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.

Some of you might be wondering, “Why does it matter whether we have blue or black biros?” An excellent question. Indeed, a very good question indeed—I spent upwards of sixty-seven minutes this morning pondering the same. However, 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 hours comparing the old paper to the new, and I can confirm: yes, there is a barely perceptible difference. However, feedback from the 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 last 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.

A Technological Landscape

Wireless energy, once a theory, has enabled humanity to abandon traditional power grids; energy is beamed from orbiting solar satellites down to Earth. People no longer carry phones; they use implantable tech that provides real-time access to information, communication, and healthcare diagnostics. A simple thought can summon a holographic interface that hovers in mid-air, visible only to the user and vanishing when not in use.

With neural enhancements and immersive virtual reality, couples in long-distance or unconventional relationships can experience a simulated closeness that feels almost as tangible as physical proximity. Holographic communication and sensory interfaces allow people to maintain relationships across vast distances, even fostering bonds with individuals on other planets or space stations, where off-world colonies are emerging.

Learning a new skill, once a laborious process, has been simplified through neural downloads and AI-enhanced tutoring. As technology increasingly integrates with biology—through everything from memory augmentation to body modification—the question of what it means to be “human” has become complex. Some choose to enhance themselves with artificial intelligence implants, while others resist, favouring a life less mediated by technology.

Smart clothing, crafted from fabrics that can cool or insulate as needed, is the norm, replacing the seasonal wardrobe. Buildings, too, have grown adaptable, constructed from “living” materials that respond to temperature and humidity shifts.

With breakthroughs in longevity science, many people live to see several generations of their descendants. Despite advances in lifespan, humanity has not eluded death entirely, though medical technology has pushed its boundaries in remarkable ways.

“Companion bots” manage everyday tasks. With basic needs met by automation, society grapples with questions of purpose and fulfilment. Paid employment is rare, but most humans choose to work in ways that offer fulfilment rather than survival, aided by AI agents that analyse their strengths, interests, and personal needs. Wealth disparities persist, though the poverty once prevalent has been eradicated.

Reproduction has undergone profound changes, enabled by biotechnology. Biological conception is still common, but many couples choose “genetic optimisation,” where embryos are screened for diseases and enhanced for health traits, resilience, or even intelligence. This practice has led to ethical debates over eugenics and the potential homogenisation of the human genome, though strict regulations aim to balance health benefits with the risks of genetic manipulation.

Some parents prefer to have children through advanced methods like in-vitro gametogenesis, where biological material from one or two individuals can be combined to create an embryo without traditional sexual reproduction. This opens up parenthood to single individuals, same-sex couples, or people who might otherwise face reproductive challenges. Companion bot surrogacy has also become more common, allowing people who don’t want to physically bear children to have biological offspring. This technology, while initially controversial, is now widely accepted, with stringent oversight to ensure ethical practices. Some see it as liberating, granting women freedom from the physical demands of pregnancy, while others feel it distances the experience of parenthood from its true, natural roots.

From a current perspective, it’s not unreasonable to view some of these likely developments as unappealing. However, the truly terrifying likely scenario follows, and certain countries in the world today may already be too late to stop some variation of this hell from happening.

In a darker vision, technological progress has been used to engineer an authoritarian nightmare. Surveillance is omnipresent, privacy is a relic of the past, and individual freedom is meticulously curtailed. Here, technology once celebrated for enhancing human potential has become a weapon of oppression, and humans live under constant, invisible scrutiny.

In this dystopian future, every aspect of life is monitored through an interconnected web of devices embedded in every home, public space, and within citizens themselves. Personal data is streamed directly to the system’s central command, an AI-driven supercomputer, which analyses each action, word, and even thought patterns, identifying dissent before it can manifest.

People wear mandatory “compliance implants” implanted at birth, which track physiological responses, monitor brain activity, and assess “loyalty metrics.” These devices make it nearly impossible to think subversively, as even private thoughts register as data points. Every movement, every moment of hesitation, is logged. Even friendships and romantic relationships are tracked, graded, and restricted based on loyalty scores. People may only interact with those whom the central command deems compatible, eliminating any risk of “unsanctioned alliances” that could foster resistance.

In public, holographic screens display reminders of the central command’s omnipotence, broadcasting a constant stream of propaganda that paints life under the regime as peaceful and prosperous. Every building is fitted with facial recognition systems that instantly cross-reference each individual’s identity, loyalty rating, and behavioural history, triggering alarms for anyone showing “deviant patterns” such as prolonged eye contact, lingering in groups, or quiet conversations.

To maintain absolute control, the “Great Leader” has dismantled traditional family structures, considering them breeding grounds for rebellion. Children are removed from their parents at birth, raised in state-run facilities known as “Harmoniums.” These cold, clinical institutions are devoid of love and attachment; they are designed to shape young minds for total obedience. Children are indoctrinated from infancy to view the Great Leader as their only guardian, and any memory of familial bonds is systematically erased.

Romantic relationships, too, are strictly regulated. People are paired through an algorithm that maximises compatibility for loyalty and productivity, with emotional connection considered an unnecessary risk. Conception and reproduction are tightly controlled, often occurring through artificial means, with genetic traits selected to eliminate any proclivity towards independent thinking. Couples live in designated housing blocks and are permitted only minimal interaction, making emotional bonds a rarity, if not outright illegal.

Economic life is dictated by the Great Leader’s concept of “the Duty”—a binding contract that requires every citizen to contribute a precise amount of labour each day to maintain social harmony. Citizens are allocated professions not based on personal aptitude or interest, but rather on loyalty metrics and behavioural compliance. Many work mindlessly in factories, churning out goods for the Great Leader, designed more for spectacle and control than practical function. The system tracks productivity in real time, rewarding only those who meet or exceed quotas with the most basic amenities.

There is no money; instead, citizens earn “compliance credits,” which can be exchanged for essentials like food and housing. Those who fall short, either through underperformance or subversive thought, lose credits, condemning them to a life of deprivation. Compliance credits can even be “banked” as bribes for additional privileges, making them the only way to secure a semblance of comfort. This ensures that everyone’s survival is directly linked to loyalty, creating an economy that thrives on fear and dependency.

Under the Great Leader’s rule, individuality has been systematically erased. Names have been replaced with identification codes, reducing people to numbers in the vast network overseen by the system. Fashion, once an expression of identity, has been standardised into a uniform that strips people of any distinguishing features. Creative expression is outlawed, with music, art, and literature considered dangerous forms of self-expression that could ignite independent thought.

Education, once a pathway to understanding and empowerment, has become a tool of indoctrination. Children learn only the Great Leader’s approved curriculum, which rewrites history, glorifies the regime, and vilifies any form of resistance. Ancient books are banned, with only selected fragments retained in a “curated archive,” where all references to freedom or self-determination have been expunged. Knowledge outside of this prescribed doctrine is punishable by imprisonment or disappearance, ensuring that even the concept of resistance is beyond comprehension for the average citizen.

To maintain the grip on society, reproduction is tightly controlled. Fertility is regulated through genetic manipulation, and only those deemed sufficiently loyal are permitted to have children, often through artificial selection methods that prioritise traits favouring obedience, compliance, and emotional suppression. Infants born without these “loyalty genes” are removed from society, suggesting they are either terminated or repurposed for hard labour.

In this society, there are no parents as traditionally understood. Children are produced in laboratories, with their genetic code “perfected” to match the ideal citizen. Relationships are stripped of intimacy and choice; even the concept of love is discouraged, relegated to relics of a bygone era. Those who dare express love or attachment face “re-education,” a euphemism for a brutal conditioning process that breaks the human spirit and ensures total subjugation.

Humanity’s brightest advances have become its darkest tools of repression. Technology, once meant to connect, empower, and enlighten, has instead shackled society in a nightmare where individuality, love, and freedom have all but vanished. People are stripped of humanity, their every breath and heartbeat monitored by the system.

Public monuments, vast portraits, and broadcasted speeches reinforce the idea that the Great Leader is a single, immortal figure, forever vigilant. The system broadcasts fabricated achievements and victories, glorifying him as the eternal protector. The system perpetuates the myth that the Great Leader possesses supernatural longevity, presenting him as a god-like figure, immune to time and death. But most tragically of all, nobody dares to speculate that the Great Leader died many years ago and was replaced by an AI agent of the system, trained on his behaviours.

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 postulated it as 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 far-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 encoded 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. 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 so, after all the world’s unfolding drama, a question remained: what would the next season bring?

Random Thoughts

2025 is my year of resolution.

My first memory was in bed at night, hearing a fox calling outside by bedroom window.

If you look for problems, you will find them everywhere—you’ll notice the shadows cast by trees instead of the shade they provide, the drops of rain in the air instead of the rainbow forming beyond; you’ll see cracks magnified in solid oak, instead of the vast forests beyond outstretched branches.

I’m falling silent now, within a writing chrysalis. I don’t know if I will re-emerge.

I tend to hang out in dentists these days. It’s how I like to spend my weekends.

Each of us is piece of the puzzle, and together, we create the masterpiece.

Some of life's little jokes:

You've been looking everywhere for something you already have;

You didn't notice what was right in front of you;

You didn't even know that you didn't know.

The Therapist’s Therapist

INT. THERAPHIST’S OFFICE – DAY

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 PM, 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)

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. (with a forced smile) Tell me more about these work problems. It 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?

The therapist glances down at their notepad, which has “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: (staring at the 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.

Social Media News

LONDON—In a stunning victory, social media platforms have officially declared war on the human attention span, defeating it in a record time of just 30 seconds. Experts suggest this rapid conquest may be permanent, leaving entire generations incapable of focusing on anything longer than a TikTok clip or a rage-filled tweet.

Dr Ivan Noodea, a leading expert in digital behaviour and short-form distractions, commented on the news: “The human attention span has been steadily decreasing since the dawn of Instagram filters, but this latest defeat marks a new low. We’ve found that most people now require a new hit of dopamine every 10 seconds or so, ideally in the form of a viral dance trend, a cat doing something cute, or an absolute stranger telling you why you should be angry about something.”

The offensive began with the notorious invention of the “infinite scroll”, a tactical move designed to lure the human brain into a vortex of endless content. By combining pictures of people’s lunches, conspiracy theories, and aggressive advertising for things no one needs, social media created an addictive blend of nonsense that no one can resist.

“I used to read novels,” said Gemma, a 32-year-old Instagram veteran from Manchester, who is currently scrolling through a feed of pumpkin spice latte memes. “Now I can’t even get through a recipe without losing interest and googling why I’m sad all the time.”

Indeed, the results are alarming. Studies indicate that the average user now spends 93% of their waking hours staring at their phone, even while supposedly doing other things like “working”, “spending time with family”, or “driving”. Entire industries are reeling from the impact, with print journalism, bookshops, and any form of content longer than 280 characters suffering immediate extinction.

“You don’t need sentences to communicate anymore,” explained Tim Fellowes, 24, who hasn’t spoken to anyone face-to-face since 2019. “It’s all about the right combination of emojis, memes, and slightly sarcastic captions. If someone posts something, and I don’t immediately respond with a laughing-crying face, I’ve failed as a friend.”

As human attention wanes, a new group of people has risen to fill the vacuum: social media influencers. These individuals, whose primary qualifications include the ability to stare vacantly into ring lights, have now assumed positions of great power. Once mocked for their trivial pursuits, influencers are now regarded as key decision-makers on everything from politics to where you should buy your skincare products.

“I don’t trust politicians,” said Paul, a 28-year-old whose last three purchases were all recommended by influencers with names like @ChillVibesOnly and @PerfectGlowUp. “I only trust people who can unbox things on camera while telling me it’s ‘soooo demure’.”

Indeed, politicians have struggled to keep up with the times. A leaked report suggests that MPs are now taking lessons in TikTok dancing to improve their public image, with early results described as “an unsettling blend of cringe and desperation”.

But not all hope is lost. Social media companies have come forward with their own suggestions for restoring balance, offering helpful advice like: “Maybe try our new feature?” or “Have you seen the latest filter?” With innovations like “enhanced ads” and “suggested content”, designed to further optimise user engagement, it’s clear the battle for human consciousness is far from over. Or perhaps it is, and we’ve all already forgotten to care.

 

Report: Man Takes Bold Step, Actually Turns Off Phone for 15 Minutes Before Nervous Sweats Begin

SHEFFIELD—In what scientists are calling an act of “unprecedented bravery”, 29-year-old Chris Hastings reportedly switched off his smartphone for a full 15 minutes on Tuesday afternoon before experiencing violent shakes, heart palpitations, and a strange sense that he was missing out on something very important happening on Instagram.

“I just wanted to focus for a bit,” Hastings confessed, with hands trembling as he hurriedly recharged his device after the terrifying ordeal. “I thought I could read a book, maybe reflect on life. But then it hit me—I didn’t know if anyone had liked the meme I posted earlier. What if they hadn’t? What if there was an X debate I wasn’t part of? It was all too much.”

Hastings, who regularly “scrolls for a living” and describes himself as a “digital native”, began the experiment at 2:15 PM, with the modest goal of seeing if he could survive without any notifications until 3:00 PM. He made it to approximately 2:30 PM before his body began to reject the unfamiliar silence.

“I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore,” Hastings recounted, still visibly rattled. “Without my phone to tell me what to think or feel, I just started… having thoughts. Like, actual thoughts. I remembered a dream I had in 2004. I briefly wondered whether I should water my plants. That’s when I knew I had to turn my phone back on, or I’d lose myself completely.”

Meanwhile, younger generations are displaying an even more advanced level of social media dependence.

“This is how we vibe,” said Kylie Binoche, a 19-year-old influencer who has 3 million followers despite having no discernible personality traits. “I don’t get why Boomers and Millennials keep talking about ‘having a conversation’. If I can’t send a 15-second video of me pretending to laugh while my face is turned into a puppy, what’s even the point?”

Kylie was later seen dramatically pausing mid-conversation to take 47 identical photos of her half-eaten sushi, before selecting the one with the best lighting for her Instagram story with the caption, “Vibing @Life”.

In a related development, Casebook, once a dominant force in social media, has now officially been declared a museum for the digital habits of “ancient internet cultures.” The platform, now used exclusively by individuals over 40 and mysterious bots selling weight-loss supplements, is expected to offer historical tours in the near future, complete with vintage 2012 memes and screenshots of heated political arguments that no one cared about then and no one remembers now.

Marv Zooverberg, who was recently found experimenting with new ways to look human, stated, “We’re embracing this new direction. Casebook is the perfect place for the elderly to experience nostalgia. We’re adding a new feature where you can send a poke to someone who hasn’t used the platform since 2009, just to confuse them.”

In the wake of social media’s rapid evolution, tech companies are already gearing up for the next big thing: direct infusion. The forthcoming innovation promises to bypass even the need for scrolling—injecting users with pure, unfiltered hits of anxiety whenever an algorithm deems it necessary. “Imagine never having to worry about when to get anxious about engagement or followers again,” explained a spokesperson for MindMelt Technologies. “Just pure, automated anxiety, available with one quick jab.”

Meanwhile, Chris Hastings, now safely back in the glow of his Instagram feed, nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll sign up. But first, I’ve got to check if anyone liked my avocado toast pic.”

Teleprompting

INT. CONFERENCE CENTRE – DAY

A POLITICIAN is standing behind a lectern in a conference centre, presenting a speech to an audience that includes journalists and live television cameras.

POLITICIAN: My fellow citizens, today marks an important day for our nation. Together, we will… uh… (pauses, confused) …bring back… the squirrels?

He glances nervously at the teleprompter, squinting.

POLITICIAN: Uh… sorry, I meant… skills… bring back the skills our economy needs! (laughs awkwardly) Yes, that’s what I was trying to say.

The teleprompter suddenly jumps ahead, skipping lines.

POLITICIAN: And, I promise… uh… that we will… throw a surprise birthday party… for every citizen by 2030?

AUDIENCE MEMBER: (murmuring in the front row) Did he just promise us all a birthday party?

POLITICIAN: (panicking) No, no! What I meant to say was… we will throw our weight behind… job creation! Yes, job creation!

The teleprompter flickers and changes text again.

POLITICIAN: Our plan will bring back industry to the… uh… (squints) …the North Pole?

The politician frantically waves at someone off-stage to fix the teleprompter, but nothing happens.

POLITICIAN: No, no, not the North Pole! The North! Yes, jobs in the north of England. That’s what I meant. Obviously. And I assure you, under my leadership, we will all… do the Macarena and eat lasagne on… rollercoasters?

A few people in the crowd start laughing.

POLITICIAN: Right. Clearly, something’s… gone wrong here. (frantically taps the microphone, pretending it’s the problem) Uh… Let’s move on to more serious issues. I want to talk about our nation’s health service. We must invest in… wait, this can’t be right… fluffy kittens?

AUDIENCE MEMBER 2: (shouting from the back of the room) More kittens for the NHS!

POLITICIAN: (flustered, trying to regain composure) No! What I meant to say is… er, not more kittens! (mutters under his breath) Who’s writing this stuff?

The teleprompter completely malfunctions, scrolling at an impossible speed, flashing random words.

POLITICIAN: (desperately trying to keep up) And together, we will… fry fish… for world peace… by… planting trees on… the moon? Right! You know what? Forget the teleprompter. I’m just going to speak from the heart! (pauses dramatically) My friends, together we will… uh… erm…

An awkward silence as a tumbleweed blows across the stage.

Bumbleton

In the small town of Bumbleton, people were known for their hospitality, their fondness for tea, and their uncanny ability to completely misunderstand everything anyone ever said.

One sunny morning, the town was buzzing because Mayor Higglebottom had called for a special meeting in the village hall to discuss a “very important matter”. Naturally, this caused a ripple of confusion across Bumbleton, where “important matters” were typically treated with the same urgency as deciding what type of biscuits to serve with tea.

At 10 AM sharp, the townspeople gathered in the hall, and Mayor Higglebottom stepped up to the podium, looking particularly serious. He cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I’ve called you all here today because there’s been a significant increase in fox sightings near the village.”

Mr Puddlesworth, the town’s most forgetful baker, stood up immediately, eyes wide. “What? Socks fighting? How are the socks fighting? And why wasn’t I told about this sooner?”

The mayor blinked. “No, no, not socks, Mr Puddlesworth. Foxes. The animals, you see.”

Mrs Fiddlebatch, who ran the town’s knitting club, jumped up next. “Why are we discussing clocks at this hour? It’s a disgrace to keep clocks fighting at this time of day. My grandmother always said, clocks should only be allowed to fight at midnight, when it’s respectable.”

The mayor, looking flustered, tried again. “Not clocks, Mrs Fiddlebatch. Foxes! Wild foxes in the woods.”

But by now the room was in full chaos. Mr Puddlesworth had taken it upon himself to lecture the crowd on the dangers of sock fights, which apparently were “the leading cause of holes in footwear,” while Mrs Fiddlebatch was furiously scribbling down notes for her next knitting club meeting, where she planned to launch an anti-clock-brawling campaign.

Meanwhile, Tom Widdlestitch, the town’s resident conspiracy theorist, stood up at the back of the hall, waving a hand dramatically. “Ah, I see what’s going on here!” he shouted. “The mayor’s trying to distract us from the real issue! It’s the pigeons, isn’t it? They’ve been spying on us for weeks! I’ve seen them, with their beady little eyes, watching us from the rooftops, probably working for the secret government.”

The mayor’s face was turning a deep shade of crimson. “No, Tom, this has nothing to do with pigeons or—”

“Ah-ha! You see? That’s exactly what someone working for the pigeons would say!” Tom declared, crossing his arms triumphantly. “You can’t fool me, Higglebottom.”

The mayor was about to respond when Mrs Trumpet, the town’s most notorious gossip, stood up and gasped dramatically. “Did you say pigeons are wearing hats? I knew it! I saw a pigeon last week and thought, ‘That bird looks far too fashionable for Bumbleton.’ I even told Gertrude next door. ‘That pigeon is probably from London,’ I said. Now it all makes sense.”

Mayor Higglebottom, visibly shaken, took a deep breath. “No, Mrs Trumpet, I did not say pigeons are wearing hats. No one is wearing hats!”

Mrs Trumpet, still not listening to a word anyone was saying, turned to Mrs Fiddlebatch. “Did you hear that, dear? The pigeons have hats. No wonder they’ve been acting so suspicious. Probably trying to blend in with the local gentry. Pigeons have no business in fashion, if you ask me.”

Mayor Higglebottom slumped in defeat, realising there was no point trying to explain anymore. Bumbleton would remain a place where socks, clocks, pigeons in hats, and the occasional dancing badger somehow became the centre of every conversation, no matter the original topic.

With a deep sigh, he stepped down from the podium and muttered to himself, “Maybe Tom was right… perhaps the pigeons are behind all of this.”

Harold’s Successful Day

It all started one sunny Saturday morning when Harold decided to visit the farmers’ market. He liked the market because it gave him a chance to chat with the locals—or at least try to. As he wandered past the stalls, a vendor called out to him.

“Would you like to try some fresh apples, sir?” she asked, holding up a basket of shiny red fruit.

Harold blinked, squinting in confusion. “What’s that? Fresh what? Freckles?”

The vendor looked puzzled. “No, apples. Fresh apples!”

Harold nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard good things about wrestling tackles. But I’ll pass today, thank you.”

He strolled off, leaving the vendor shaking her head, wondering what in the world “wrestling tackles” had to do with apples.

Next, Harold spotted his neighbour, Margaret, across the market. She waved cheerfully. “Morning, Harold! How’s the garden coming along?”

Harold cupped a hand to his ear. “Pardon? You want to know if I’m wearing a thong?”

Margaret’s smile faltered. “What? No! I asked about your garden!”

Harold grinned, giving her a thumbs-up. “Oh, don’t you worry, Margaret. I don’t go in for that sort of thing. Strictly boxers for me!”

Margaret quickly made an excuse to leave, muttering something about needing more carrots.

Undeterred, Harold continued his way through the market. He approached a stall selling handmade candles, eager to buy something for his wife, Mabel. The vendor smiled and said, “These are lavender-scented. Great for relaxing.”

Harold tilted his head. “I see. They’re for axing?”

The vendor blinked. “No, relaxing. You know, to help you unwind.”

Harold’s eyes widened. “Oh, heavens! No, I don’t need candles for hacking things up. Mabel’s already hidden the hatchet after that hedge-trimming incident!”

The vendor wisely decided not to ask any follow-up questions and simply nodded as Harold wandered off.

The day continued in much the same fashion. At the cheese stall, he told the cheesemonger he was “definitely not into teething,” when offered some brie to taste. And at the flower stall, he kindly declined an offer for “roses for your wife” because he was “definitely not interested in rubbing toes with my wife.”

Harold ambled further down the market and stopped at a stand selling fresh bread. The baker greeted him warmly. “Good morning! Fancy a loaf? This one’s a lovely sourdough.”

Harold squinted at the loaf and frowned. “Did you just ask if I’d like to marry a toad?”

The baker stared at him in disbelief. “Uh, no, sir. I said sourdough.”

Harold threw his hands up. “Well, I’m flattered, but I’m already married, and to a lovely woman at that! No need for amphibious proposals, thank you!” He gave the baker a knowing wink and hurried off.

Further along, Harold stopped at a table piled high with jams and preserves. The vendor smiled brightly and held up a jar. “How about some strawberry jam? Just made fresh this morning!”

Harold tilted his head. “Strawberry ham? No, no, I’m off pork for a while. Doctor’s orders.”

“Jam!” she corrected, a little more forcefully. “Strawberry jam!”

Harold scratched his head. “No need to get aggressive about it. If I wanted ham, I’d just go to the butcher. But thank you for the offer.”

Harold stopped by the seafood stand, where a young fishmonger was busy arranging freshly caught mackerel. “Morning, sir! Care for some haddock today?”

Harold frowned. “You want me to add up today? What, like maths? I didn’t come here to do sums, young man. I came here for a relaxing stroll!”

The fishmonger blinked. “No, haddock. You know, the fish.”

Harold nodded, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, bad luck. Well, that’s just life, isn’t it? Can’t do much about that.” He gave the fishmonger a consoling pat on the arm and wandered off.

Eventually, Harold reached the coffee cart.

“Hi there! Can I get you a latte?” the barista asked, trying to enunciate as clearly as possible.

Harold leaned in. “What’s that? You want me to get a cat today?”

The barista blinked. “No, latte. You know, coffee?”

Harold’s face brightened. “Ah, you want to talk about fate today! Well, I do like a good philosophical discussion.” He glanced around conspiratorially before leaning in closer. “I’ll tell you, I don’t think much of it. Fate, I mean. Far too overrated. Everything’s a coincidence if you ask me!”

The barista, now completely bewildered, simply nodded, handing him a cup of black coffee without further explanation. Harold tipped his hat, took a sip, and gave her a satisfied smile. “Ah, fate indeed.”

As the sun began to dip behind the clouds and the market wound down, Harold made his way home, thoroughly pleased with his outing. He had declined several strange offers—wrestling tackles, amphibian matrimony, axing candles—and managed to avoid an existential discussion about bad luck fish.

When he arrived home, Mabel was waiting in the kitchen, her eyebrow raised as she saw the strange assortment of items Harold had brought back from the market: a single parsnip, a jar of mustard (which Harold had mistaken for jam), and what appeared to be an umbrella he’d somehow picked up along the way.

“How was the market, dear?” she asked, knowing full well what to expect.

Harold beamed. “Oh, the usual. I refused to marry a toad, turned down some wrestling equipment, and had a rather enlightening chat about fate with a coffee seller. All in all, a successful day.”

Story Time

INT. DOCTOR’S SURGERY – DAY

DOCTOR: Alright, Mr Higgins. Let’s start with something simple. How are you feeling today?

PATIENT: Oh, well, the giraffe seemed pretty unimpressed with the roller skates, if I’m being honest.

DOCTOR: (pausing, confused) …Sorry, did you say giraffe?

PATIENT: Yeah, they’re tall, aren’t they? Always with their heads in the clouds, wondering why sandwiches never come with enough mustard.

DOCTOR: (blinking) Right… Okay, let’s try something else. Do you have any allergies?

PATIENT: Oh, absolutely. I’m allergic to tap dancing on Thursdays. Every time I try, my feet turn into raisins. It’s a nightmare.

DOCTOR: I see. No actual food allergies though? No medications you’re allergic to?

PATIENT: Only when the moon’s full. If I take aspirin under a full moon, I turn into a coat rack. But that’s fairly common, right?

DOCTOR: (sighing) Not exactly common, no… Let’s move on. Do you smoke?

PATIENT: Only when I’m impersonating a chimney sweep. But just for show, you know? Got to keep up appearances at the soot convention.

DOCTOR: (losing composure for a second) The soot convention?

PATIENT: Oh yes, big event. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a competitive soot sweep-off. Those guys take it seriously. Last year, someone brought a vacuum, and things got ugly.

DOCTOR: (looking baffled) Alright, let’s… let’s check your blood pressure.

PATIENT: Ah, blood pressure. That reminds me of the time I tried to sell lemonade to a lobster. He just pinched the cup right out of my hand! Can you believe it?

DOCTOR: I… I can’t say that I can, no.

The doctor wraps the blood pressure cuff around the patient’s arm and begins pumping it, trying to focus on the task. The patient continues.

PATIENT: So, what do you think about the international ban on using trampolines as dinner tables? Personally, I think it’s long overdue. You spill one bowl of soup, and suddenly you’re a public menace.

DOCTOR: (barely paying attention, focused on the cuff) Mm-hmm. Please stay still.

PATIENT: You ever notice that raccoons never hold press conferences? Suspicious, right?

DOCTOR: (pausing mid-pump, staring at him) I… don’t really follow raccoon news.

PATIENT: That’s exactly what they want! Always rummaging through bins, but where’s the transparency? What are they hiding?

DOCTOR: (trying to maintain composure) Okay, I think we’re done here. Your blood pressure seems… well, normal, somehow.

PATIENT: That’s good to hear. It usually spikes when I start thinking about the proper etiquette for high-fiving a porcupine.

DOCTOR: Let’s move on to something simpler. Do you exercise regularly?

PATIENT: Oh, every day. I run a marathon with my pet goldfish, Frederick. He’s great, very motivational. He does most of the swimming, though.

DOCTOR: (blankly) I imagine so. And, uh, how far do you run with Frederick?

PATIENT: We usually stop when the ostrich starts leading the conga line. You can’t ignore an ostrich doing the conga – it’s basically the law.

DOCTOR: (almost impressed at this point) Fascinating. I had no idea conga-dancing ostriches were so authoritative.

PATIENT: Oh, absolutely. They’re in charge of all dance-related legislation. That’s why you never see them salsa dancing. They’re above it. Strictly conga.

DOCTOR: (At a loss for words) …Right. Well, we’re almost done here. Any family history of heart disease?

PATIENT: Well, my great-aunt Ethel once fell in love with a stop sign. Does that count?

DOCTOR: I don’t think so, no.

PATIENT: It was unrequited, though. The stop sign was already in a relationship with an exit sign. Tragic, really.

DOCTOR: (with an exasperated sigh) Okay, Mr Higgins, I think we’re done for today. I’ll… recommend you for further evaluation.

PATIENT: Great! Just make sure it’s not on a Wednesday. That’s when I herd sheep across the Atlantic. They’re very punctual.

DOCTOR: (nods, standing up and gesturing toward the door) Of course. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the schedule. Good luck with the sheep.

PATIENT: Thanks, Doctor! Oh, and one last thing – do you know where I can get a license to operate a hot air balloon made entirely of mashed potatoes?

DOCTOR: (baffled) …No, but I’ll look into it.

PATIENT: Much appreciated! Have a good one! Remember, if you ever meet a walrus with a monocle, don’t trust him – he has a wonderful way with words, but next thing you know, you’re swimming round in circles like a north sea mackerel!

DOCTOR: (staring after him as he leaves, bewildered) Noted.

Letters to the Sea

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

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

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

One summer, a girl named Anya arrived in the village with her parents, trying to find a place that felt like home. She noticed Elias immediately, sitting by the shore each morning. One day, when she gathered the courage, she approached him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Butter-Toaster 3000

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

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

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

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

“Welcome, friends! Behold—the Butter-Toaster 3000! A toaster that not only toasts your bread to perfection but butters it for you with the precision only a machine can achieve!”

Nigel pulled off a dusty sheet to reveal the monstrous appliance. He placed a slice of bread in the toaster and pressed the button. The machine hummed loudly, with sparks flying here and there—slightly concerningly, but Nigel assured everyone this was part of the “innovation process”.

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

For a moment, there was silence.

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

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

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

The Empty Bench

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Last Evening

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

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

She placed her hand on the trunk.

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

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

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

“Stay.”

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

“Stay with us.”

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

“You belong here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sicilian Single Estate Olive Oil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Do

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

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

                  1.              Wake up ✔️

                  2.              Breathe ✔️

                  3.              Stare at phone ✔️

                  4.              Check fridge for snacks ✔️

Mr Nibbles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, a faint shuffling emerged from the darkness. Dave held his breath. Shane clung to his wooden spoon in anticipation. From the shadowy depths, the tiny nose of Mr Nibbles appeared, followed by his rapidly twitching whiskers. Enticed by the aroma of cheddar, Mr Nibbles cautiously emerged from the gap, his demeanour turning to nonchalance, as though entirely indifferent to the commotion around him.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Dave sighed, swiftly scooping up the diminutive escapee. Mr Nibbles blinked lazily, seemingly oblivious to the drama he had caused. Shane gave Dave a congratulatory tap on the shoulder with his spoon, “Told you, cheese never fails. Well, except for that time my cat met a raccoon… but that’s another story.”

10 Absolutely True Facts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for Tea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of favour?” Nigel asked cautiously.

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

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

“Deal,” Nigel muttered through gritted teeth.

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

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

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

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

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

Black Hollow Wood

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

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

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

The air was beginning to turn cold as he entered the woods, the trees looming high above, their branches twisted like skeletal hands against the darkening sky. Thomas walked in deeper, following the forgotten paths that wound through the forest, until he found a clearing near the old stone well—the same location where Elara’s shawl had been found decades before—and set up camp.

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

As midnight approached, he began to hear something. At first, it was just the faintest murmur, like a breeze brushing through the trees. But then it grew louder, more distinct—a cacophony of whispers, overlapping and indistinct, swirling through the woods around him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw movement darting between the trees. He stood up, scanning the darkness, but nothing was there.

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

“Hel-lo?” he stammered.

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

When he looked back, the woman was gone.

Thomas, startled, moved towards the well. The closer he got, the colder the air became. The fire, once a source of warmth and light, seemed feeble and dying. He stood at the edge of the well, staring into its depths.

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

Thomas desperately pulled back and broke free. He ran through the woods, branches tearing at his clothes, the sound of movement stirring in the undergrowth behind him. He didn’t stop until he burst from the tree line, gasping, his body heaving with fear.

A group of villagers found him the next morning, huddled at the edge of the woods, trembling and pale. He wouldn’t speak of what he saw that night, but the haunted look in his eyes told them what they already knew. Black Hollow Wood was not a place for the living.