Unspoken

The café was small and unassuming, tucked away in a side street neither of them had reason to visit before. Yet, over the past six months, it had become a refuge, a meeting place without an appointment, for two strangers who were anything but.

She always arrived first, choosing the same table by the window, her coat draped neatly over the back of the chair. She brought a book, though she never read more than a page or two before he walked in. He’d spot her at once, smile briefly, and order his coffee. He never asked to join her table, but he always chose the one beside it, angled just so that they could speak with ease if they wished.

They never used their real names. She was “Eleanor” here, and he was “Daniel,” though they’d only exchanged those names after several cautious conversations about neutral subjects—books, the weather, the quality of the café’s croissants.

Eleanor knew who Daniel really was. The set of his shoulders, the faint scar near his temple, and the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose when thinking—all of it was etched into her memory from a time long before this. And Daniel knew her, too, though he pretended not to. He’d recognised her laugh the very first time he’d heard it here, a laugh he hadn’t heard in years but couldn’t possibly forget.

They spoke often, weaving stories about their imaginary lives. Eleanor claimed to work in publishing; Daniel was a freelance journalist. She invented colleagues and deadlines; he concocted anecdotes about assignments abroad. It became their shared fiction, each seeing how far they could stretch the façade. Neither of them acknowledged the truth, that they had once shared more memories than either cared to admit.

Perhaps they were afraid of what would follow the revelation. In this café, in these brief, stolen conversations, they could be different versions of themselves—polite, curious, untouched by the pain that had once consumed them. They both knew neither of them spoke the truth.

One rainy afternoon, Eleanor looked at him a little too long. Daniel noticed but said nothing. Instead, he sipped his coffee and asked her a question about the book she wasn’t reading.

The Last Train

Ellie checked her phone for the tenth time on the empty platform. 23:57. The last train was supposed to arrive three minutes ago, but the digital board now flashed in bold red: CANCELLED.

She let out a frustrated sigh and sank onto a bench. Rain dripped from the edges of the station’s canopy, catching the dim glow of yellow, fluorescent lights.

“Missed it too?”

The voice startled her. She glanced up to see a man, mid-thirties perhaps, standing a few feet away. He had an umbrella tucked under one arm, water dripping from the ends of his dark hair. His suit jacket looked expensive but thoroughly soaked.

“Looks like it,” Ellie replied, trying to sound polite but distant. He didn’t seem to notice her tone.

“Brilliant, isn’t it? Last train, and it’s just… gone.” He gestured dramatically at the empty tracks. “Like it never existed.”

Ellie gave him a thin smile, hoping it would dissuade further conversation. But instead, he dropped onto the other end of the bench.

“Name’s Blake,” he offered.

“Hi,” she responded, reluctantly.

She knew she should get up and call a taxi. But, for a moment, they sat in silence, listening to the rhythmic patter of rain. Then Blake leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“So, what’s your excuse for being here this late? Let me guess—workaholic? Or maybe you’re running from a torrid love affair?” His grin was disarming, playful without being intrusive.

Ellie snorted despite herself. “Nothing so dramatic. Just bad luck, mostly.”

“Bad luck? That’s vague.”

She shrugged. “Missed the earlier train because I was stuck helping a customer. Retail life, you know?”

Blake nodded knowingly, though his tailored suit suggested he probably didn’t. “Ah, the noble life of serving the public. I salute you.”

“What about you?” Ellie asked, turning the question back on him. “What’s your excuse?”

Blake’s grin faltered slightly, and for a moment, he looked as though he were searching for an answer. “Work meeting ran late,” he said finally. “Caught in traffic, then—well, here I am. Story of my life, really. Always a step behind.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “You sound oddly resigned to it.”

He chuckled. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just tired of fighting against fate.”

They fell quiet again, the awkwardness replaced by a curious sense of ease. Ellie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. There was something strange about Blake, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. His presence felt… familiar, as if she’d met him before in some dream she couldn’t recall.

“You know,” Blake said suddenly, “there’s something almost poetic about this. Two strangers, stranded together in the middle of the night. Feels like the start of one of those rom-coms, doesn’t it?”

Ellie laughed. “If this were a rom-com, the train would magically appear, and we’d both realise it was fate.”

“Exactly!” Blake agreed, his enthusiasm infectious. “Then there’d be some dramatic twist—like, you’d be moving to Paris tomorrow, and this would be our last chance to confess our undying love.”

“Undying love?” Ellie teased. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“Not if it’s fate,” he said with mock seriousness. “Fate loves a bit of drama.”

Ellie was about to retort when her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen: a notification from her calendar. Mum’s anniversary – 9:00am. Her chest tightened.

“You okay?” Blake asked, his voice softer now.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just… tomorrow’s a hard day.”

Blake studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Want to talk about it?”

Ellie shook her head. “Not really.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “But, for what it’s worth, sometimes the hardest days turn out to be the most important.”

She frowned at him, puzzled by the weight of his words. Before she could respond, the faint rumble of an engine echoed in the distance. A train’s headlights pierced through the rain as it pulled into the station.

Blake stood, brushing water droplets from his trousers. “Looks like our miracle train’s here.”

Ellie rose too, suddenly reluctant to let the moment end. “Where are you headed?”

Blake smiled faintly. “This is where we part ways, I’m afraid.”

The train doors slid open with a hiss, and Blake stepped back. She paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder.

“Hey, Blake?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For the company, I mean.”

He nodded. “Take care, Ellie.”

She stepped inside, the doors closing behind her. As the train pulled away, Ellie turned to look out the window. But the platform was empty. Blake was gone.

It wasn’t until much later, as she lay in bed replaying the night in her mind, that she realised something strange: she’d never told him her name.

Clause and Effect

Setting: A dusty attic. A Lawyer in a suit wipes off an ancient lamp and jumps back as a Genie emerges in a cloud of smoke, dressed in traditional genie garb but looking slightly weary.

Genie: (booming voice) Behold! I am the great and powerful Genie of the Lamp! You have awakened me, mortal, and I shall grant you three wishes!

Lawyer: (pulling out a notepad and pen) Three wishes, you say? Excellent. But before we proceed, I just have a few clarifying questions.

Genie: (blinking) Uh… sure. But let’s not overcomplicate this. Just say what you want, and poof—done.

Lawyer: (scribbling notes) Mmm, tempting. But I’ve seen too many “wish gone wrong” situations in popular culture. Can’t risk it. Now, let’s discuss the terms. (flips open a briefcase, pulls out a contract template)

Genie: (groaning) Oh no. Not one of these.

Lawyer: (ignoring him) Right. First question: What exactly constitutes a “wish”? Is it a verbal statement of desire, or do I need to phrase it in a specific way?

Genie: (scratching his head) Uh, I dunno. You just say it, and I grant it.

Lawyer: (narrowing eyes) Hmm. Ambiguous. Let’s define “wish” for the record. (starts typing on a laptop) “Wish (n): A verbalised request for a specific outcome, stated in clear and unambiguous terms, as recognised by the Genie…”

Genie: (interrupting) Look, mate, I’ve been doing this for centuries, and no one’s needed a contract. Can we just get to the magic part?

Lawyer: (pointing a pen at the Genie) And that’s precisely why you need one. What if I ask for a million pounds, and you deliver it in counterfeit bills? Or I wish for a dream house, and it’s haunted? No loopholes, Genie. Not on my watch.

(The Lawyer lays out a growing pile of papers on the table, complete with flowcharts and a checklist. The Genie looks increasingly exasperated.)

Lawyer: (writing) Clause 1: No malicious compliance. Clause 2: Wishes cannot harm the wisher physically, emotionally, or financially. Clause 3: No ironic twists. I don’t want to wish for “eternal life” and end up as a tree.

Genie: You humans are so distrusting. I’m not here to trick you!

Lawyer: (without looking up) Statistically, 87% of genie-related anecdotes suggest otherwise.

Genie: Stupid Reddit threads… Look, if it helps, I’m not that kind of genie. I’m not here to monkey-paw your wishes. I’m more of a “give you what you want, no questions asked” type.

Lawyer: (smirking) No questions asked? Perfect. Addendum C: If the Genie delivers a wish that violates any clause of the contract, the wisher is entitled to reparations, monetary or otherwise, at the discretion of—

Genie: (snapping) OKAY! That’s it. Just make a wish! Any wish! I’ll do it! I promise not to twist it!

Lawyer: (holding up the contract) Not until you sign.

(The Genie sighs and reluctantly signs the contract. The Lawyer smiles triumphantly.)

Lawyer: Excellent. Now, for my first wish: I want one trillion pounds deposited into my bank account.

Genie: (snapping his fingers) Done!

(An alert appears on the Lawyer’s phone saying: “You have received £1,000,000,000,000 from A. Genie)

Genie: (crossing arms) Told you I’m legit. Can we move on now?

Lawyer: Not so fast. (points to the contract) Sub-clause 2.3 requires documentation on the money’s source. I don’t want MI6 knocking on my door because it was “borrowed” from the Bank of England.

Genie: (snapping fingers again) Fine! Here’s a receipt!

(A golden scroll appears in midair. The Lawyer grabs it and examines it closely.)

Lawyer: Hmm. “Source: Magical Treasury.” Acceptable. For my second wish, I want to be the smartest person in the world.

Genie: (nodding) Easy. (snaps fingers) Done.

Lawyer: (pauses, then narrows his eyes) Wait. Did you just shrink everyone else’s IQ to make me look better?

Genie: Oh, for crying out loud! You’re still you, but now you know the cure for cancer, the secret to world peace, and how to win at Monopoly every time. Happy?

Lawyer: (grinning) Very. But if I find out this intelligence is temporary or conditional—

Genie: (cutting him off) It’s permanent! Next wish!

Lawyer: For my third wish…

(He pauses dramatically, flipping through the contract.)

Genie: (groaning) Just say it!

Lawyer: (grinning) I wish for infinite wishes.

Genie: (laughing) Ah, the classic rookie move! You can’t wish for more wishes.

Lawyer: (smirking) Actually, according to Section 5, Subsection A of this contract, there’s no explicit prohibition on that. Unless, of course, you’d like to renegotiate the terms?

Genie: (grabbing the contract and flipping through it) You… sneaky little—Fine! You win. Infinite wishes. Happy now?

Lawyer: (grinning) Ecstatic. But let’s amend the contract for clarity. I’ll need—

Genie: (snapping fingers, disappearing back into the lamp) Nope. You can wish as much as like but I’m out. This is all now just a day-dream! Have fun with your infinite wishes. Byeeeeee!

(The Lawyer stares at the lamp, stunned.)

Lawyer: (to himself) Well, guess I’ll start drafting my terms for when I rub it again.

(He walks off, with a stack of contracts in hand.)

Poets’ Corner After Dark

Setting: Westminster Abbey’s South Transept at midnight. The moonlight filters through stained glass windows. The statues and busts of Poets’ Corner begin to stir, their voices echoing through the hallowed halls.

(A loud creak. Geoffrey Chaucer, a bronze statue, stretches and yawns, his metal joints groaning.)

Chaucer: By the great quill of destiny, what hour be this? Midnight? Time flies when one is petrified.

(Nearby, William Shakespeare, carved in marble, rubs his forehead dramatically.)

Shakespeare: To wake or not to wake—alas, the question answers itself! I feel a cramp in my heroic couplets.

(Charles Dickens, his bust high on a pedestal, speaks with a grumble.)

Dickens: If anyone thinks I’ll write another serial after this, they’re gravely mistaken. I’ve spent decades staring at pigeons. It’s intolerable!

(Jane Austen’s stone figure comes to life.)

Austen: And yet, men will complain, even when dead. Can we focus? Why are we waking up tonight?

Chaucer: Methinks the moon shines brighter on this eve. ’Tis a summons from the Muses! Or possibly the Abbey Wi-Fi acting up again.

(Lord Byron saunters in dramatically, wearing his perpetual stone smirk.)

Byron: (mockingly) Ah, the gang’s all here. Chaucer, the dusty relic; Shakespeare, the eternal show-off; and Dickens, the poster boy for misery. Truly, a cavalcade of brilliance.

Dickens: Oh, look, it’s Byron, the original influencer. What’s the matter? No one liked your latest tragic sonnet?

Byron: I don’t need “likes,” Charles. My despair is timeless. Unlike your serialised sob stories.

(John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley drift in, looking lost.)

Keats: (nervously) Um, hello. Is this… the afterlife’s book club?

Shelley: Keats, I told you, stop asking. Byron’s not in charge—he just acts like it.

(Jane Austen steps forward, brushing dust off her stone gown.)

Austen: We’re supposed to be inspiring the living, not squabbling like characters in a poorly written farce.

Shakespeare: (indignant) Poorly written? Madam, I invented farce! And tragedy, for that matter.

Austen: Yes, we’ve noticed. We all have to hear about it nightly.

(A faint humming noise grows. The Abbey’s speakers accidentally start playing a modern audiobook. The poets recoil in horror as an AI voice reads a romance novel.)

Audiobook Narrator: “He gazed into her eyes, his chiselled jaw trembling with passion…”

(Byron claps his hands over his ears.)

Byron: What fresh hell is this?

Austen: Modern romance. Quite popular, actually.

Shakespeare: Chiselled jaws? Trembling passion? I’d sooner see my plays rewritten as musicals!

(Chaucer waves his arms to get attention.)

Chaucer: Quiet, all! Methinks we must intervene. The living have clearly lost their literary way.

Dickens: Yes! Let us haunt the publishers until they restore proper storytelling. No more sparkling vampires or billionaire love triangles!

Austen: Or, we could just give them… guidance. Perhaps they’re not all lost causes.

Byron: (smirking) Speak for yourself. I’d rather haunt Instagram.

(As the poets argue, a security guard enters, holding a torch. The beam of light freezes everyone mid-motion. For a moment, they look like statues again. The guard scratches his head.)

Guard: (muttering) Blimey, I need to cut back on the night shifts. Thought I saw Shakespeare wink at me.

(The guard leaves, muttering about getting coffee. As soon as the door shuts, the poets burst into laughter.)

Shakespeare: Winking? A tragedy I didn’t invent earlier!

Austen: Let’s focus. If we’re going to inspire, we need to reach the world. But how?

(A moment of silence. Then Chaucer speaks up, grinning.)

Chaucer: TikTok?

(The others groan in unison.)

(The poets work together, scribbling with imaginary quills and creating ethereal manuscripts that float in the air. Byron spends most of his time striking poses.)

Austen: (reading) “We, the spirits of Poets’ Corner, call upon you, dear writers, to elevate your craft! Write with wit, depth, and meaning!”

Dickens: And no clichés! If I see one more “chosen one” narrative, I shall weep.

Shelley: (excitedly) Let’s send it out on the wind! A ghostly manuscript carried by the night air.

Byron: Or… we could just leave it in the gift shop.

(They pause. Byron shrugs. The poets reluctantly agree.)

(As dawn approaches, they resume their statuesque forms, ready to inspire from their silent vigil once more.)

Epilogue: The Gift Shop

(The next day, a tourist picks up the mysterious manuscript and chuckles.)

Tourist: “A Declaration from the Poets of Westminster Abbey?” Must be some clever marketing.

(The tourist pockets it away. Meanwhile, in Poets’ Corner, Shakespeare’s statue winks.) 

The Diary of Aurelia Windmere

Date: 16th July 1347
Location: Florence, Italy

The plague has arrived, they say, riding the wind from faraway lands. I should be frightened, but curiosity holds me tighter than fear. The healers speak of “bad air” and demons, while merchants mutter about God’s wrath. I’ve spent the morning sketching remedies in the marketplace—garlic necklaces, amulets, and crucifixes. But I am not afraid. Not yet. After all, how long can I linger here before the threads of time call me elsewhere?

Date: 14th February 1854
Location: Aboard the RMS Titania

The ship rocks gently beneath my feet, a lullaby of creaking timbers and salt air. The passengers are abuzz with excitement about the new world waiting for us in America. I have taken to wearing a corset to blend in, though I despise the restriction.

I spent the afternoon sketching the machinery in the engine room, marvelling at how this era’s technology seems both primitive and ingenious. The captain invited me to dine at his table tonight. I wonder what he would say if he knew I had seen his ship displayed in a maritime museum centuries later, reduced to a scale model and a placard.

Date: 4th November 1929
Location: New York City, USA

The crash was only last week, but the city already feels like a graveyard. I watched men in suits weep on Wall Street, their fortunes scattered like confetti. I’ve taken to sitting in speakeasies, listening to jazz that vibrates with desperation and defiance. The music is a spark in the gloom.

Tonight, I met a man named Louis, a saxophonist who played as though the world wasn’t crumbling around him. “Music,” he said, “is how we keep time from swallowing us whole.” I didn’t tell him how literal those words are for me.

Date: 12th October 2156
Location: Lunar Colony Alpha

The Earth is just a blue dot in the distance, almost too small to remember. Here, life is regimented: three hours of work, three hours of “recreation,” then lights out. I tried to ask the Overseer about the forests and rivers back on Earth, but he looked at me like I was malfunctioning. It seems humanity traded nature for the cold precision of metal and glass.

Still, the stars are beautiful here—so close, they feel like they might burn through the dome and swallow us whole. Tonight, I sneaked out to watch the constellations. For a moment, I thought I saw an ancient ship, its sails catching the light of a thousand suns.

Date: 11th November 2377
Location: The Edge of the Andromeda Galaxy

The starship hums around me, its walls alive with glowing circuits. We’ve just crossed into uncharted space, the crew jubilant despite the vast emptiness stretching before us. The captain invited me to the observation deck, where we gazed at a nebula swirling in hues of violet and gold.

I’ve seen Earth’s history unfold, but this moment feels different—like the future itself is holding its breath. What will humanity become out here, so far from home? The stars don’t answer. They simply watch, as they always have.

Date: 3rd April 3012
Location: Neo-Atlantis

The city floats above the waves, its spires glinting with sunlight filtered through the ocean’s surface. Neo-Atlantis is humanity’s refuge after the Rising Seas claimed the continents. The people here speak a hybrid language—snippets of English, Mandarin, and an electronic hum I can’t decipher. They wear clothes made of shimmering bio-fabric, which shifts colours with their emotions.

Today, I visited the archives, where holograms of old cities are displayed like relics. London, Paris, Cairo—all submerged, their histories reduced to flickering lights. I wondered if anyone here remembers what it was like to walk on solid ground.

Date: Unknown
Location: The Fractured Reality

The air here is thick with colours that do not exist in any other timeline. Shadows move without bodies, speaking secrets in languages that bypass the ears and sink straight into the mind. I do not know how I arrived here, only that the usual rules of time and space have ceased to apply.

I found a clock suspended in midair, its hands moving backwards. Beneath it, a sign reads: "Here lies the moment you lost yourself." For the first time in my travels, I feel untethered. I am not sure I want to stay, but I am also reluctant to leave.

Date: Unknown
Location: The Library at the End of Time

I’ve found it at last—a place I’d only heard whispers of in the cracks of history. The Library exists outside of time, its halls stretching infinitely in every direction. Books, scrolls, and tablets fill the shelves, containing every story ever told and untold. I wandered before finding a desk with a blank book waiting for me.

The ink flows effortlessly as I write these words, as if the Library itself is recording my journey. Am I the first to find this place? Surely not. But I feel at home here, among these echoes of eternity.

Off the Menu

Scene: A restaurant is moderately busy. A customer, REGINALD, sits at a table with a menu, tapping it rhythmically with a fork. The WAITER approaches with a polite smile.

WAITER: Good evening, sir. Have you decided what you’d like?

REGINALD: Yes, indeed. I’ll start with an amuse-bouche.

WAITER: Certainly. We have—

REGINALD: I’ll have a single kumquat stuffed with wasabi and garnished with edible gold leaf.

WAITER: I’m afraid we don’t have kumquats, sir. Or edible gold leaf.

REGINALD: No kumquats? In this economy? Fine, I’ll settle for a pickled ostrich egg, sliced thinly, served on a single lotus leaf.

WAITER: We don’t have ostrich eggs either, sir.

REGINALD: All right, let’s move on. For the main course, I’ll have… hmm… an elk steak, medium-rare, infused with truffle oil, and a side of glow-in-the-dark mashed potatoes.

WAITER: Glow-in-the-dark—? Sir, I don’t believe that’s a thing.

REGINALD: (offended) Not a thing? I had it just last week in Piccadilly. Or was it a dream? Never mind, I’ll take a roasted dodo.

WAITER: A… dodo?

REGINALD: Yes, dodo. The extinct bird. They’re quite tender, I hear.

WAITER: Sir, they’ve been extinct for centuries.

REGINALD: So your restaurant isn’t sustainable, then? Disappointing.

WAITER: Perhaps something from the actual menu?

REGINALD: Fine, fine. For dessert, I’ll have a soufflé made with unicorn milk.

WAITER: Sir, unicorns don’t exist. May I recommend the chocolate cake? It’s very popular.

REGINALD: Cake? How pedestrian. Fine, but only if you flambé it at the table while reciting poetry.

WAITER: Poetry?

REGINALD: Byron, preferably. Or Shelley, if you’re in the mood.

WAITER: I’ll… see what I can do.

REGINALD: Splendid. Oh, and a drink. Bring me water. But not just any water. It must be glacier water, melted under the light of a full moon.

WAITER: Tap water, then?

REGINALD: If you must. But chill it with artisanal ice cubes.

WAITER: Artisanal ice cubes?

REGINALD: Hand-carved by a monk. Preferably one with a beard.

WAITER: I need a new job.

(The waiter walks off, muttering, as REGINALD begins inspecting his fork with great intensity.)

New Years

I'm sorry for the dreams I fled,

When I should’ve stayed and loved instead.

I'm sorry for the dreams I marred,

The tender hopes my silence scarred.

I'm sorry for the broken past,

Let’s find a way to heal at last.

Change begins within,

Where love lets life begin.

With hope, let’s breathe the dawn,

And live the year reborn;

Wipe away the tears of past mistakes,

Renew the vow that courage makes.

The Art of Synergy

Right, good morning, team! Isn’t it just a great day to synergise? To streamline? To… innovate? You can feel the energy in this room, can’t you? Absolutely electric. Now, as your Line Manager of Interdepartmental Synergy and Workflow Coordination, it’s my duty, my honour, to keep this ship sailing smoothly.

Now, I’ve been reflecting. Reflecting on how we can work smarter harder. And that’s why today, I am thrilled to announce the launch of the Efficiency Enhancement Initiative, or as I like to call it… The Big E.E.I. What is it, you ask? Well, it’s about improving our processes to… uh… ensure smoother workflows. Enhancing efficiencies, optimising our optimisations, streamlining our… streamlining. Simple, really.

As part of The Big E.E.I., I’ll be hosting something very exciting this afternoon: a Preliminary Pre-Brainstorming Session. Yes, you heard that correctly—a session where we prepare for tomorrow’s main meeting. Some might ask, “Why not just… have the meeting?” But that would miss the point entirely. Preparation is key. In this session, we’ll be discussing… what we’ll be discussing in the next session. It’s genius, really. Layers of productivity.

And tomorrow? Oh, tomorrow is the big one. The Synergy Alignment Forum. Not just a meeting, mind you—a forum. It’s where ideas are born, nurtured, and allowed to thrive within the safe confines of… well, our current strategies. This week’s theme? Brace yourselves for this one: “Thinking Outside the Box While Staying Inside the Box.” Brilliant, isn’t it? It’s innovation, but with boundaries. You can think big, but only as big as the parameters I’ve already approved. That’s what I call vision.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Colin, haven’t we done this all before?” And to that, I say, yes—but not with this level of… synergy. Last week, for instance, we made an enormous breakthrough during our Font Selection Workshop. Remember that? Four hours of collaboration, and we finally settled on Arial. Sleek, dynamic, versatile. And, yes, I know it was the default font, but isn’t that the beauty of efficiency? Sometimes, the answers are right in front of us.

You see, the work we do here is vital. Take Derek, for example. What’s he working on? Spreadsheets, probably. Or HR. Or… something to do with synergy. Whatever it is, it’s important, and that’s what matters. And Sophie—brilliant Sophie—always ahead of the curve with her status reports. Although I do wish she’d resend it; I tend to skim emails these days. Efficiency, you see. Why read everything when you can read enough?

But let’s not forget the bigger picture. This isn’t just an office. No, no, no—this is a well-oiled machine, a hive of activity, a… a synergy factory. Look at you all, working tirelessly. Some might say, “Colin, what do you actually do?” And to that, I say, I facilitate. I motivate. I innovate. I coordinate synergy across interdepartmental workflows. And isn’t that what leadership is all about?

Right, I think that covers everything. Time for my mid-morning coffee. Keep up the good work, team. Remember: think outside the box, but not too far outside. Let’s keep those boundaries nice and tidy. Efficiency is key, after all.

The Society Within

A dimly lit library, where a mismatched group of people sit around a long table, all wearing hoods and robes. The Protagonist (let’s call them Alex) nervously fiddles with a candle as the others chant monotonously.

Leader #1: (solemnly) And thus, by the power vested in me, as Grand Keeper of the Lesser Secrets, I welcome you, Alex, into the hallowed halls of The Society of Shadows.

Alex: (awkwardly) Thank you. It’s… such an honour.

Leader #1: Shhh! We don’t say “thank you” here. It’s forbidden. Instead, you say, “The bat flies at midnight.”

Alex: Right, of course. The bat flies at midnight.

Leader #1: Excellent. Now, as your first duty, you must guard the sacred candle of eternity.

Alex: (holds candle) This candle?

Leader #1: No, the sacred candle.

Alex: Right. And, um… what does the Society of Shadows actually do?

Leader #1: We are the silent guardians of the unspoken truths.

Alex: Okay, but… what does that mean?

Leader #1: Mostly we just meet here on Tuesdays. Sometimes we rearrange traffic cones to spell “danger.”

Alex: (doubtful) That’s… very noble.

Leader #1: And remember, this is the only secret society that truly matters.

(A bookcase suddenly swings open, revealing another hidden room.)

Voice from Hidden Room: Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop telling people that! You’re not even a real society!

(Alex is dragged into the hidden room, where the Society of Eternal Whispers is gathered. They’re all wearing identical robes, but these ones are purple.)

Leader #2: Welcome to the real secret society.

Alex: There’s… another one?

Leader #2: Of course! Did you think that façade was real? How naïve. This is the Society of Eternal Whispers.

Alex: What do you whisper about?

Leader #2: (whispers) Everything.

Alex: (leans in) Like what?

Leader #2: (whispers louder) Stop asking questions!

Alex: (mutters) You’re not very good at being secret.

Leader #2: (ignores this) You’re one of us now. Your first task is to prove your loyalty by reciting the Pledge of Eternal Subtlety.

Alex: Fine. What is it?

Leader #2: (grabs a scroll) Repeat after me: “I shall live in shadows, walk in whispers, and never wear yellow.”

Alex: Why can’t I wear yellow?

Leader #2: Because yellow doesn’t really coordinate well with purple. Now repeat!

Alex: (resigned) I shall live in shadows, walk in whispers, and never wear yellow.

Leader #2: (smirks) Perfect. You are now one of us.

(Another bookcase swings open. Everyone groans.)

Voice from New Hidden Room: (mocking) Oh, look at you, so subtle. Real subtle, with your purple robes and dramatic whispers.

(Alex is pulled into the next room, where the Society of Infinite Layers meets. They wear gold-trimmed robes and are eating biscuits.)

Leader #3: Welcome to the actual secret society.

Alex: (exasperated) How many of these are there!?

Leader #3: We’re the Society of Infinite Layers. We’ve been infiltrating the infiltrators for centuries.

Alex: Do any of you actually do anything?

Leader #3: How dare you! We’re responsible for all of society’s greatest advancements.

Alex: Like what?

Leader #3: (proudly) Biscuits. We standardised the size of biscuits in 1874.

Alex: That’s it?

Leader #3: And we control the national stockpile of custard creams.

Alex: (mutters) That explains why they’re always out of stock.

Leader #3: (ignoring Alex) Now, to prove yourself, you must complete our sacred task.

Alex: (sighs) Let me guess. Something pointless?

Leader #3: (offended) Not pointless! You must solve a Rubik’s cube in a tastefully darkened room while reciting the periodic table.

(As Alex begins, another door opens, revealing an elderly man sitting alone in a minimalist room.)

Leader #4: (quietly) Come in. You’ve reached the end.

Alex: (sceptical) Are you absolutely sure?

Leader #4: Yes. I am the final layer. The head of all the societies.

Alex: (relieved) Finally! So, what’s the ultimate secret?

Leader #4: (leans in) The secret is… (pauses for dramatic effect) there is no secret.

Alex: What? So you’re telling me I went through three ridiculous societies for nothing?

Leader #4: Oh, it’s not for nothing. (hands Alex a biscuit) Have a custard cream.

Accountancy Jokes

What’s an accountant’s least favourite drink?

Anything that doesn’t come with a receipt.

What do accountants say when they’re shocked?

“That’s a significant variance!”

What do accountants sing on New Year’s Eve?

“Should old accounts be reconciled...”

What do accountants name their cats?

Cash and Flow.

What do accountants name their dogs?

Debit and Credit.

What’s an accountant’s favourite film?

“Return of the Journal Entry”. 

What do accountants write in love letters?

“You’ve increased the value of my assets.”

What’s an accountant’s favourite fairy tale?

Goldilocks and the Three Balance Sheets.

What’s an accountant’s favourite board game?

Risk — it helps them manage their capital exposure.

Jokey Thoughts

My coworker said they work better under pressure, so I started sending them emails with the subject line: “URGENT: THE WORLD IS ENDING.” Productivity hasn’t improved.

I saw a trailer for a new superhero movie. It’s about a guy who gets bitten by a radioactive sloth. His superpower? Extreme patience.

The Dark Ages weren’t really dark. That’s just what happens when a historian writes the story without paying the electricity bill.

My ex said, “You’ll never find someone like me.” I said, “That’s the point.”

I told my goldfish a joke. He just stared at me like he’d heard it before. I guess I need new material.

Old Friends

Setting: A quiet café. Steve (in his 40s, slightly dishevelled) is sitting at a corner table with a coffee and a half-eaten croissant. The door opens with the sound of an eerie wind, though nobody else in the café reacts. Enter DEATH, wearing a classic black robe, but with sunglasses perched on his bony nose and a cup of takeaway coffee in hand. He approaches Steve, who looks up in confusion.

DEATH: (cheerily) Ah, there you are! It’s been a while. How’ve you been?

STEVE: Sorry, do I know you?

DEATH: (mocking offence) Do you know me? Oh, come on. After everything we’ve been through? All the near misses? The times you dodged me like we’re in some sort of game of tag?

STEVE: You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t think we’ve met.

DEATH: (laughs) Oh, please. It’s me. Death. You know… Death. Big D. Grim Reaper. Ringing any bells?

STEVE: (staring) Death? As in… the Death?

DEATH: Bingo. I mean, you’ve seen my work. Not to brag, but I’m kind of a legend.

STEVE: Okay… um, what do you want?

DEATH: (sitting down uninvited) Oh, you know, the usual. Bit of a catch-up. Quick chat before we get down to business.

STEVE: (panicking slightly) Business? What business?

DEATH: (ignoring him, takes a sip of coffee) So, what did you mess up this time? Honestly, it’s inspiring the skill you have at that sort of thing.

STEVE: (spluttering) I haven’t messed up anything! I’m just sitting here having a coffee. What are you talking about?

DEATH: (dramatically sighs) Honestly, you’re impossible to keep track of. One minute you’re climbing dodgy ladders, the next you’re crossing motorways like you’ve got a death wish—oh wait, that’s my department. (chuckles)

STEVE: Wait a second. Are you saying I’ve… dodged you?

DEATH: Oh, several times! And not even in cool, action-hero ways. That time you choked on a peanut at the zoo? Classic. I was ready with the scythe, but no, here comes some stranger with the Heimlich manoeuvre. Rude.

STEVE: That’s not my fault! I didn’t ask to choke! Or to be saved!

DEATH: (leaning back) Well, no one asks for these things, mate. But you’re a regular Houdini. So, what’s it today? Heart attack? Falling sign? Spontaneous combustion? Don’t keep me in suspense.

STEVE: (growing desperate) Nothing! I’m perfectly fine. Healthy as ever! No signs, no combustion. Look, is this some kind of joke?

DEATH: (ignoring him) Right, let’s move this along, shall we? Any regrets? Unfinished business? That time you pretended you were sick to avoid your cousin’s wedding—you want me to apologise to her on your behalf?

STEVE: How did you—look, this is ridiculous. I’m not dying today!

DEATH: That’s what you said last Tuesday when you thought it was a good idea to microwave an egg.

STEVE: Look, I don’t know who—or what—you are, but I’m not ready to go anywhere with you. You’ve got the wrong guy.

DEATH: (calmly sipping his coffee) Huh. Bold words. You know, I get that a lot. “Not ready, wrong guy, I’m too young.” (sighs) You humans act like I’m some sort of telemarketer. It’s a bit hurtful.

STEVE: Maybe because you show up uninvited and start scaring people?

DEATH: (offended) Scaring? I’m delightful! I bring closure! Peace! And, occasionally, free coffee. (gestures to his cup) Speaking of, I got this from that new café down the street. Lovely macchiato. Shame you never got to try it.

STEVE: (panicking again) What? Why not?

DEATH: Oh, relax. I’m just messing with you. Not your time. Yet.

STEVE: (exasperated) You can’t just waltz in here, make me think I’m about to die, and then say “just kidding”!

DEATH: Why not? Keeps things spicy. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your coffee. But seriously, maybe avoid tall ladders for a while. Just a hunch.

STEVE: Great. Now Death gives DIY advice.

DEATH: (heading towards the door) Hey, I’m looking out for you. Sort of. Catch you later...

The Art of Rhetoric

Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for gathering here today. I must say, it is most agreeable to see all of you here, sitting in your respective seats, as one does.

Now, as I stand here, I find myself compelled to speak at length on a topic of importance: office supply procurement procedures. Yes, today we shall dive into the depths of stapler requisition forms and the fascinating, nearly unbearable intricacies of paperclip ordering. I shall endeavour to explain to you, in as much detail as possible, how and why a process that could be simple has instead been made magnificently, astoundingly, breathtakingly complex.

Now, some of you might be wondering, “Why does it matter whether we have blue or black biros?” An excellent question. A very good question indeed. I spent upwards of six minutes this morning pondering the same. But, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to provide a definitive answer. Suffice it to say that both have their merits. Blue pens evoke a sense of calm, while black pens, on the other hand, suggest a certain authority. Either way, whether you’re taking notes on something important or simply doodling, rest assured, both options are available to you.

I would like to take a moment to address the recent changes in our paper supplier. As you may be aware, our usual brand of A4 printer paper was out of stock for three days last month, and we had to switch to an alternative. I know some of you felt the new paper was slightly thinner, slightly different, almost undetectably unlike the usual stock. This raised some eyebrows, and I want to acknowledge your concerns. I personally spent several minutes comparing the old paper to the new, and I can confirm: yes, there is a barely perceptible difference. However, the feedback from Paper Committee remains inconclusive.

Now, let’s talk about the issue of folder categorisation. You see, after much consideration and an extensive review process, it has been decided that all folders will henceforth be filed according to the second letter of their labels, not the first. Yes, this decision was not made lightly. It required no fewer than seven meetings, and multiple subcommittees were formed. I won’t bore you with the finer points of the deliberation – although I could, if you wish – but the upshot is that we believe the new system will bring a semblance of mild, almost negligible, efficiency to our filing cabinets.

Moving on to another highlight: I am pleased to report that our new policy on tea bag usage has officially passed. We are now asking that everyone limit themselves to one teabag per two cups. This may seem revolutionary, even radical, but studies have shown that a single teabag can be reused. And for those of you who might wonder about milk ratios, please note that no more than 2.3 tablespoons of milk per cup is now advised, a decision that took the better part of the week to reach.

Please feel free to review the accompanying documents during this initial 4-hour presentation. There will be time for questions at the end.

I Wandered Worlds

Last night, I wandered worlds within, 

where logic twists and colours spin,

where seas are red and skies are white,

and trees wear leaves of shattered light.

I walked a shore of fallen glass,

each shard a memory from the past—

a flash of laughter, swift and bright,

a lover’s gaze that cut the night.

I climbed a hill that breathed like skin,

its peaks alive, its roots within,

and watched as houses turned to sand,

and clocks dripped hours from my hands.

The air was filled with whispers there,

words that drifted, light as air,

but try to catch them, and they’d fade,

like shadows cast in evening shade.

I saw myself—a stranger’s face,

an outline shifting out of place.

She stared at me with hollow eyes,

half-mad with dreams, half-wise with lies.

And through it all, a humming sound,

an ache, a pull, a tremble found—

as if the earth beneath my feet

was drawn to some unheard heartbeat.

In dreamscapes strange, I drift alone,

in fields where time and space are sown.

When morning pulls, I leave behind

a thousand worlds, just fragments, blind.

Yet as I wake, they cling like dew,

soft traces of a world I knew,

a place unseen by light of day,

where dreams and waking worlds decay.

Humanity, Season 1

Astronomers at the Mount Huxley Observatory had been tracking an unusual radio signal for weeks—an anomaly amidst the usual static of deep space. Initially, they chalked it up to some cosmic background noise or the faint trace of a distant pulsar. But then, late one night, the signal changed, becoming too regular, too structured. It was a transmission. A series of strange bursts and frequencies that were too precise to be chance. After days of decoding, what they discovered sent ripples of confusion and excitement through the scientific community.

The signal was a message addressed specifically to a man named Kevin Marsh, a middle-aged accountant living in the quiet suburbs of Stockton-on-Tees.

“Dear Kevin,” the message read, once translated, “We’re huge fans of your work! The way you navigated that tense office argument with Janice last Thursday—brilliant! Such subtle emotional intelligence. Keep up the good work, and don’t worry about Craig, he’s totally going to get what’s coming to him!”

The astronomers were flummoxed. Who was this message from? How could it have travelled across the stars, and why was it so absurdly specific? Who in the universe cared about Kevin Marsh’s office squabbles?

The message was sent to Kevin, who, upon receiving it, reacted with bewilderment, then amusement, assuming it was an elaborate prank. But just as the buzz started to die down, more messages came through. And not just to Kevin—more transmissions arrived at the observatory, each one addressed to a different individual on Earth.

A single mother in Tokyo received an encouraging letter, praising her for her perseverance in raising two children while working long hours at a local market. “The way you handled Kaito’s tantrum yesterday was top-tier parenting!” it read. “We can’t wait to see how you manage the upcoming school interview. You’re a real star!”

A university student in Cape Town was congratulated on passing a difficult exam. “You really had us on the edge of our seats, Taviso!” the message said. “That last-minute essay? Genius. We were rooting for you the whole time!”

The precision of the details was uncanny. The letters referenced personal, intimate moments that couldn’t possibly be known to anyone outside those involved. As more messages arrived from the stars, the realisation slowly began to dawn on humanity: they were being watched from a distant star system, many light-years away from Earth. Some long-advanced civilisation had somehow tuned into Earth like a television broadcast. But not just the grand events—no, these extraterrestrials were obsessed with the mundane, everyday lives of people. To them, Earth was one giant soap opera.

Each day, thousands of new messages would arrive, filled with glowing reviews, emotional support, and the occasional critique.

“Dear Marissa,” one letter read to a barista in Sydney, “we think you’re great, but maybe don’t give up on your art career so quickly. That painting you’re working on? It’s going to be a masterpiece if you just stick with it. We’re really looking forward to the big reveal!”

The more the messages came in, the more Earth’s inhabitants started to perform, knowingly or unknowingly. Arguments were exaggerated, decisions became more dramatic, relationships were played out like intricate plotlines, and every mundane task was suddenly infused with the weight of unseen eyes judging, supporting, and critiquing.

The question “What will the aliens think?” became a driving force behind everything online. Social media platforms boomed with people posting updates specifically hoping for alien recognition and sponsorship.

And then came the awards. One morning, a particularly impressive message arrived at the Mount Huxley Observatory. It was addressed to all of humanity and bore the embedded signature of the “Galactic Viewership Council.” Inside, the message announced the First Annual Terra Drama Awards, celebrating the best moments from Earth’s “performances” over the past year.

A teenager from São Paulo had won the award for “Best Tearjerker” after a particularly emotional breakup. An elderly woman from Scotland won “Best Heroic Act” for saving her neighbour’s dog from a burning house. The biggest award, “Best Main Character,” went to a primary school teacher from India who had unwittingly captivated the alien audience with her everyday kindness and perseverance in the face of life’s challenges. Her acceptance speech, delivered live on social media, was simple: “I didn’t know anyone was watching, but I’m glad if what I did inspired someone.”

The messages kept coming, and with them, a growing sense that humanity’s role in the universe was something far stranger than they had ever imagined. They weren’t just explorers, inventors, or thinkers. They were characters, their lives unfolding in a cosmic drama watched by countless far away aliens.

And though they couldn’t see their audience, humanity now lived knowing that somewhere, out in the vastness of space, they had fans. Fans who rooted for them, laughed with them, and cried when they stumbled.

And the question remained: What would the next season bring?

The Therapist’s Therapist

THERAPIST: So, what would you like to talk about today?

PATIENT: Well, I’ve been feeling really overwhelmed lately. Work is just… stressful, and—

THERAPIST: Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, overwhelmed, yes. Uh… tell me, does your boss send you passive-aggressive emails at 11 p.m., questioning every single decision you’ve ever made in your entire life? Hypothetically speaking.

PATIENT: Um… no, not really. My boss is fine, I guess. It’s more that—

THERAPIST: (sighing heavily) Must be nice. Anyway, sorry, go on. You were saying something about work?

PATIENT: Um… right. So, I’ve been feeling like I’m not good enough, you know? Like, no matter what I do, it’s never enough.

THERAPIST: (nodding vigorously) Oh, I get that. Totally get that. Like, the other day, I spent two hours trying to decide if I should buy a 24-pack or 48-pack of toilet paper. Two hours! Two hours! And in the end, I bought both because I couldn’t make a decision, and now my bathroom looks like a storage unit. What’s wrong with me?

PATIENT: I… don’t think that’s the same thing?

THERAPIST: (laughing nervously) Oh, right! Sorry, let’s focus on you. It’s just, you know… decisions are hard, and sometimes… sometimes you just have to remind yourself that it’s okay to be overwhelmed. You know, like when your entire life feels like it’s unravelling, and you’re constantly questioning if you made the right choices, and—

[Suddenly stops and forces a smile again.]

THERAPIST: Anyway, how does that make you feel?

PATIENT: Um… I’m starting to feel like maybe you’re the one who needs a therapist?

THERAPIST: (laughing awkwardly) Ha! Me? Oh, no, no, no. I’m fine! Totally fine. Just a little… stressed, that’s all. I mean, who wouldn’t be after what happened this morning, right?

PATIENT: What happened this morning?

THERAPIST: (leaning forward, suddenly animated) Oh, nothing major. Just spilled an entire cup of coffee on my laptop, lost a week’s worth of therapy notes, and then got a parking ticket because I was too distracted trying to figure out if my cat actually likes me or if he’s just pretending. No big deal. Just… life, you know?

PATIENT: Are you… okay?

THERAPIST: Oh, I’m great. Fantastic, actually. Never better. So let’s get back to you. You’re overwhelmed. You’re struggling with self-worth. And you feel like… like… Sorry, I just had a thought—do you ever wonder if everyone is secretly judging you all the time? Like, you’re at the corner shop, and the cashier is definitely thinking about how weird you look in joggers. Not that I’m projecting or anything.

PATIENT: That sounds like you’re projecting.

THERAPIST: (slightly unhinged) Maybe I am! Who isn’t these days? But let’s keep the focus on you. It’s not about me. It’s about you. You and your perfectly reasonable feelings of inadequacy.

PATIENT: I… don’t know if I want to talk about myself anymore.

THERAPIST: (leaning in, whispering) Do you think my cat is avoiding me?

PATIENT: I’m not sure?

THERAPIST: (nodding) Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’m getting the cold shoulder. He just… he just stares at me, you know? Like he knows something I don’t. Anyway! Back to your issues.

THERAPIST: (with a forced smile) Tell me more about these work problems. That sounds… awful. What was it again?

PATIENT: I was saying I feel like I’m not good enough…

THERAPIST: Yes! Imposter syndrome! A classic. The fear that at any moment someone’s going to pull back the curtain and reveal that you have no idea what you’re doing. I mean, that’s never happened to me, obviously. But I hear it’s common. (panicking slightly) Okay, maybe it has happened to me. Like… every day. But that’s beside the point! So, the trick is to remind yourself that everyone’s just pretending, really. Fake it ‘til you make it. Or, in some cases, fake it even after you’ve made it and hope no one notices. (breaking down a little) Oh, God, am I? [Stares at notepad, which reads “buy milk” and “schedule therapy for me?” instead of notes about the session.]

PATIENT: I really think you should talk to someone.

THERAPIST: I am! I’m talking to you! That counts, right?

PATIENT: I think you might need an actual therapist, though.

THERAPIST: Yeah… yeah, you’re probably right. But, uh, you can book your next session on your way out, okay?

PATIENT: Sure, but are you okay?

THERAPIST (sighing): Honestly? No. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. (muttering) If I say it enough times, it’ll become true, right? Anyway, time’s up. Off you trot.

PATIENT: Um… thanks, I guess?

THERAPIST: (still staring at notepad) Yeah, yeah. No problem. Happy to help.

[The patient leaves, slightly bewildered but not as overwhelmed as before.]

THERAPIST: How do I feel about that?

[Nods into the distance, practicing for the next patient.]