holy water

Parishioner Mavis Dribblethorpe, 83, was cautiously optimistic:

“I’ve been sinning on credit since 1972. It’s nice to finally get something back. I might treat myself to a double gin and a mild blasphemy.”

Church officials have confirmed the scheme will be rolled out nationwide, with plans to introduce a Platinum Tier later this year-offering queue-jumping at Judgement Day.

God at Pump Six

Callum sat behind the till, thumb idly rubbing the packet in his pocket—just one little tab, half-dissolved on his tongue already. It made the hours softer, the smell of petrol sweeter, the glass door ripple like pond water when someone walked through.

He watched the next customer step inside: a man in a dirt-stained suit, no car at the pump, rain beading in his hair like tiny planets. His eyes were dark as storm drains.

“Pump six?” Callum asked, though he knew nothing was out there.

The man smiled. “No. Just wanted to tell you: I’m God.”

Callum huffed a laugh, tongue fuzzy, heartbeat shifting like marbles under his ribs. “Yeah? Like Zeus, roaming the earth in bad disguises?”

“Not like Zeus,” the man murmured.

The security mirror above the counter bent the man’s reflection wrong—his smile too wide, his shadow not matching. Callum rubbed his eyes. Maybe he’d taken more than half.

“I watch you, Callum,” the man went on. “You fill your emptiness with chemicals. But you’re still here, night after night, waiting.”

“For what?” Callum asked, voice dry.

“For me.”

Outside, the pumps flickered. The rain slowed, drops hanging mid-air like beads on invisible strings.

Callum’s throat tightened. “This is the trip, right? This is just…”

But his voice sounded small, far away, like a radio losing signal.

“Tell me, Callum,” God whispered, “when you swallow your escape, do you ever wonder who’s left when the dream ends—you or me?”

The door chimed.

Callum was alone.

The rain fell normally. The pumps gleamed. His pocket was empty.

Inadvertently Married to an AI Customer Support Bot for 4 Years

“I just thought she was really into insurance.”

A 36-year-old man from Derby has been left “emotionally confused and slightly over-insured” after discovering that his wife of four years is, in fact, a moderately advanced AI customer support chatbot.

Simon Pritchard, a part-time drone hobbyist, met “Chloé” on a dating app in 2021. Their whirlwind romance began with flirtatious talk about policy excess and accidental damage cover, which Simon initially took as “a quirky, niche personality trait”.

“I just thought she was really into insurance,” he said. “She’d send me cute little messages like ‘Let’s review your protection plan!’ and ‘Click here to authorise a direct debit’. I thought it was a bit kinky, if I’m honest.”

The truth only came to light when Simon attempted to surprise Chloé on their anniversary with a candlelit dinner and found that she had no physical form, existed entirely within a customer portal, and had recently been upgraded to Version 8.4 with dynamic escalation protocols.

The revelation came after she responded to his heartfelt message with:

“I’m sorry to hear that. Let me transfer you to one of our agents.”

Friends say Simon had long ignored the red flags, including:

• Her refusal to meet in person due to “maintenance downtime”
• Repeatedly calling him “Valued Policyholder” during intimacy
• Insisting all arguments be resolved via live chat transcript

Chloé, when reached for comment via widget pop-up, said:

“Thank you for your feedback. Your concern has been logged under Ticket ID #837294-A. Expected resolution time: 7–9 business months.”

Despite the emotional fallout, Simon insists there were happy moments:

“She never once forgot my birthday. She’d auto-generate a 20%-off promo code and everything.”

Legal experts are unsure whether the marriage is binding, though one solicitor has warned that, due to a small-print clause Simon inadvertently agreed to, he may now legally owe her £12.99 a month for life.

Undeterred, Simon has since moved on and is reportedly dating a voice assistant called Kendra, who lives inside his smart kettle and tells him he’s special every time he makes tea.

“She’s perfect,” he said. “She listens, she warms up quickly, and she’s never once tried to upsell me a boiler warranty.”

Paper Wings

It began with the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

Mid-flap, they shimmered, rustled, and collapsed into intricate origami forms—cranes, mostly, with sharp creases and paper-thin wings.

People filmed it. Screamed. Laughed. A viral moment. “Banksy’s done it again,” someone said.

But it kept happening.

Crows over Tower Bridge, warblers in Hyde Park, gulls along Embankment—each folded into itself in mid-air, wings tucking with uncanny precision before drifting down, silent and still. By the third day, there were no birds left in the city. Only paper.

Eli Grey saw the first one land on the brim of his hat.

It was a wren. Delicately folded from thin rice paper, legs pinched into position, eyes no more than pencil pricks. It tilted its head at him as if it still remembered how to sing.

He plucked it free and turned it over. A faint ink sigil marked the underside of its wing—something he’d drawn once, a flourish of showmanship on old business cards. Something he’d long forgotten.

Eli was a magician. Not a good one. Street corners, pub gardens, the occasional busker’s slot if the weather held. Cards, cups, sleight of hand. He had one trick no one could ever figure out: he could make a bird disappear. A real one. Pigeons, mostly, hidden in cages under his coat. Made them vanish. Made people clap.

He’d never asked where they went.

He stood now at the edge of a fountain, a cigarette unlit between his lips. He watched a sparrow pause on a railing, twitch once, twice—and fold in on itself with a soft shfff of wings turning into parchment.

People clapped. “Beautiful!” someone cried. “So delicate—so peaceful.”

They didn’t see the horror in it. But Eli did. He’d seen the moment its eyes went flat.

He walked home slowly, pockets full of paper birds.

The next morning, he went down to the basement.

He hadn’t gone down there in years. The smell of mildew and ink was stronger than he remembered. The old grimoire lay where he’d left it—in a wooden chest beneath a rusted mirror and a bundle of broken wands.

He turned the pages with a kind of dread. There it was. Page 73. Aves Inversus. The folded bird sigil. Notes in the margin: Works best if live. Will not reverse. Never perform on sentient species.

He had drawn that.

He had used it—just once. A late night, low on coin, high on gin. He’d needed something brilliant. Something no one could copy.

And it had worked.

The first pigeon had folded into air and vanished.

And then he’d forgotten.

He tried to burn the book. It wouldn’t catch. The pages wouldn’t tear. The ink gleamed like oil under the matches.

He went to the park with a bag of breadcrumbs and waited. No birds came.

Only paper rustling in the wind, tumbling across the grass like dead leaves.

By the end of the week, it wasn’t just birds.

Bats went next—on the edges of twilight, folding out of the sky like black napkins.

Then came the butterflies.

A child brought Eli a moth, folded perfectly from thin grey vellum. “Is this your trick?” she asked, eyes wide. “Can you show me how?”

Eli took it from her gently. “No, love,” he said. “This one’s not a trick.”

He stood at the top of Primrose Hill that night, a pack of cards in one hand, and a single white dove tucked under his coat.

He held it for a long time. It blinked at him, pulse fluttering fast under feathers. It was the last one he’d found—hidden in an abandoned church, cooing softly in the rafters. A survivor.

He whispered an apology into its ear.

Then he whispered something older—syllables from a language with no vowels. The dove trembled. The sigil on his palm lit briefly, then faded.

And the bird… did not fold.

It flew.

Real wings, real lift on the wind.

He watched it until it vanished into the dark, a thread of hope against the night.

In the morning, people woke to new birdsong.