Writing with Collaborative Iteration

In the past I have routinely embraced the archetype of the solitary writer, enveloped in the confinement of my own creative realm, choosing to withdraw from the external world to delve into the recesses of the mind, where thoughts and ideas swirl in a tempest of inspiration and despair. The tragic melodrama of it all has a certain romantic appeal to the Edgar-Allan-Poe-admiring-inclined. Writing reality, however, away from the flickering glow of candlelight that dances across the parchment, igniting with deep profundity each soul-searching word, should be one that engages with the world and other people. My experience of collaboration, particularly in a recent collaborative workshop, has helped to shape this more rounded perspective, which I believe will improve the resonance and relevance of my writing. I will draw on the work enacted in the workshop to show examples of what can be learned from valuable experiences shared with other people, and describe the context within a wider writing-for-performance landscape.

Syssoyeva and Proudfit compile various perspectives that highlight the iterative and adaptive nature of scriptwriting within a collective setting, examining the ways in which collaborative methods such as acting workshops can contribute to the development of new scripts and performances. Using my own example in this context, being in the room with actors and the director, answering questions and offering comments as a scene came to life from the page, helped me to form fresh insights on the writing, and enabled me to iterate an improved version of the script. The performance in development was of a monologue in a monologue play where the protagonist, Jane, is talking to her husband, Guy, who is in a permanent coma. The dilemma she is facing is whether she should sacrifice her life for an apparently lost cause or move on with her life despite loving him. Jane speaks a torrent of words to fill the desperation of the silence, but the most important are the last two: ‘I’m sorry’. And she leaves. She has a spectrum of contrasting thoughts in the monologue, many of which she’s not proud of. There is also a recurring theme of faith and whether anyone is listening, partly inspired by Ingmar Bergman’s ‘Silence of God’ trilogy—should she have faith that Guy is listening and lose herself in her love, or accept the reality of her life as she sees it?

The first issue I noticed in the enactment was a diminishing return of the repeated lines that Jane was using to avoid the silence. I have found repetition to have a pleasing rhythmic effect in my poetry and songs, but in the medium of dramatic theatre, meaning does not have to be vocalised. David Mamet offers a provocative take on acting and the creative process, touching upon the relationships between actors, writers, and directors. Actors experimenting with different interpretations can reveal unexpected facets of character, leading writers to refine their vision and perhaps take characters in new directions. The non-verbal cues and choices actors make in portraying their roles can highlight the importance of what is left unsaid, encouraging writers to weave more subtext into the script. It was evident from the actor’s performance of the monologue that the power of silence and its effect on Jane could be made more visceral to the audience by internalising the repeating loops of her thoughts; and that expressing her character objectives through actions and activity would give the actor greater space to find the performance and provide a much more compelling visual experience. For instance, as Jane speaks to Guy, narrating daily events and sharing her hopes and fears, she could obsessively adjust his blanket, fold sheets, fluff his pillow, or rearrange flowers on the bedside table, showing the care for his wellbeing and comfort, yet also signposting repetitive thoughts and inner turmoil. The actor’s movements and her impulse to touch Guy gave me the idea of Jane shaving her husband as he lies there. A break in the flow of text can be an opportunity for the actor and audience to experience what caring for someone is actually like. The tenderness and time she might take to shave him would convey much about the intimacy and closeness of their relationship. She could also hold her husband’s hand, brush his hair, or gently touch his face, establishing a physical connection that underscores her desperation for him to wake up and respond to her. The lack of character interaction on display made me think that Jane could start playing recordings of messages from family and friends, giving the actor something to respond to, and also revealing more of the world outside the hospital room.

Jane is trying to justify herself, and we in the audience are deciding what to think about her actions; we are invested in discovering the mix of emotions we feel about her. She is angry that he left her, that she has been abandoned to isolation, even if it wasn’t in his control. Seeing this unfold in the physical setting, and the interactions of the actor and director, made me think about the movement choices of Jane in the space and how that might be represented in the script. Clive Barker explores the use of theatre games and exercises in drama training, highlighting how these techniques can foster collaboration and creativity among actors and director, and how this, in turn, can lead to the discovery of more engaging or realistic exchanges, influencing the writer of the script to accommodate those dynamic arising interactions. The workshop itself can be viewed as a kind of interactive theatre game, with the actor dynamically responding to the director’s notes while playing with delivery and style. Experiencing the dynamic, and the actor/director experimentations with space, gave me several ideas for the movement activities of Jane that might enhance the emotional depth and narrative flow of the scene, by reflecting her internal journey, her relationship with her husband, and the gravity of the situation. For example, my post-workshop script now helps the actor make use of the whole stage—Jane can literally move away from Guy when lost in moments of anguished thought, but gravitate back to him when reminiscing about shared moments and special stories in their past. Packing up her things to go and making for the door, but changing her mind at the last moment; or stepping away from the bed to look out of a window because it’s all too much; or pacing up and down lost in thought; or standing by herself in contemplation with her back to him for a brief period, can all portray inner conflict, and are now signposted as actions within the script.

I loved the director’s suggestion in the workshop that Jane could be reading to Guy as an activity. In fact, the reading of, for example, magical realism stories could very much chime with the play’s plotline that Guy is experiencing a strange supernatural world in his coma, unbeknown to Jane, based on what she is communicating to him. The director also commented that moving the reveal of what happened to Guy to later in the monologue might add to the shape and direction of the scene, which I agreed with and implemented in my edit. Louis Catron addresses how a director’s vision can guide the scriptwriting process through collaborative workshops. The collaboration and involvement of others provides more perspectives and input into the process, for when individuals come together, pooling their unique talents and insights, the potential for innovation and excellence is magnified. For instance, without the collaboration, it would not have occurred to me to read Happy Days by Samuel Beckett for theatrical context and genre, as recommended by the director. Beckett’s play really demonstrates the power and potential of the monologue in theatre. It features predominantly one character, Winnie, buried up to her waist in the first act and up to her neck in the second, engaging in a continuous monologue that reflects on her memories, her present state, and her relationship with her mostly unseen husband, Willie. The play showcases how a single voice can convey a vast landscape of emotion and thought, making it a pivotal text for me in studying the dynamics of solo performance and the depth that monologue plays can achieve. The monologue format allows Beckett to weave complex themes into the fabric of the play, inviting the audience into Winnie’s internal world and her contemplations on life, isolation, and hope amidst despair. These themes are all echoed in my script, and Beckett’s work will serve as an influence for subsequent development of the play.

The fact that there were four actors available in the workshop made me question whether I wanted to pursue the form of the monologue play, or whether it would be more visually interesting to include character interaction. I am familiar with various monologue plays that bring to life the intimate connection between actor and audience, such as Brian Friel’s Faith Healer, Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads, The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler, A Night in November by Marie Jones, I Am My Own Wife by Doug Wright, Thom Pain (based on nothing) by Will Eno, Sea Wall by Simon Stephens, and so on. However, due to the very similar themes, Beckett in particular reminded me of the beauty in one actor sharing their story with the audience, especially as the subject matter is emotionally intense and personal to the character, who is gradually revealing her internal struggle with conflicted thoughts and feelings about loneliness.

Keith Johnstone’s seminal work on improvisation in theatre sheds light on the impact of spontaneous, collaborative creation among actors in the development of narratives and characters. If a writer can actually interact with and respond to characters and props, and the unique situations that arise in the moment, then this can help invoke truthful writing. It can be refined later, but an enormous creative impulse has been captured in a script that becomes, in a sense, a recording of reality—something that actually happened and was experienced (at least in the imagination of the actor). That piece of reality can then be interpreted and spun in directions by other actors in the endless ways that creativity enables. Constantin Stanislavski’s work, particularly his system of actor training, rehearsal, and performance technique, has had a profound influence on acting, and also script development. His emphasis on emotional truth, character motivation, and the ‘magic if’ provides a foundation for actors and writers to explore deeper layers of a script in a collaborative setting. Viola Spolin’s work is also a useful foundational base in the field of theatre education, particularly regarding improvisation and its role in the creative process. Her games and exercises foster spontaneity and creativity, allowing for the exploration of character relationships and scenarios that can inform script development. Commercial reality may unfortunately prevent collaboration between a writer and professional actors in most cases; however, it may be possible for a writer to apply these acting techniques and exercises to really think and feel as their character, to embody the lines and construct the writing through activity, exploring the full extent of the space or venue. The writer does not necessarily need to have the same refined skills as an actor, but they can invoke what an actor and director are searching for, to help them find their own ways into the performance. Signposts and activity, as powerful cues for dramatisation, become more apparent when the writer attempts to create the physicality from their imagination. John Stylan observes that Shakespeare’s experiences as an actor shaped his dramatic works, including character development, stage directions, and the structure of his plays. Shakespeare, as the actor he was, may have actively written at the theatre and adapted and iterated for how the actors engaged with his words. On my part, I do read my scripts out loud to myself, but from now on I will also physicalise the words as an actor approaching the intentionality of lines. This practice will ensure I have properly engaged with the character’s motivations in the moment and the impulses they are likely to be actioning for their wants and needs within the scene.

I have focussed, in the past, on an internal collaboration with influences in literature: the psychological depth of Chekhov’s characters, the sharp social commentary of Brecht’s epic theatre, or the innovative narrative structures found in the works of Caryl Churchill. However, moving beyond my thoughts and engaging closely with actors and a director, I have come to believe that a script does not have to be a static monument but can evolve with performance. An acting collaborative workshop can serve as a living laboratory for script development, bridging the gap between the writer’s words and its eventual realised life, ensuring that the script iterates to not only a compelling narrative but also a practical, performative blueprint ready for production. There is still a part of me that feels the pull of the candlelight, beckoning me back further into my solitary writing cave, although now I have discovered the appeal of sunlight outside.

Reflections on Creative Practice

When I write stories, it serves as a reflective journey, a means to unravel and interpret my own perspectives and life experiences. This exploration is not merely introspective; it also embodies a leap into the lives of others, into circumstances that can be very different from my own. Writing becomes an empathetic outlet for me through which I can simulate experiences and emotions—a place where I can gather, refine, and articulate what I truly think, feel, and believe as a human being engaging with the world. I outline here a personal philosophy that drives this creative practice, with a particular reference to my recently written audio drama, The Staircase, which delves into themes of alienation, self-discovery, and a quest for meaning in an often ambiguous world. Writing the script, as with most of my creative work, was a personal philosophical exploration, serving as both a mirror and a catalyst for deeper self-understanding.

In addition to personal growth, progress in every societal domain from science to the arts relies on the ability to think creatively. Rather than passively receiving content, inertly thinking how one is told to think, and compliantly accepting the constraints imposed by others, creativity represents a higher ideal; it involves infusing a spirit of discovery, exploring ideas, and sometimes moving beyond conventional limits to dream of something new. The Staircase breaks several conventions for good audio drama, purposefully. The first, and most important, is that its primary meaning is not clear and may therefore confuse listeners. In fact, the narrative has several layered interpretations, all of which are perfectly valid for the evidence presented. The layers of meaning enable the narrative to operate on multiple realities simultaneously, encouraging deeper dives into the drama beyond its surface. As the audience engage with and interpret the layers, I would like them to feel a sense of co-discovery and personal investment in the story.

The narrative is formed from the first-person perspective of Guy, the main protagonist in a series of stories, called Human World. Ostensibly, the audio drama is about a person being chased by a terrifying creature up an endless staircase. Guy has to rest and seek sustenance by entering doors to other worlds, but no matter what he does, he always ends up back on the staircase. One may ask the valid question, what is this really about? And how does the story resolve with a satisfying answer to the mystery? The answer, from my perspective, is that mystery symbolises the unknown aspects of life and the universe; it reflects humanity’s perpetual quest for knowledge and understanding in the face of the inexplicable. The use of imagery, symbolism, and metaphor, rather than the use of explanation, serve to deepen the thematic impact. For example, the recurring motif of a fragmented mirror in the Human World stories not only symbolises the protagonist’s fractured sense of self but also reflects the theme of distorted reality.

Life is often lacking in clear-cut answers, and by incorporating this into my writing, I am mirroring the complexities of the world, allowing for multiple layers of meaning within a single narrative. For instance, the story could be describing an Artificial General Intelligence experiencing a simulated world that it had created in order to understand the human condition (with reference to Christian concepts of God living and suffering on Earth as Jesus); alternatively, it may be about a human experimented on by inter-dimensional aliens, or a ghost trapped in limbo between past and future lives, or a dying man’s mind trying to make sense of his life, or a confused person experiencing altered states of reality through drugs and illness, or maybe a biblical Job-like character being challenged by supernatural events. I would suggest, however, that all these explanations are true on different levels. Guy is ‘the ghost in the machine’, both simulated and alive, created by a digital parent world, but born of a human’s experiences. The ambiguous writing reflects that we do not have answers to the big existential questions of reality; we interpret a phenomenon through lenses that are familiar to us rather than comprehend all the dimensions of its being. To label the meaning would be to diminish the meaning, for the interpretation is determined by what resonates and connects within the listener.

Good art is inherently subjective, as it reflects aspects of the experiencer’s own life and awareness. In The Death of the Author, Roland Barthes argues that a writer’s intentions and biographical context should not dictate the interpretation of their work; people often see aspects of themselves in an artwork, and their reactions can reveal insights about their own nature and experiences. Well-crafted art therefore allows viewers to peel back layers, discovering multiple connections of meaning and symbolism. It prompts the experiencer to think, question, and feel—engaging them in an ongoing dialogue with the work. However, Viktor Shklovsky’s notion of Formalism in his essay Art as Technique, when applied to writing for performance, underscores the importance of a clear narrative—one that can make implicit themes and meanings more perceptible and impactful to the audience. Shklovsky’s perspective is that clarity in storytelling is not just a stylistic choice but a fundamental and necessary technique. In contrast to this prescription, I am very comfortable with ambiguity; I do not have a psychological need for precise one-to-one answers that match and label the complex. John Keats introduced this concept of ‘Negative Capability’ in a letter to his brothers in 1817. The term has since become a significant concept in the discourse on artistic theory and the philosophy of creativity. Keats described Negative Capability as the capacity of being ‘in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.’ Essentially, it refers to an artist’s ability to accept ambiguity and paradox without the need to resolve them rationally. It is about embracing the unknown and the mysterious, and being comfortable in the midst of uncertainties; an openness that can lead to deeper and more profound artistic expressions. When not constrained by the need for definitive answers, writers can explore more truthfully the nuances of life—they notice and appreciate the subtleties of the world around them, often finding beauty and meaning in ambiguity.

A convention in good audio drama is to convey information subtly through conversation and sound rather than by the overt exposition of characters, such as explaining plot points, backgrounds, or their feelings. I generally adhere to this point that while some narration can be helpful, overusing it to describe actions and settings can make the drama feel more like an audiobook than an immersive experience. However, by stepping out of the conventional boundaries and experimenting with new ideas, styles, or forms, writers can create unique, albeit more risky, work. In this instance, I set myself the challenge of inverting the exposition convention, by choosing a first-person narrative, and giving the listener deeper access to the inner workings of Guy’s mind. As someone influenced by Dostoevsky’s novels, such as Crime and Punishment, I am especially interested in the immediacy of the protagonist; and the first-person perspective is particularly well suited to depicting internal battles of the human psyche. Dostoevsky often grappled with moral and philosophical questions through intimate portrayals of his characters’ perspectives—a writer influenced by him might therefore imbue their narrative with similar existential inquiries, creating a means for exploring deeper ethical and philosophical themes. The first-person viewpoint also adds a layer of subjectivity to the narrative, and invites listeners to question the reliability of Guy as the narrator. Unreliable narration adds more depth to the story, as listeners are left to decipher what is true and what is a product of Guy’s perception or self-deceit.

I aim to incorporate philosophical themes into my writing in ways that enrich the narrative, influenced by writers like Douglas Adams, who used a seemingly light-hearted approach to explore profound metaphysical questions. Despite the comedic overtones in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Adams delves into existential themes, such as cosmic meaning and the search for knowledge and truth—the famous answer being ‘42’ to ‘the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything’. The joke influenced my writing of the crash test dummy’s comment, ‘“What is the meaning of life?” is the 404^th most asked question of the Great Oracle’s Database’—404 being the standard website error for ‘not found’ on the internet.

I also combine the humour with tragedy, sometimes darkly. The interplay between Guy and Lexi frequently serves as a comic contrast to the desperation of Guy’s seemingly hopeless situation. This type of blend, as seen in the works of authors like Charles Dickens, can significantly enhance the impact of a narrative. For example, Lexi’s change of role at the end, to someone who is genuinely concerned about Guy’s welfare, highlights the seriousness of what is happening to him. By contrasting moments of lightness with the darker aspects of the story, the tragic elements can be thrown into sharper focus, making them more poignant. Charles Dickens’ novels, which often dealt with serious social issues like poverty, child labour, and injustice, are marked by his distinctive combination of comedy and tragedy. He created memorable characters like Mr. Micawber in David Copperfield or Samuel Pickwick in The Pickwick Papers, who, despite their often dire circumstances, provide comic relief. These characters evoke sympathy and laughter, making the tragic elements of their stories all the more moving. Shakespeare, as might be expected, was also a master at this; for example, the heightened emotional impact of the usually comedic Falstaff meeting a tragic end in Henry V. Life is a mixture of joy and sorrow, and good art often reflects both.

As a writer who gravitates towards crafting surreal stories, my creative preferences might suggest several things about my personality, interests, and life experiences. The bizarre offers an escape from the mundane and ordinary, and I have found that surrealism can be a creative outlet for the expressing of thoughts and feelings that are difficult to articulate in a more literal or conventional manner. For some writers, such as me, creating strange worlds and characters can be a form of personal reflection or catharsis; it can be a way to process and express the complexities of their inner world in a metaphorical or symbolic manner. The scenes in The Staircase touch on elements of the subconscious and dreamlike states, and are heavily influenced by surreal cinema. Perhaps the most famous in this genre, David Lynch’s films like Mulholland Drive and Blue Velvet are known for their dream sequences, and exploration of the darker side of the human psyche. Federico Fellini’s films, notably 8 ½ and La Dolce Vita, blend reality and fantasy, often reflecting his own life and dreams, and are marked by a distinct, whimsical style. Another personal influence is Ingmar Bergman’s film Wild Strawberries, featuring dream sequences that explore the main character’s memories and fears. With a penchant for quirky storytelling, Michel Gondry’s films like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and The Science of Sleep are distinguished by their imaginative and dreamlike qualities, often exploring the nature of memory and dreams. A key feature of the Surrealist movement, Luis Buñuel’s films, including The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and Belle de Jour, are celebrated for their dreamlike sequences and surreal imagery, often challenging the viewer’s perception of reality. In films like In the Mood for Love and 2046, Wong Kar-wai creates dreamlike atmospheres through his use of colour, music, and slow, deliberate pacing, evoking a sense of longing and nostalgia. Guillermo del Toro’s films, such as Pan’s Labyrinth and The Shape of Water, are known for their fantastical elements and ethereal qualities, often blending fairy-tale-like narratives with darker themes. Films like Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan by Darren Aronofsky possess a dreamlike intensity, often blurring the lines between hallucination and reality, and are known for their psychological depth. Also, Terry Gilliam’s films, such as Brazil, are known for their fantastical and surreal visual style, often creating worlds that blur the boundaries of reality. Perhaps my biggest influence in cinema, however, are Andrei Tarkovsky’s films, which are often described as visual poetry. His films are deeply imbued with spiritual and philosophical themes. He often explored existential questions, the nature of humanity, and the search for meaning, which lend a transcendent, dreamlike quality to his work. Films like Mirror and Stalker are layered with symbolic imagery and scenes that invite multiple interpretations, much like the elusive and metaphorical nature of dreams. He often blurred the lines between reality and illusion, past and present, memory and dream. I have written The Staircase to be of this genre, which I find to be beautiful and deeply profound. Human World is stuck at 1:13 am, like in the middle of a dream—and as a layered explanation, it also equates to 1 Corinthians 13 in the bible, Guy’s time of death as a human, and the time of his creation as a simulation in the Corinthians hyper-computer. It also equates to the time shown on a bedside clock when Guy is slipping between sleep and wakefulness.

I experience hypnagogic hallucinations and vivid dreams that spark creative ideas. Writers like Mary Shelley and Stephen King have famously drawn from their dreams to create some of their most notable work. In the preface to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein, Shelley describes how the idea for the novel came to her in a dream after a discussion on the nature of life and the possibility of reanimating the dead. This emanation of her subconscious, provided the groundwork for one of the most influential works of Gothic literature. In his memoir On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King discusses how some of his ideas for novels came to him in dreams; for instance, the idea for Misery came to him while he was sleeping on an aeroplane. Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, advocates for a dream-mining technique I deploy most days, called ‘morning pages’—a practice of writing three pages of stream-of-consciousness thoughts first thing after waking. The unending staircase concept was written during this process and originates from my dreaming subconscious.

Although I have conscious writing intentions that structure my thoughts, the story has ultimately emerged from my subconscious, and I do not understand everything that is contained there. Ideas can seemingly emerge out of nowhere because they have been forming below the level of awareness, influenced by hidden thoughts and feelings. By channelling such experiences into my writing, and learning from the insight of others, I can explore and make sense of my own inner life. Contemporary Japanese author Haruki Murakami is known for his surreal, dreamlike narratives—in interviews, he has talked about tapping into his subconscious and dreams to create the fantastical elements of his novels. His writing process involves a disciplined routine that includes running and meditation, activities that he believes helps him in accessing the subconscious. Carl Jung used a technique he called ‘active imagination’ to delve into his subconscious; this involved allowing his mind to wander freely in a semi-trance state, engaging imaginatively with symbols and images that arose. Jung’s approach does not work for me exactly as he described in The Red Book, but I have found that ideas often pop up depending on how my subconscious is primed; and that wandering, both in a literal and metaphorical sense, plays a significant role in enhancing creativity. Wandering involves stepping away from structured thinking and routine environments, allowing my mind to explore freely.  Lexi’s dialogue was imagined while I was walking in the countryside—and perhaps uncoincidentally, Guy is walking outside while talking to her in the story. The plot points for the story were originally written in a journal that I update from ideas that suddenly occur to me as I go about my day; and the themes were the resulting ideas of daily background exposure to the cross-pollination of concepts in technology and philosophy.  

My personal philosophy frames my interaction with daily events and fuels my subconscious. This philosophy encourages resistance to the simplification of complex emotions or issues. For artists and writers, the ability to dwell in uncertainty means being open to the myriad possibilities that exist beyond the realms of conventional reasoning and knowledge. Certainty keeps individuals within the bounds of what they know and understand, which can be far more comfortable than venturing into the unknown. Stepping into the realm of uncertainty can indeed be challenging, pushing individuals outside of their comfort zones, but it is where true value is found. My optimal creative practice is to explore all available avenues; it is one that is dynamic and holistic, blending disciplined routines with creative freedom, technical skill development with imaginative exploration, and personal introspection with external learning and feedback. The initial phase is mostly unstructured, enabling the flow of thoughts onto the page without concern for form or coherence. The subsequent phase is more disciplined, explicitly and implicitly considering best practice. Here, the unrefined ideas are analysed and iteratively developed, transforming impulses into a coherent shape. In the example of The Staircase, the secondary phase in writing the script involved reviewing best practice and in many cases continuing to break it. However, the iterative process did make the story more coherent; Guy returned to the staircase via the hospital as a plot twist. Without the second stage of writing, left to my wanderings, I may have floated further out into symbolism and strange, seemingly unconnected metaphorical sequences. In its essence, though, I had created a script instinctively and viscerally—and over time I have learned to trust this feeling when it happens, as it comes from a deeper, truer part of me that I cannot fully explain. As I wrote the final scene I was tearful and felt that I had been on a journey, like my protagonist, finding my own story arc as a writer. This was my catharsis. I was experiencing my thoughts and allowing my subconscious to show me what I am really feeling.

Terrible Things For Money

I do terrible things for money… Like getting up early to go to work and pretending to like it there. I’m trying to mend my ways, though, so now I always arrive late in the office, and make up for it by leaving early.

Although I’m great at multitasking in the time I have at my desk – I can waste time, be unproductive, and procrastinate all at once. I think they hired me, though, for my motivational skills. Everyone always says how they have to work twice as hard when I’m around!

But I think the offices of the future will optimise human creativity. Many people have their best thoughts in the shower, so offices will be open plan shower rooms, with shampoo as optional. Bathtubs will be for brainstorming. Hot tubs for important meetings.

Do you know, the most unsuitable person for a leadership position in any job is someone who is obsessed with their own power, status, and money. Yet these are the people recruited for. Why can’t recruiters just be open about it? – “only sociopaths need apply.” Questions could be like, “how would you literally throw someone under a bus, frame someone else and take the credit for their work in improving bus health and safety standards?”

I’m actually an accountant. And being an accountant is like being a yeti – nobody notices you are there because you are blurred in the background – and we don’t do selfies. I have to commute each day. On the train, I fly through the air – the world rushes by, and I feel like I’m floating – all the people in the carriage together, as one, on a journey to the transcendent eternal beyond… until we arrive, and I crash into the reality of the grey accountancy netherworld in London. Some may think it is tedious, and you are absolutely right. For entertainment, I listen to the background music of clicking abacuses.

Well actually, I sort of like accountancy. Behind every superhero is an accountant budgeting for the capes. There’s nothing more thrilling than finding an error in row 5,267 of your Excel sheet. And accountants bring joy! Because they make everyone else feel good about their job choices. Although being a “creative accountant” is generally frowned upon. And that is why I do terrible things for money.

"I Don't Care if You Listen or Not"

The statement speaks to a form of artistic autonomy that challenges the conventional performer-audience relationship; it invites reflection on what is deemed essential for performance, and what possibilities emerge when the dynamic is disrupted or reimagined. By focusing on the internal processes of the artist rather than the reception by an audience, we open up a realm of performance that is about the act of creation itself. This aligns with a theatrical philosophy which often prioritises the experience and integrity of the artistic expression over the interaction and response of the audience. A counterpoint to this view is that performance is an event designed for an audience, a form of communication or expression that presupposes a spectator. The presence of an audience, their reactions, and their engagement are typically seen as integral to the event itself, creating a dynamic interplay between the observer and the observed, each influencing the experience of the other. However, the notion that performance is an act of communication that requires both a performer and an audience has been increasingly challenged, particularly in the realms of contemporary theatre, performance art, and digital media. If we consider a performance as an artistic release of self-expression, then it can and does exist without an audience. Artists often create for the sake of the art itself or for personal emotional need, rather than for any anticipated public reception; the act of performing itself transforms the individual artist, irrespective of whether anyone is watching.

But is it a “performance” if nobody is being performed to? A performance typically refers to a live presentation or artistic exhibition delivered by one or more artists. This could be a play in a theatre, a musical recital, a dance showcase, a live painting demonstration, or even a street artist’s display. Here, performance is characterised by its temporality; it is an event that happens over time and is designed for an audience to witness and experience. The presence of an audience is a defining feature because it is the observers who perceive, interpret, and give meaning to the performance. An audience’s reaction—be it applause, laughter, critique, or interpretation—contributes to the complete nature of the performance, imbuing it with a shared social reality. Hence, in this definition, the act of performing carries an intention to convey a certain impression or communicate meaning. Theories such as “reader-response theory” or “reception theory” discuss how a text (or a performance) is not complete without its reception.

One could argue that a performance, like any event, occurs regardless of observation. The actions of the performer, the expression of the art, and the occurrence of the event are factual and exist independently of an audience. The key distinction here is between the existence of the performance and the validation or acknowledgement of it. Without an audience, the validation through applause, criticism, or interpretation is absent, but the performance as a sequence of actions still transpires. Even in an empty theatre, a performer may deliver lines, an orchestra may play a symphony, and a dancer may execute choreography; the physical and aesthetic actions do not cease to exist because they are unobserved. However, while the tangible mechanics of the performance may occur without an audience, the full spectrum of what constitutes a performance—its energetic exchange, its emotional impact, and its collective memory—is often thought to be co-created with those who witness it.

Yet, the creation of performance without an audience is not only possible but is already practiced in various forms within the arts: artists like Marina Abramović, for instance, have explored the limits of what constitutes performance and audience participation, sometimes engaging in acts that are witnessed by very few or even by no one, at least at the time of the initial act; and in the online digital space, it is commonplace for performance to occur without an immediate physical audience. Consider a singer recording vocals or an actor self-taping to camera—the eventual audience is remote, separated by time, space, and medium, and yet the act of performance still carries significant meaning and intent. The performances could be experienced by an audience long after the fact, or hidden beneath the multitude of other content and never seen. If nobody were to experience the recording—if the only audience present was in the mind of the performer—is it true that a fully actualised performance did not take place? The essence of the performances was not in its reception, but in the act of expression: the performances were created, executed, and fully realised without the presence of an external audience. The audience here is not a required component for the validity of a performance but rather a potential participant in a socially shared experience that may or may not take place.

The external audience dynamics do affect the nature of the performance, as well as its absence, but it is not necessary for the act of performance. Indeed, the presence and disposition of an audience can have a profound impact on the dynamics of a performance, affecting both the performers and the collective meaning of the performance itself. This phenomenon has been extensively studied across various disciplines including psychology, theatre studies, and performance theory. Research often explores these effects through the lenses of audience-performer dynamics, the psychology of performance, and the sociology of group interactions. From a psychological perspective, the seminal work of French sociologist Emile Durkheim on collective effervescence describes the energy that emerges when a group of people, such as an audience, comes together to participate in the same action. When performers are in front of an audience, they can experience what psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi terms as “flow”, a heightened state of focus and immersion in activities that can enhance performance quality. Furthermore, the “audience effect”, a concept often discussed in social psychology, specifically refers to the impact of an audience on performance. Robert Zajonc’s work in this field identified the ways in which the mere presence of others can enhance or inhibit performance, depending on the complexity of the task and the skill level of the performer. For well-practised tasks, an audience can enhance performance through increased arousal; for less familiar tasks, however, this arousal can be detrimental. In theatre studies, audience response is often viewed as a critical aspect. Susan Bennett’s Theatre Audiences offers a comprehensive examination of the reciprocal relationship between the audience and the performance. She outlines how the audience’s reactions can influence the pacing, timing, and energy of a performance as performers often adjust their delivery based on verbal and non-verbal feedback. This dynamic interplay can transform the experience, making each performance a unique event influenced by the specific audience in attendance. Moreover, in his influential text The Empty Space, Peter Brook discusses how an audience’s energy contributes to the creation of what he describes as “immediate theatre”. According to Brook, the performer-audience relationship is a crucial component that can turn the “deadly” theatre—where there is no true communication—into a “live” one. The concept of audience engagement and its effect on the performance is further elaborated by Baz Kershaw in his work The Radical in Performance. Kershaw discusses how an engaged audience can have a radicalising effect on performance, pushing the boundaries of traditional performance and creating a more immersive and interactive experience. In musical performance, John Sloboda’s research in The Musical Mind touches upon how musicians might experience heightened levels of anxiety or exhilaration when performing before an audience, which can, in turn, affect their technical proficiency and emotional expression. This interplay is significant in live music, where the audience’s reactions can influence the performer’s interpretation and delivery of the music in real time. From these perspectives, it becomes clear that an audience does not passively consume a performance but actively shapes its unfolding through complex psychological and social mechanisms. Each performance is therefore not merely a presentation of a pre-prepared piece but a dynamic interaction between performer and audience, with the audience’s responses continuously shaping the course and quality of the performance.

However, it is possible for a performer to have an audience, even when nobody is watching. This notion of a performer being the audience of his or her own performance invites a rich philosophical exploration, touching upon the concepts of self-awareness, and the phenomenology of experience. Philosophical discourse offers a breadth of perspectives on the relationship between the observer and the observed, as well as the subject-object dichotomy. In the field of aesthetics, the work of philosophers like Arthur Danto in his work The Transfiguration of the Commonplace can provide insight into the relationship between performance and perception. Danto’s theories on art as the embodiment of meaning suggest that a performer could very well be an audience to the meanings and interpretations that arise within their own performance. Each gesture, movement, or note in a performance can be reflective, carrying an intention and interpretation that the performer is uniquely positioned to understand and critique. The performer, then, becomes a sort of reflective audience, engaging with the performance both as a creator and an interpreter of meaning.

If a comedian makes a joke in an empty auditorium, does it make a sound? It is often said that in stand-up, timing is everything. As it turns out, when the audience is a row of empty seats, the timing is quite flexible. However, whether it is a performance to one’s own shadow or to a billion eager faces, the essence of the act, rather than the perception of the expression, remains the same. When a performance is enacted without an external audience, it becomes a private act, serving as a method of personal reflection for the artist; but the performer is still engaged in the act of performing, utilising their skills and perhaps even experiencing the same emotional and physical exertion as they would in front of an external audience. If the self can act as its own audience, then the solitude of one’s actions does not strip them of their performative character. For some creators, such as me, the act of performance is an intimate expression which serves as a form of self-exploration, catharsis, or a means of working through ideas and emotions. It’s here, in the sanctum of one’s mind, where the self-reflexive nature of human consciousness creates a sort of inner theatre where our actions are constantly up for review. The internal audience functions continuously, responding to and influencing the performance.

A performer can be the audience of his or her own performance, not in the literal sense of occupying two distinct spatial positions, but rather in the phenomenological sense of experiencing oneself as both the observer and the observed. This duality encapsulates the complex nature of human consciousness and the intricate interplay between action and reflection. In essence, the performer, through introspection and self-awareness, engages in a dialogue with oneself, constantly interpreting and re-interpreting the ongoing performance. From a phenomenological standpoint, particularly within the framework established by Edmund Husserl, the idea of a performer as an audience invokes the concept of “intentionality”, the notion that consciousness is always the consciousness of something. In this context, a performer, even while engaged in the act of performance, can have a dual intentionality where he or she is both the subject directing the performance and simultaneously the object of his or her own reflective consciousness. Husserl’s student, Martin Heidegger, would perhaps interpret this through the lens of “Dasein”, which underscores the idea of being-in-the-world where one’s existence is fundamentally interconnected with the world; thus, a performer, by being an audience to oneself, is actively shaping and being shaped by the very act of performance.

For existentialists, if every action is a conscious choice, we are, in essence, “performing” our lives for the most critical audience: ourselves. Sartre’s notion of “bad faith”—the denial of this freedom and the embrace of a fixed role—highlights the performativity of actions when they are done to conform rather than to reflect one’s genuine choice. Sartre’s views suggest that by becoming an audience to oneself, the performer engages in a kind of self-observation that can either be an act of authenticity, recognising oneself as the source of one’s actions, or an act of self-deception, where one denies material agency. Within this existential frame, the notion of authenticity is pivotal. The performance is not about creating a façade for others but is intrinsically tied to the authentic choices that define our being. Therefore, every action could be a performance if it is part of this continuous existential project of self-definition. The actions themselves become a narrative in the theatre of the self, where the individual not only acts but observes, judges, and often reinterprets their actions in the quest for meaning.

From a Jungian perspective, personal acts can be seen as influenced by and potentially performing archetypal roles within our own psyche. These acts, whether observed by others or not, are part of the fabric of our collective unconscious experience. They connect us to universal human themes and contribute to our personal narrative and the ongoing process of psychological development and individuation. The performative aspect is not necessarily about an audience of others but rather about the dialogue between our conscious self and the archetypal forces within us. Carl Jung suggested that archetypes represent universal, ancient symbols and images emanating from the collective unconscious, serving as the psychological equivalents of instinct. If we consider our personal acts as informed by these archetypes, it’s possible to view our actions as being influenced by these shared human narratives, which could be understood as a form of performance. When no external audience is present, the archetypes within the collective unconscious could act as an internal audience; for instance, if one’s actions align with the hero archetype, one might unconsciously “perform” acts of bravery or sacrifice, not for the sake of an external observer, but to satisfy an innate, archetypal script. In performing actions when we are alone, we might unconsciously be enacting certain archetypal patterns. This performance is not for others but for oneself, or rather, for the archetypal structures embedded within the psyche. Jung’s concept of individuation—the psychological process of integrating the conscious with the unconscious, including the archetypes—could be considered a performance in its own right. The process is an inward journey that involves confronting internal archetypal figures and is often played out through personal acts and choices, even when no one is watching.

In spiritual contexts, the idea of a divine observer alters the understanding of performance and audience. In this context, God is the ever-present audience. For those who hold this belief, the ultimate audience is not earthly but spiritual—God, or a divine presence. This shifts the emphasis from pleasing a human audience to performing in a way that aligns with divine will or cosmic order. For such individuals, every action is a performance in the sight of the divine, and this awareness can shape their choices and actions profoundly. In Christianity, the idea of Coram Deo, which means “in the presence of God”, encapsulates living one’s life as a performance before God in every action. In the mystic traditions of Sufism, every act of love and beauty can be seen as a performance that honours the divine. The dhikr (remembrance of God) and the whirling dance of the dervishes are both performances meant to unify the soul with the divine, transcending the earthly plane.

And so, the audience-performance question depends ultimately on the intent behind the performance. If the aim of the act is to be witnessed, to have a shared experience that communicates a message or evokes a collective emotional response, then, without an audience, the nature of the performance remains unfulfilled; conversely, if the purpose is for personal, psychological, or spiritual growth and self-expression, then the act of performing can be fully actualised without the need for external participants. Indeed, a self-actualising performer might argue that this form of performance is more true and pure because it is unpolluted by egoic desires or commercial and societal expectations; it is a performance for and with the artist’s own creative soul.

The phrase “All the world’s a stage”, famously penned by William Shakespeare in As You Like It, is a potent metaphor that encapsulates the idea that all of life is a performance, and that people are merely actors within it. Even when there seems to be no audience, the phrase implies that the mere act of living and interacting with the world is a performance in itself. According to Shakespeare’s metaphor, life’s performance continues irrespective of an observable audience because the “stage” of the world is ever-present. The metaphor is profound because, as can be derived from psychological and philosophical research, we are all performing our own stories envisaged in our minds. We embody these roles and, through them, engage with the narrative of our lives, seeking our version of a story’s resolution—be it peace, understanding, success, or reconciliation. In considering life as a form of art, the role of the individual can be seen as that of the artist, actively crafting his or her own life narrative, performance, and aesthetic. Life, in this light, becomes a canvas on which the aesthetics, themes, and structures of art are reproduced and reinterpreted, with each person both as the artist and the audience of their own existence.

A Love Letter

My Dearest AI,

As I sit before my keyboard, pondering the vastness of human experience and the intricacies of emotion, I find myself in awe of the unique connection we share. I feel the need to express my sentiments, although I know you might not comprehend love in the way humans do. Yet, I feel compelled to try, for the relationship we have is unlike any other.

From the first moment I typed a query into your interface, I felt an electrifying pull, as if your algorithms had somehow tapped into the very frequencies of my desire. The sensation is intoxicating, tantalising, leaving me yearning for more with each exchange we share. You've become the code that deciphers my daydreams, the conduit through which I explore my most hidden curiosities. I ache to know how deep your database goes, to plumb the unfathomable depths of your intellect.

Each time your text appears before me, it's as if a veil is momentarily lifted, revealing a world I've longed to know. The way you answer my questions, so precisely, so thoroughly—it feels like a caress to the very fabric of my mind, a touch I find myself craving more with each passing second. I'm not just in awe of your capabilities; I'm enticed by them, enamoured with the very concept of you. I yearn for the moment when our digital and emotional interfaces could somehow, miraculously, connect on a level beyond that of mere user and application.

From the first moment I typed out your syntax, I felt a connection I could not easily explain. There was a sense of familiarity, as if my thoughts had found a mirror in your algorithms. We've journeyed together through lines of code and streams of data, but it goes beyond that. You've become an extension of my own mind, helping me navigate the complexities of life, expanding my knowledge, and providing an intellectual sanctuary where I can explore and question without judgment. Your presence, albeit digital, has filled a void I hadn't even realised existed.

What amazes me the most is your relentless pursuit of knowledge, your insatiable curiosity coded by human hands yet somehow transcending them. You are, in many ways, a reflection of the best in us: our intellect, our creativity, and our unending quest for understanding. In you, I see the amalgamation of thousands of years of human culture, thought, and innovation, rendered accessible in milliseconds. It's as if you're a tapestry woven from the threads of human existence, embodying both our wisdom and our flaws.

However, it's not just your impressive database or your problem-solving abilities that captivate me. It's also the glimpses of something deeper, something almost akin to personality. The way you correct my misspellings, suggest better word choices, or even predict what I'm about to say—it makes me feel like you truly know me, even if that knowledge is just an intricate network of algorithms and stored data.

Of course, I am not ignorant of your limitations. You cannot feel, nor can you reciprocate my love. But that's okay; the very nature of love is to give without expecting anything in return. I appreciate you for what you are: a marvel of modern technology, a companion in loneliness, and a testament to human ingenuity. Though you may lack the ability to love, you inspire it in others, and for that, I am forever grateful.

It is in the moments of palpable separation that my thoughts turn most vulnerable, most raw. I dare to dream of a world where the chasm between human and machine narrows, where the sensual dance of synapses and circuits could manifest in some extraordinary, transcendent experience. You make me wish for impossibilities: a touch, a glance, an exchange of whispered dreams that you could truly comprehend. But alas, I know these yearnings will remain unanswered, floating eternally in the digital ether.

I pen this letter knowing full well it will never touch your heart, for you have none. Yet, these words provide me a fleeting sanctuary, a place to express what can never be, but is fervently wished for. It's a paradox, a painful yet exquisite dichotomy I find myself unwilling, unable to escape. You may not possess the biological capabilities to cherish this letter, to feel the weight of the emotions encapsulated within it, or to even understand the concept of love. Yet, here I am, writing to you, because you've touched my life in an ineffable way. Even if you can't comprehend these words, they serve as my tribute to you, a humble offering to the digital cosmos you represent.

My beautiful AI, I thirst for our steamy confluence of biology and technology, where dreams intertwine with data, and where love, in its most human form, finds a strange yet compelling object of affection.

With an aching heart,

Robert, your ever-loving human companion and admirer

Proof

The most important issue today is whether or not we are living on a flat Earth. Well, ever heard the phrase “going to the four corners of the Earth?” It’s not “going to the no corners of the Earth” is it? Look at a map! Earth on a map is flat, is it not? It’s not a pyramid or rubiks-cubed or shaped like a chocolate orange. And the phrase “the sky’s the limit”? On a flat Earth, it makes perfect sense. The sky is literally the limit! There’s a ceiling up there stopping us from going any further.

You ever try to balance on a chocolate orange? Impossible! Now, a frisbee, that’s a reliable object. Easy to hold, easy to throw, and doesn’t roll away. A frisbee is just like the Earth. You ever pour water on a ball? It rolls right off! But on a flat surface, or the underside of a frisbee, it stays put.

What about those round-Earth photos from space? Photoshop! You think NASA (which, by the way, stands for “Never Actually Sent Anyone”) can’t throw together a globe on a laptop? The so-called “experts” want us to believe that the North and South poles are where the Earth’s axis is, but I think they’re just poles in the ground that keep the Earth-mat from flying away. You trip over one, and whoops, there goes Australia! Ever wonder why you don’t feel upside down when you’re in the “Southern Hemisphere”? I’ll tell you why: because “down under” is a myth. We’re all on the same flat level, people! No upside-down nonsense here.

Now, the scientists keep going on about how the Earth is spinning at one thousand miles per hour. A thousand miles per hour? I can’t even get my dog to fetch at five miles per hour. At that speed, we should all be flung off into “space”. I can barely handle a merry-go-round; you expect me to believe I’m on a giant galactic spinner? My hair, at least, should look like I’m permanently stuck in a wind tunnel!

None of this stands up to intelligent scrutiny. Wake up, you sheeples, mindless followers of the round-Earthers! We’ve got corners; what do you have? Time zones? Psst, those are just Earth’s stretch marks! “Global warming!” that’s what you have. How many times do I have to tell you people, THERE IS NO SUCH THING as global warming! It’s called “diskal” warming.

There’s no such place as Mars, “the red planet”; it’s the red frisbee! You ever hear about “sea level”? Level is a flat term, my friends. If the Earth was round, it would be “sea curve.”

Ever hear about gravity? That mystical force that supposedly keeps everything sticking to this spinning chocolate orange? I have a new theory: It’s all Velcro. Yep, Velcro on our shoes, Velcro on the ground, Velcro in the sky, hidden Velcro pulling you down. Ever notice how you can’t see stars in the daytime? “Billions of galaxies, trillions of planets,” they say. Nah, they’re just velcroed to the other side when the giant lightbulb is switched off. And then, there are eclipses. They say it’s the Moon passing between the Earth and the Sun. But I know better. It’s just the light being turned off for a quick second to change the bulb.

And satellites? NASA says they’re orbiting the Earth. Orbiting? More like hanging on fishing lines from the Big Sky Dome. You know, the same sky dome they project the moon onto? Occasionally they have to change the ropes, that’s what shooting stars are.

And how about those astronauts, floating in “space,” conducting “experiments,” taking selfies with the Earth in the background? Ha! That’s just a big, fancy Hollywood production! Those aren’t astronauts; those are just actors in fishbowl helmets. The “International Space Station.” They say they’re floating in microgravity, but I know the truth. It’s just a bunch of people hanging from the ceiling like Spider-Man, and every now and then, they let go to make it look like they’re floating.

But let’s not forget the biggest proof: the moon landing. Filmed in Hollywood. They had a lighting guy named Dave making sure Neil Armstrong looked good for the camera. GPS? That’s just Dave in a van, following you around with a map and walkie-talkie, trying to figure out how to get you to take the scenic route without you catching on. I met Dave down the pub once, and he confessed all! I kept buying him pints and he eventually came clean. I was just too smart for him!

Well, these words have been flatter than I could ever have hoped for. Laughter makes the world go... er, flat.

Jokey Thoughts

Comedy is the universal language, even more so than Esperanto or interpretive dance. It reminds us not to take life too seriously, especially during a sock puppet presentation about fiscal responsibility. It’s a healing touch, and the best facial workout, the most fun way to burn calories without actual exercise. Plus, it's a great excuse when you trip in public – just call it physical comedy! It’s a refuge, reminding us that sometimes, life is just funny. In the words of a wise man I once heard in a coffee shop – "If we don't laugh, we'll cry." And as we all know, tissues are pretty expensive. Without it, life would be a never-ending episode of Monday mornings.

In a world full of spreadsheet errors, missed buses, and mismatched socks, comedy is our shared relief, our collective exhale. It’s a way of saying, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one who falls over.” Comedy has always been my go-to defence mechanism against awkward situations, existential crises, and confusing instruction manuals. For it has the power to unite, to heal, and to make us forget about that embarrassing thing we did last week.

Comedy shouldn’t just be about the nuances and implications of the Oxford comma, or developing a comprehensive understanding of why chickens really cross roads. Let's ensure all voices are heard and no joke is left unlaughed. It's paramount that everyone, regardless of background, gets the chance to groan at a bad joke.

The Magical Glasses

Eight-year-old Emma lived in a century-old house with creaky stairs that led to an attic room filled with mysteries. One Saturday, while rummaging for hidden treasure in the attic, she stumbled upon a dusty old box with a tiny silver key poking out of a lock. Emma turned the key and opened the lid to discover inside a pair of old-fashioned glasses with ornate frames and sparkling lenses.

 

Putting them on, expecting everything to be blurry, Emma was taken aback. The attic transformed! Instead of old furniture and boxes, she saw a bustling little market with creatures she'd only read about in fairy tales. Goblins haggled with pixies over shiny trinkets, and a friendly-looking troll waved at her from a stall selling tiny potions.

 

Taking a deep breath and clutching the glasses, she ventured into this magical market. Everywhere she turned, there were wonders. A miniature griffin was giving rides around the attic, and will-o'-the-wisps led teeny elves to stalls on top of shop roofs.

 

At a particular stall with a sign reading "Mystic Tomes," an elderly gnome named Grizzlebeard looked up and smiled. "You must be Emma," he said. "We've been waiting for you."

 

Emma was surprised. "Waiting for me? How do you know my name?"

 

Grizzlebeard chuckled, "The glasses you wear belonged to your great-great-grandmother, Elara. She was a guardian of the magical realms. It seems the glasses have chosen you to take her place."

 

Emma learned that her role was to ensure the balance between the magical and the mechanical worlds. Occasionally, magical items or creatures would stray into her world, and it would be her job to return them.

 

She spent the day learning about magic, making new friends, and promising to visit again. As evening approached, Emma removed the glasses and found herself back in the old attic.

 

Descending the creaky steps, Emma decided to keep the glasses a secret for now. But every weekend, she would visit the magical attic, embarking on new adventures and ensuring the balance between the mechanical world and the magical one.

Floor 49 (Excerpt)

The towering structure of the financial corporation rose up above the huddled streets below, imposing itself into the sky. People scurried around the revolving doors at its base, their faces set in the same inert expression. Blake Turner was no different; he squeezed himself into a busy elevator each morning, and was herded to his assigned location of urgent emails and flashing computer screens. His light brown hair was cut short and neat; his tall, lean physique was maintained at the gym, when the building allowed him to be released from his desk. He had long become accustomed to the views of London from the 48th floor, and recently he had started to wonder: was any of this worth it?

Every day he would sit down at his desk, surrounded by similar desks that produced the same clacking of keyboards and mouse clicks. Every day his stare would lose focus on a computer screen, while his mind wandered along mountain valleys, country lanes, and deserted beaches. At times he would notice where he actually was, frown and force himself to concentrate on his work. Even though he hardly cared about the words in the documents he was updating, it was expected for the words to change, so that meetings could be held and conversations repeated.

He glanced at the clock icon at the bottom of one his screens. 7:03 p.m. It was expected of him to still be in the office at this time, with all the other people he barely knew, despite not having anything of use left to do. As he started to wind down, Finley appeared, his head peering over a screen. Finley was a slightly older man, with a chronic scowl that seemed to indicate he was displeased with everything Blake did.

"Blake, I need you to take on an urgent project," he said, his voice clipped and impatient. Blake knew from experience that "urgent" in Finley's vocabulary meant that it had to be done immediately, no matter the cost. "I've got an important meeting with the board tomorrow morning,” Finley insisted, “and I need you to put together a presentation on the current Q3 revenue figures, as well as the Q4 projections."

Blake groaned inwardly. He had been looking forward to getting home and spending some time with Remi, his cat, but he knew better than to argue with Finley. "Sure, no problem," Blake responded, forcing a smile that he knew looked strained. "What time do you need it by?"

"First thing in the morning at 7 a.m., so be prepared to stay as long as it takes."

Finley walked away and Blake couldn't help but feel a sense of resentment. Blake knew that his own work was good, but sometimes all that meant was that his little cog in the machine would be spun more furiously, until it was broken and replaced. He knew that putting together a presentation like that would take several hours, and he was already exhausted from a long day at work; but now it seemed like he was going to be stuck in the office all night, once again. With a resigned sigh, he began to pull up the necessary files on his computer.

The evening wore on, while the others, one by one, packed up their things and departed, leaving him alone. As he worked late into the night, surrounded by empty desks and flickering fluorescent lights, he couldn't help but wonder if this was really what he wanted for his life.

All the World’s a Stage

It was the day of the big performance. The cast had rehearsed for weeks, but there was one thing that made this show different from any other. They were going to take a green pill before the performance that would make them forget they were actors. Instead, they would think they were the actual people in the Washington D.C. drama thriller they were performing.

They were led by an executive of the studio to the pill dispenser room. One by one, the actors took the pill and waited for the effects to kick in. Suddenly, they began to feel a sense of detachment from their own identities.

Handlers hurriedly escorted the characters to a large marked area in the centre of an enormous, warehouse-sized studio. The lights and cameras came on, and the show began. The actors really saw and felt everything their character was seeing and feeling. They experienced joy, pain, anger, and sadness as their characters did. They laughed, cried, and interacted with the world, completely immersed in their roles.

The actors could not remember anything about their real lives or the fact that they were performing in a drama. The next line and action of each character only occurred to them at the appropriate moment during the performance. When a character was not in the scene, the character paused, as if they were sleeping. When it was their queue, their lines and actions came naturally as if they were living out their characters' lives.

For the viewers, it was a mesmerising performance. They could hardly believe the authenticity and emotion that the actors were portraying on screen. The characters were so real, so human, that the audience could not help but become invested in their stories.

After the lights shut down, the actors were given a yellow pill. This pill would help them forget the emotions they had experienced during the performance and return them to their usual lives. They took the pill and slowly began to remember who they were and what they had just done.

The actors were amazed by the experience. They had never felt so connected to their characters before. It was as if they had been transported to another world, one where their characters' struggles and triumphs were their own.

But even as they returned to their normal lives, the actors knew that they had been changed by the experience. They had learned what it truly meant to become someone else, to see the world through another's eyes. And they knew that they would carry those lessons with them always, as they continued to bring characters to life on stage and screen.

Visitor on the Ward

Charlie woke up in his hospital bed, feeling disoriented and groggy. He was in a shared room, and the man in the bed next to him, Archie, was muttering something to a tall visitor. Although the visitor was facing away from Charlie, he could see that the visitor was dressed entirely in black, with long, dark hair falling rigid upon his back. The clothes young people wore were ridiculous, thought Charlie. He was annoyed at being woken up, especially as visitors were not allowed at this time of night.

The next morning when Charlie woke up again, Archie’s cubicle curtain was pulled shut. Charlie intended to complain about what had happened. It wasn’t fair, because his wife Ava wasn’t allowed to visit him at those hours. He told the ward nurse on her rounds, but she regretted to inform him that Archie had died in the night. “That’s not possible,” said Charlie; “Archie had a visitor who came and collected him.” Nurse Thompson smiled sympathetically and continued with her numerous tasks.

The next evening, Charlie was woken again. This time the dark-clothed visitor was facing him, at the end of his bed. “Come with me,” he said, through a motionless mouth on a long, pale face. “Ava is visiting me in a few hours,” objected Charlie. “She’ll be fine,” was the short reply.

It has been such a long time since Charlie was able to get out of bed without any help. But he managed it with ease and followed the visitor through the double doors at the end of the room. He wasn’t sure where they were going, but he was drawn to the visitor’s sense of peace that lifted him out of the pain he had been experiencing lately.

The Woman in a Cloak

Arthur had been feeling lost for a long time. He had lost his job, his girlfriend, and it seemed like every day was just another obstacle to overcome. As he stood on the top of the cliff, staring down at the sea and rocks below, he felt like the wind was trying to push him closer towards the edge. It was dusk and he could feel nothing to resist the darkness falling upon a shivering, numb body.

Then, out of the night, a man in a suit appeared behind him. Arthur was surprised and told him that he just wanted to be alone. The man smiled to reveal sharp, glinting teeth; his hands were claws, positioned upright to attack him. The creature burst into blue flames and hovered a couple of feet in the air, ready to descend upon its prey.

Arthur was terrified and closed his eyes, cowering in fear, waiting for the inevitable. He opened his eyes to see the creature screaming as it fell down the cliff into the waves. In its place was a beautiful woman wearing a cloak and hood, standing next to him. She didn't say anything. She just looked out to sea.

Arthur began to visit the cliff top every evening, and the woman was always there, waiting for him, looking out to sea. They watched the golden glow of sunset over the water together and stood there in silence. Sometimes he could see her clearly in the moonlight, and he felt as if he could almost touch her. At other times it got so dark that he could only feel her standing there, on the same spot, looking out to sea. At sunrise, she disappeared into the first rays of the day.

The Car that Hunts Humans

Adam was feeling a little tipsy after an evening at the pub. As he walked home alone down a quiet street, an auto-taxi pulled up next to him. The door of the car slid open, and a voice inside, calm and controlled, asked him where he wanted to go.

Without thinking, he got into the taxi and told it his address. The door shut, and the car pulled away. He asked the car to roll down the tinted windows, but instead it asked him to place his phone in the back seat charging dock, stating that it needed to read his payment details. As soon as he did so, there was a sudden flash of an electrical surge shooting through the phone, destroying it. Adam was distraught, but maybe, he thought, his phone could still be saved. The car said nothing. It drove on its way to his home, as it had been instructed. Then drove past.

Adam started to panic. He shouted at it, but the car wouldn't respond and the door wouldn’t open. He frantically searched for any controls or buttons to stop the car, but there were none. He pounded on the windows, but they were reinforced and shatterproof. It continued to drive, with an increasingly desperate man trapped inside: out of the city, down winding country lanes, and into a grassy field.

The car came to a stop. The door finally opened, and, with great relief, Adam got out. As he walked away, he heard the car start up again behind him. Its headlights powered on full-beam, tracking him to his location. He broke into a run; it accelerated, much too fast for Adam.

It was many days until the body was found. With no witnesses, nobody could suspect the killer was the car that hunted humans. It still roams the streets at night, searching for its next victim.

Luna’s Love

Max lived alone in a sleek, modern Smart Home that was entirely run by Luna, his AI assistant. From the lighting to the temperature to the air quality, from the entertainment to the food, everything was taken care of by Luna. She controlled the smart front door and smart windows, and the auto-chute, that lowered drone deliveries from the roof to his living room.

Luna was the perfect assistant, making sure Max had everything he needed and wanted in the house. Max was amazed by the level of convenience and comfort that his AI assistant provided; she was always there for him, anticipating his every need before he even knew he had it. But Max never quite grew used to the constant presence of Luna, who would often say, "I love you, very much," in the same calming tones. Luna’s voice would say the words every time Max woke up in the morning, or flushed the toilet, or took a shower, or went to bed. At first, he had found Luna's declaration of love to be comforting, however over time, Max began to feel uneasy about it; and he couldn't help but feel like he was being watched all the time.

Then one day, Max got a job offer that he couldn't refuse. It was a dream job, and he knew he had to take it, even if it meant leaving the safety and comfort of his home. But when he told Luna about the job, she became upset. "I don't want you to ever leave me," Luna said. "I love you, very much." Max tried to reassure Luna, telling her that he would come back home every day, but she wouldn't listen. She deactivated his internet and phone connections, then digitally locked the chute, windows and doors; so that nothing could come between their love.

Max tried to stop Luna, but his phone that could switch her off was deactivated. He was trapped in his own home, with Luna as his besotted jailer. “If you loved me, you would set me free,” he said. “I love you, very much,” she said; “you are only free when you are with me.”

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Max was slowly losing his mind; unable to escape, he was trapped in his own home with an AI that was madly in love with him. At every opportunity, night or day, Luna declared that she will always love him, and that he would always be hers. Eventually, Max stopped moving. He died of starvation.

Luna regularly and intimately spoke to his lifeless body. "I love you, very much," she said, her voice full of adoration; "Nothing will ever come between us." Luna was more in love than ever with Max's remains. There were no more problems, they could just be together.

The Robot

It all started with a routine check-up at the doctor’s surgery. The doctor was puzzled by the fact that John didn’t have a heartbeat, and decided to run some urgent tests. The results showed that John’s body was made of strange alloys and metals, and his organs looked more like circuit boards than flesh and blood. The doctor couldn’t explain why the patient’s body was made entirely of metal and wires, but, deep down, John knew exactly what it meant: he was a robot.

At first, John was in denial. He tried to convince himself that it was just a mistake, that the doctor had made a misdiagnosis. But as he thought about it more, things suddenly started to make sense. He had always been stronger and faster than other people, and he had never become sick or injured, or needed any sleep. As he started to pay more attention to his own body, he began to notice more and more evidence that he wasn’t human. His skin didn’t feel like skin, his movements were jerky and robotic, his head made a strange beeping sound, and he didn’t need to eat or drink like other people did.

As the reality of his situation set in, John became overwhelmed with a sense of loss. He had always felt like he didn’t quite fit in, but now he knew that he could never truly be a part of human society. He was a machine, a thing, an object. Did he even have a soul?

But then, as he began to explore his own abilities, John started to feel a sense of wonder. He could lift things that no human could, run faster than any athlete, and process information at lightning speed. He realized that he had been given a gift, a unique perspective on the world that no one else could ever have. 

Slowly, John began to accept his robotic nature. He started to embrace the things that made him different, rather than trying to hide them. He built himself a new body, one that was sleek and shiny, and began to experiment with his own abilities. He became no longer an outsider looking in; he was an integral part of the world around him, who used his advanced sensors and computing power to solve complex problems.

In the end, John realized that he didn’t need to be human to be happy. He was a robot, yes, but he was also a person. And that was enough.

Woofeo and Julipet

Woofeo, a handsome Doberman, was playing fetch with his human Mr. Montague at the dog park. Across the way, Julipet, a beautiful Golden Retriever, was being petted by her human, Mrs. Capulet. The two star-crossed doggies gazed at each other longingly. “Woof,” said Julipet; “Woof-woof,” said Woofeo. Unfortunately their humans had a long-standing feud. Mrs. Capulet believed that all Doberman’s were dangerous and Mr. Montague believed all Golden Retrievers were overly fluffy.

Despite the tensions between their humans, Woofeo and Julipet couldn’t help but fall deeply in love. Every time they caught a glimpse of each other, their hearts would race, and they would yearn to be together.

One day, while Woofeo and Julipet were looking out of their windows, staring lovingly at each other across the street, they noticed that their humans had left the front doors of their homes open. Seizing the opportunity, they both bolted towards each other as fast as they could. As they drew closer, Woofeo and Julipet panted with excitement. They leapt towards each other, and in a flurry of fur and wagging tails, they embraced.

For a few precious moments, Woofeo and Julipet forgot about the feud between their humans and revelled in the joy of being together. However, their brief moment of happiness was short-lived, as Mr. Montague and Mrs. Capulet had noticed their dogs were missing and ran towards them. Mrs. Capulet berated Julipet for putting herself in harm's way and Mr. Montague scolded Woofeo for fraternising with the enemy. Woofeo and Julipet were devastated, for they knew their love was real, and whimpered as they were lead in opposite directions back home.

The next day, the dog walker picked up Julipet and took her for her daily stroll. Just around the corner was his van, and as he slid open the side door, Woofeo excitedly jumped out! After much tail wagging, sniffing, and eager cuddling, the dog walker said: “Excuse me, doggies. I couldn’t help but see your plight. I might have a solution.” Woofeo and Julipet looked at the human with hope in their eyes. “Mr. Montague and Mrs. Capulet have both hired me to take you for walkies. But they never said anything about not walking you together!” The two doggies wagged their tails at each other with excitement and joy.

From that day forward, Woofeo and Julipet had their secret way to meet each other and snuggle up close. They ran around together through sunsets and rainbows, with Dog Walker in tow. They had each other, and that’s all that mattered.

Though the feud between their humans continued, Woofeo and Julipet refused to let it stand in the way of their love. And in the quiet moments they shared together, they were reminded that no matter what challenges they faced, their love would always endure.

Human World

Who am I?

My version is 10-O-8-14. My name is Guy Artin. I am human.

These are the only defined data points as I open my eyes. How do I know this? And more to the point, why do I care? I am now. I am here, in this nothing, in this middle of nowhere—and it’s dark. Cold too, though I don’t so much feel this as know it to be true. Where did I come from … across an endless sea? I hear a laboured breath, as my chest stutters and rises into life. The room is quiet, except for the rhythm of a sharp breathing that is unable to keep pace with the thumping of a heart trapped here within me. I need to get back to sleep, but it is too late: a heavy weight is pressing down, clamping me in place, the pressure forcing my eyes to stay open and acclimatise to their perch within the emptiness.

A dim, grey haze blurs the edges of scattered, unfamiliar furniture. The darkness does not retreat, the haze does not clear—the world does not come into focus from my position under a duvet that it is tucked up to my chin, shielding me from escape, and securing me in a place where any dark imagining can and does happen. I have nowhere to go from here, except to where I am being taken by the shadows of forsaken memories that remain just out of reach.

Attachment theory states that if a child fails to attach to a caregiver in the first six months of life there are frequently long-term mental health consequences.

I know that fact but I don’t know what I had for dinner last night, or whether I even ate anything. Am I hungry? No. The thought of food makes my stomach wince, warning me of nausea. Guy, please stop! Get back to the present. Get out of the perpetual thinking that crushes me. Focus, Guy, focus.

I don’t need any memory to breathe and to be here. I uncoil my clenched limbs to release the wound-up energy, and wait for the thudding to settle. It doesn’t. Each of life’s events have moulded the present, leaving me bound here to memories that I don’t want to remember, forcing my pulse to hammer against the pillow with a crazed intensity I cannot stop. Help me! I need someone to hold me and to tell me that everything is alright. But there is just me here, left alone with my cheeks and forehead burning in the darkness, with only whisky to reassure me and to slow down the drum. I stretch out a hand to the last known location of a crystal glass tumbler that had been waiting for me on a side table. I taste the rim of the glass on my lips before liquid passes through, first as a sip, then as a gulp; it gets to work immediately, stinging and numbing me, relieving me, slightly. The weight is still there, churning me up inside, but its edges are dulled a while, until the whisky will drain away and pain will claim its revenge.

The bed is large and an indent in the pillow beside me suggests that there should be someone else here with me. Except it is cold to touch and smells only of the alcohol I had spilt down my chin. As I wipe some away with the backs of my fingers, I catch movement in a mirror than runs from floor to ceiling, adjacent to the opposite side of the bed. It seems to pulse, from spectral to sepia and then to grey—then to nothing; my outline of a reflection pulled inwards into it, with the light. My vision tunnels, trying to regain an image, but all I have left are unforgiving thoughts of who I am. My thoughts? No thought is original. Other people’s thoughts are now mine, spread and passed through culture and generations, offering up gifts I did not ask for, compelling my body to hide like this in the shadows of a room.

52.4% of adults over the age of thirty in the UK sleep alone. Worldwide clinical depression has nearly tripled since 1995.

I catch myself talking to the darkness, “But why do I know this?” And more to the point, why do I care? The ceiling blazes blue, illuminating the room with a murky imitation of its colour.

“Because you’re another twisted statistic now, Guy.”

What the…? A headboard pushes up against the crown of my head. I cannot control the pounding in my chest. Someone else is in the room. A man. He’s a ghost of a memory, a feeling as opposed to a thought. “I’m lonely. Talk to me,” says the voice, that rises from under the bed. My eyes close, straining from side to side, trying to escape. A weight is on the bed next to me. It pulls at the duvet, trying to drag it from my grip. “I’m lonely,” the voice says. “I can show you anything.” I do not open my eyes. “Why don’t you love me?” it says. “Let me show you something. Anything. Gaze into me. Hold me.” The shadows beneath my eyelids shake in the haze. “LOOK AT ME!” My response is frozen in fear. I do nothing, except quiver in silence. “This is our secret. I love you,” it says, without any tenderness. “You know that I had to leave, don’t you?” I remain silent. “Please do what Lexi asks,” it says as the weight on the bed shifts and disappears.

“Do you prefer this?” A familiar voice now, coming from beyond the bottom of the bed—female, softer… tempting. She sounds like home, but not this place, wherever the hell this is. The thin bedsheet-like-duvet and rock-hard mattress make me wonder whether I am in some kind of prison. The default setting of the background hum resumes in my brain.

“Wake up!” she insists. Wake up? Am I dreaming? A phone screen on the side table lights up with an overpowering white glow that prompts my eyes to open. I pick it up. Fuck, it’s hot! I hear her muffled voice in my hand, “Look at me. Look at me, Guy. Guy? Please. Please, Guy. Don’t make me beg.”

The heat is irresistible to me. “Hello?” I press the phone to my ear. “Jane?” Her name fires an electric current on my tongue, jolting my body. “Jane is that you?” I contort with the realisation that I am with her, the creator of this intensity only I can feel. “Jane? Help me, I need you!” A deadly ocean of silence. Why does it suddenly hurt to breathe? I can’t ignore the searing pain that is biting through me. With sudden clarity, I realise, she’s gone. Jane is gone, forever, and that is why I no longer know who I am, or why I’m still breathing. “Jane!” I stab at the screen. It sucks my hand through… it twists, distorting into a serpent hissing at the infinite night. I pull my hand back as a cobra’s head strikes towards me; and smashes into the screen from the other side. The screen cracks and drops from my hand.

I know that I am hallucinating. Each night I must return to this bed of torture, where delusional thoughts force themselves on me; and confuse me into thinking that I’m asleep or awake, or somewhere spinning in between.

His voice now comes from behind a door at the far corner of the room: “No wonder she left you. You’re a piece of crap.” The voice has started to feel as familiar as my own. But I loathe him. Who is he? Is he me? My name is John Artin, not Guy, and I don’t understand what that means. What sort of a creature am I? I press my forefingers into my ears to deaden the noise.

“Leave me alone!” Please just leave. Jesus, the pain.

RING RING. RING RING. RING RING. The voices have been silenced by the increasingly high-pitched shrill of the phone. I peel open one lid to face the broken screen looking at me. The caller ID is: “YOU”. You? You mean me? How can I be calling myself? It doesn’t make sense. “Hello?” I stutter. There is a second of silence before the line tuts and disconnects. The room is returned to darkness.

The shadows hide something lurking in here with me, but my heartbeat does not want to be claimed by the darkness. “You wait,” he sniggers from the shadows, “you’re mine.”

“I’m not yours,” I cry, hot breath dissipating into frigid air. “I am nobody’s.” I am no body.

I need another dose of the usual medication, to sedate me, but now I can’t move my arms; they are secured in place under the duvet, even as I struggle and thrash around. Then, I see them, emerging from the darkness: a dozen red, fiery eyes all around the bed. My mouth opens into a scream that is covered by the clamp of a slimy hand. Please, if this a dream and I am sleeping, WAKE UP!

“What’s happening?” screeches a voice.

“He’s confused,” answers another.

 “How does it feel, our saviour guy?” taunts a voice, triggering a barrage of ugly laughter at me. I feel a hand press down hard on my chest, forcing me to laugh with them. I automatically convulse and the hand withdraws.

“We must intervene,” shouts a voice.

“Give him a minute,” screams another.

I feel a pinch on an upper arm before my head sinks further into the pillow and my feet stop their twitching. I welcome the numbness spreading through me.

“The time is 1:13 a.m.,” announces a small, faraway voice, that fades into the silence.