3:13

The flat was perfect—at least, that’s what Emma had thought when she first moved in. Affordable rent, a decent view of the park, and most importantly, no damp. A rare find in London.

But in the hallway, opposite the bathroom, was a door that shouldn’t be. Emma was certain it hadn’t been there when she first viewed the place. The estate agent had walked her through every inch of the floor space, pointing out the period features, the “charming” creaky floorboards, and the dodgy boiler that he’d assured Emma was “practically brand new.” But this door… this door was new.

She stood in front of it, pressing a hand against the wood. The paint was a shade darker than the rest of the flat’s off-white doors, and lumpy in patches, like it had been applied in a hurry. She rattled the handle. It didn’t budge. No keyhole, no markings—just a plain, inexplicable door where there shouldn’t be one.

Emma frowned. “Weird,” she muttered to herself.

Over the next few days, she tried to ignore it. She told herself it must’ve been there all along, that she’d simply overlooked it in her excitement about the move.

Then, the knocking started.

It came late at night, soft and rhythmic.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Emma sat bolt upright in bed the first time she heard it. She held her breath, listening. Maybe it was the neighbours. These old flats had thin walls, and sound carried.

But no. It was coming from inside. From that door.

She didn’t sleep much that night.

The next morning, she approached it cautiously, pressing her ear against the wood. Silence. Maybe she’d imagined it. Stress and moving fatigue could do that, right?

By the next night, she knew she hadn’t imagined anything.

Tap. Tap. Tap. At 3:13 AM.

Emma started leaving the hallway light on, watching the door from the safety of her bedroom. Nothing changed—just the knocking. Relentlessly precise. Three precise knocks. Always starting at 3:13. Never a second earlier, never a second later.

She called the landlord in the morning. “There’s a door in my hallway,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “It wasn’t there before.”

A pause. Then, “What door?”

Emma’s grip tightened on the phone. “The one opposite the bathroom. It’s locked, and… I think someone might be—” She hesitated, feeling ridiculous. “Knocking.”

The landlord sighed, like he’d heard it all before. “That flat’s been empty a while. Maybe you’re hearing things. Old buildings creak.”

“But it’s not creaking,” Emma insisted. “It’s knocking.”

A longer pause. “I’ll send someone round,” the landlord said, but Emma suspected the comment was just to get her off the phone.

That night, she stayed up again, staring at the door. The clock ticked over to 3:13.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Emma couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed a hammer from a toolbox she hadn’t finished unpacking and marched over to the door. “Who’s there?” she demanded, raising it in her hand.

No answer.

She swung. The hammer struck the wood with a dull thud… but instead of splintering, it felt… wrong. Like hitting something soft beneath the surface. Something that moved.

She backed away slowly, dropping the hammer. “No!” Emma grabbed her coat and keys and hurried out of the flat, leaving the door behind.

When she returned the next morning, dreading what she might find, the door was gone. The wall was smooth, freshly painted. No sign it had ever existed.

She stood there for a while, staring at the empty space.

Later, when she called the landlord again, he insisted there had never been a door.

And at 3:13 AM that night, from somewhere within the hall wall, Emma heard it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Expired

Jack woke up groggy, and there it was—tattooed in stark black ink across the inside of his wrist: “Expires 26/01/2025”. Today’s date.

He stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over yesterday’s discarded jeans, and rushed to the mirror. He turned his wrist under the bright bathroom light, hoping maybe it was a pen’s ink, or a trick of the eye, but the skin was smooth and unblemished except for those markings—stark, unwavering.

He scrubbed it furiously with soap and water. Nothing.

“Okay,” he said to himself, pacing the small bathroom. “Okay, think.”

People don’t just get expiration dates. That’s not how the world works. This was probably some weird stress-induced hallucination. Work had been rough lately, and he’d barely been sleeping. Maybe it was his brain’s way of telling him to take a break.

But what if it wasn’t?

Jack glanced at the clock—8:12 AM. He had to do something. He wasn’t going to just sit around and wait to… expire.

He grabbed his phone and dialled his sister.

“Hi,” Lily answered, her voice still thick with sleep. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a problem,” Jack said, his voice shaking more than he wanted it to. “I woke up this morning and there’s… there’s a date on my wrist.”

A pause. “Like… a tattoo?”

“No. I mean, yes. But not one I put there. It just… appeared.”

Lilly sighed. “Jack, is this another weird dream thing? Because last time you called me about a talking cat.”

“This isn’t like that, Lil,” he snapped. “It’s today’s date. What if it means I’m going to—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “You know.”

Lilly groaned. “You’re not going to die, Jack.”

“How do you know?”

A longer pause this time. “I don’t,” she admitted. “But you’re not exactly the healthiest person in the world. Maybe the clinic is warning you to lay off the late-night kebabs.”

Jack glanced at his wrist again. It hadn’t faded. If anything, the ink seemed darker now, bolder.

“I think I need to see someone,” he said.

“Like a doctor? Or a priest?” Lily asked dryly.

“I don’t know. Both?”

She sighed again. “Look, just… take it easy today. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jack muttered, hanging up.

He spent the rest of the morning on edge, jumping at every unexpected noise—the creak of the floorboards, the sudden ring of his phone. He stayed indoors, afraid to step outside, afraid that the universe might be waiting for him out there with a well-placed bus or a rogue piano falling from a window.

Hours crawled by, and nothing happened. He watched the clock intensely. 1:00 PM. 3:30 PM.

By 6:45 PM, Jack was sitting on his sofa, breathing deeply. Maybe this had been a coincidence. Some weird, unexplained phenomenon that didn’t actually mean anything.

And then the doorbell rang.

Jack stared at the door. He glanced at his wrist—no change.

The bell rang again. He forced himself to stand up and walk to the door.

When he opened it, a man in a dark suit stood there, holding a clipboard. He was tall, thin, with eyes too sharp and a smile too polite.

“Mr Jack Evans?” the man asked.

“Yeah?”

The man nodded and flipped through the pages on his clipboard. “Just confirming. You are aware today is your expiration date?”

“You mean… it’s real?”

“Oh yes.” The man looked up with an expressionless face. “But don’t worry. It’s nothing painful. Just… a bureaucratic formality, really.”

Jack edged away. “I don’t—I don’t want to expire.”

“Ah, well.” The man stepped inside uninvited, shutting the door behind him. “We don’t always get a say in these things, Mr Evans.”

Jack glanced around, looking for an escape, but the man was faster. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, sleek push-button device.

With a soft click, the world faded to black.

When Jack woke up, he was lying in bed. His heart was pounding as usual, sweat was dampening his sheets, but something felt… different. He scrambled to check his wrist. The date was gone.

He sat up, gasping. A dream? A hallucination?

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:

Your expiration date has been renewed. Don’t waste it.

Dragon for Hire

Once, kings and queens trembled at the mere thought of my name. Gold piled high beneath my claws, and knights perished trying to steal a single coin. Bards sang of my fury, my fire, my wings casting shadows over trembling villages. But now?

Now, I sit outside a tavern with a crudely painted sign: “DRAGON FOR HIRE”.

It’s pathetic, I know. But what else can an old firedrake do? The kingdoms have moved on. No one wants their villages burned anymore. They have knights with shining swords who negotiate treaties instead of lopping off heads. And don’t get me started on the wizards—smug little bastards with their flashy spells and their clever ways of making my fire seem… obsolete.

I sigh, curling my tail around me, the tip flicking absently against a barrel. A few townsfolk pass by, giving me wary glances but nothing more. Not fear, not awe. Just mild irritation, as if I’m a nuisance—a dragon-shaped inconvenience blocking the street.

I glance down at the sign, wondering if I should adjust the wording. “Mild Arson for Hire” has a nice ring to it. Maybe “Pest Control: Will Roast Rats”. No. Too desperate.

Just as I’m about to pack up and sulk back to my cave, a small voice pipes up.

“I need a dragon.”

I peer down, and there stands a girl no older than eleven, dressed in patched clothes and carrying a basket full of what smells suspiciously like turnips. She squints up at me, entirely unimpressed.

I snort. “And what, exactly, do you need a dragon for?”

She tilts her head, considering. “Protection.”

I straighten a little, intrigued. “Protection from what? Bandits? Marauding knights? An evil sorcerer?”

She shakes her head. “Billy Tanner.”

I blink. “Billy… Tanner?”

She sighs, shifting the basket to her other arm. “He keeps stealing my turnips.”

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come.

“You want to hire a dragon,” I say slowly, “to scare off a turnip thief?”

She nods. “I can pay.”

My tail flicks. “How much?”

She rummages in her pocket and pulls out a single copper coin. It’s dull and worn, and probably not worth much, but she holds it out with the same gravity as if it were a king’s ransom.

I look at the coin. I look at her. And then, because I have truly reached rock bottom, I sigh and say, “Fine.”

Her face lights up. “Really?”

I shrug, stretching my wings with a theatrical flare that sends nearby chickens scattering. “Work is work.”

She grins and leads me through the village, where people step hurriedly out of my way, some muttering complaints about property damage and the fire hazard I apparently represent.

We reach the field where Billy Tanner, a wiry boy with more dirt than manners, is rooting through the girl’s vegetable patch. He looks up, sees me towering over him, and freezes.

I rumble low in my throat, letting a thin plume of smoke curl from my nostrils. “Is there a problem here, Billy?”

Billy Tanner pales. “N-no, sir!” He drops the turnip like it’s cursed and sprints off, vanishing over the hill.

The girl beams at me. “That was amazing!”

I huff, feeling slightly ridiculous. “Yes, well. Next time, consider installing a fence.”

She hands me the coin, placing it carefully in my claw. “Thanks, Mr Dragon.”

I watch her go, feeling an odd warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with fire.

Maybe the world has changed, but perhaps there’s still a place for an old dragon after all.

I glance at my sign and, with a decisive claw, scratch out the old wording.

“DRAGON FOR HIRE – Reasonable Rates. Turnip Protection Available.”

Business might just be looking up.

Two Cups

The bell above the door chimed softly as Samuel stepped inside, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee welcoming him.

He shuffled to his usual spot by the window, the one with the best view of the bustling street outside. And, as always, he ordered two cups of coffee—one black, one with just a dash of milk.

The waitress, a young woman with kind eyes and an understanding smile, never asked why. She simply placed both cups on the table, offered her usual, “Here you go, Sam,” and walked away.

Samuel sat there, hands wrapped around his cup, as the world passed by. He could still see her there, across from him—the way she used to rest her chin on one hand, stirring her coffee absentmindedly with the other.

He smiled faintly, remembering how she’d always teased him about ordering the same thing every day. And he’d laugh, because it was true. He liked routine. He liked knowing she’d always be there, sitting across from him.

But now, the seat in front of him remained empty. It had been two years since she was gone, but Samuel still ordered her coffee. He couldn’t bear the thought of the table with only one cup sitting there.

He reached for the cup meant for her, fingers trembling slightly as he traced the rim. He never drank it, just let it sit there, letting the steam rise and vanish into the air. It was enough to imagine, just for a little while, that she was still with him.

Outside, life carried on. People hurried past the café window, chasing buses, checking their watches, lost in the urgency of their lives. But inside, time moved differently. Slowly. Softly.

Samuel sighed and glanced down at the coffee across from him, still untouched, still waiting.

Maybe one day he’d stop ordering it. Maybe one day he’d sit at a different table, or come at a different time, or maybe even stay home altogether.

But not today. Today, he let the coffee sit, let the memory linger, and let himself believe—just for a moment—that love never truly dies.

Another Life

He was staring out of the train window, his expression distant, as though his thoughts were somewhere far beyond the station’s railway tracks. He looked older, but not by much. The familiar furrow between his brows remained—the same small crease that appeared when he was thinking too hard, the one she used to smooth away with her fingertips.

Emily’s fingers twitched against her paper coffee cup, her mind racing through the possibilities. Should she get up? Wave? Call his name?

But she didn’t move. Instead, she watched him the way she used to, quietly, observing him in the way only someone who once loved him could. Her eyes traced the familiar lines of his face, the shape of his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly as though he were about to speak.

And then, as if he could feel her gaze, David turned his head towards her. He blinked, his expression shifting—recognition, surprise, something deeper.

Her train lurched forward. She saw his lips part wider, the distance swallowing the words he might have been about to say. She held his gaze for as long as she could, watching as he disappeared out of sight.

Emily dropped her head against the glass. In another life, she might have jumped off the train. In another life, she might have smiled and said hello.

But not this life.

She let him become a memory again, left behind on a station in a city she would soon pass through and forget.

Colour Code

In the city of Glaustrum, everything was colour-coded. From the moment you were born, you were assigned a colour—blue for the labourers, red for the managers, gold for the leisured. The colour dictated your home, your income, your friends, and even the food you were allowed to eat. No one questioned it; they simply accepted their place within the spectrum.

Marla had never questioned her role as a Green. Greens were the healers, the caretakers. It was an honourable colour, her mother had told her, and Marla had believed it—until the day she saw the impossible.

It happened in the marketplace, amidst the stalls of tightly controlled colours—scarlet apples for the Reds, indigo fish for the Blues, buttery pastries reserved for the Golds. She was weaving through the crowd when she saw it.

A man. Dressed in white.

White was for the Unseen, the ones who had been cast out, stripped of their place in society. Yet here he was, standing in plain view, looking directly at her with eyes too sharp, too knowing.

She blinked, and he was gone.

For days, she tried to push the image from her mind. It must have been a trick of the light. But then, the colours around her started to shift. She noticed it in the mornings, the way the sky wasn’t quite blue anymore but tinged with something deeper, richer. The streets seemed less sterile, the shop signs seemed brighter, almost alive.

And then she began seeing other colours.

Colours that didn’t belong. A child’s toy, shimmering in hues she couldn’t name. A flicker of lavender in a Red district. A flash of silver on a Blue’s collar. The world was changing—or maybe it had always been like this, and she had only now begun to see.

Her mother noticed the change in her. “Marla, you’re distracted,” she chided. “Stay focused on your duties. The Council monitors everything.”

The Council. The faceless enforcers of the Colour Code. What would they do to her if they knew she was seeing beyond the approved spectrum? She already knew the answer. She would be disappeared, like her father had been when she was born.

The man dressed in white returned a week later, in the crowded bustle of a train station. This time, he didn’t disappear. He walked straight towards her, his voice low but insistent.

“You’re seeing it now, aren’t you?”

Marla flinched. “Seeing what?”

“The truth,” he said.

He reached into his coat and pulled out something small and smooth. A prism. He held it up to the station lights, and suddenly, the entire platform fractured into a riot of colours Marla had never known existed.

The reds were no longer red—they were scarlet, crimson, blood. The blues became sapphire, cerulean, indigo. There were colours she had no words for, and beneath them all, the shimmering pulse of something raw and uncontained.

He pressed the prism into her hand. “You can either look away, or you can start seeing everything.”

She hesitated. It was safer to live within the Colour Code, to let its rules dictate her place. But the thought of those shimmering shades, those unnamed possibilities—she couldn’t let them go.

Marla closed her fingers around the prism and, for the first time in her life, made a choice outside of the code. She realised she would never see the world in the same way again.

The Liar’s Mark

When Ester woke up, her skin was aglow with scars. At first, she thought it must be the sunlight breaking through the blinds, casting strange patterns on her arms and neck. But when she stepped closer to the mirror, there they were—faint, shimmering lines, crisscrossing her skin. Some were so faint they barely flickered, but others glowed brighter, red threads pulsing as though alive.

Ester had prided herself on her honesty. While others wore their glowing marks openly—reminders of small deceptions, unspoken truths, or bold-faced lies—her skin had always been clear. She had never been like them. Not a liar.

And yet, here the lines were. Her hands reached for the bathroom sink, gripping its edges for balance. She tried to think of a recent lie, something she’d said that might explain this. A harmless white lie, perhaps? But nothing came to mind.

She leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting her face. A single line stretched from the corner of her jaw to her temple, faint yet unmistakable. It burned softly, like an ember. She traced it with her fingertips and felt the heat.

Her mind flitted through the past days, weeks—years. She tried to pinpoint a moment, an untruth, anything to explain why her once-pristine skin now bore these marks.

She stood back, staring at her reflection, the pale lines burning in the morning light. Slowly, pieces of her life came into focus, like fragments of an old, half-forgotten photograph.

There was the job offer for that dream marine biologist role on the other side of the world that she’d never dared to accept. “It’s too risky. Better stick with something safe.” The faintest mark on her collarbone flickered now, a dull reminder of that choice.

There was the friend she had loved in silence, convincing herself it was better not to speak. “It would ruin everything,” she had told herself. But the truth was simpler: she had been afraid. The glowing scar on her wrist pulsed in response to the memory, faint yet persistent.

There were many moments like these. The job she took out of convenience, despite hating every minute of it. The opportunities she let slip by because she had convinced herself she wasn’t ready. Each mark told its story.

Back in her bedroom, she sank down on the edge of the bed, staring at her arms. The brightest mark ran the length of her forearm. She knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t just one moment—it was the culmination of all the chances not taken.

The truth burned through her now, the glow of her marks impossible to ignore. They were a map of every compromise, every excuse, every self-deception. She had spent her life pretending she had made the right choices. But the marks didn’t lie.

Ester sat there for a long time, staring at the burns etched into her skin. She didn’t know what came next, whether the marks would ever fade or if she would be forced to carry them forever.

But for the first time in years, she couldn’t look away from herself. She couldn’t pretend anymore.

The Hum

The forest pulsed with colours she didn’t know existed. Clara leaned against a tree, her fingers sinking into its bark as if it were breathing, alive in a way she could feel. Every leaf shimmered, a cascade of fractals spilling down into eternity. Her body felt both infinite and dissolving. She could hear her heartbeat, not in her chest but in the ground beneath her. It synced with the rhythm of something ancient, a hum that vibrated through the soil and into her bones. Her breath became mist, but it didn’t dissipate; it danced, swirling in intricate patterns before her eyes. A version of herself stared back from the haze, her eyes wide with the same wonder she felt in this moment.

“Who are you?” Clara asked.

 “Whoever you need me to be.” The voice was her own, echoing as the mist broke apart, spinning away in ribbons that wrapped around the trees before fading into the vibrant, breathing night.

She stepped forward, her legs unsteady, each movement leaving trails of light in the air. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she felt no fear. The forest wanted her here, every root and branch leaning closer as if welcoming her home. A stream bubbled nearby, the water not clear but glowing, swirling with colours like melted jewels. She knelt by it and cupped her hands, letting the liquid drip through her fingers. As it touched her skin, it sang—a symphony so beautiful that tears rolled down her cheeks.

She walked as if it were all one moment, feeling herself blend with all the colours around her. The forest was her, and she was the forest. She could no longer tell where her heartbeat ended and the hum began.

When the first light of dawn painted the sky in pale orange and pink, Clara emerged from the woods. She looked back, expecting to see the vibrant kaleidoscopic beauty of the night, but it was just trees now, still and ordinary. She stared at her hands; they were her hands again, not glowing or dissolving.

Yet in her chest, the hum remained.

Unspoken

The café was small and unassuming, tucked away in a side street neither of them had reason to visit. 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 on his cheek, 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 Daniel a little too long. He 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, slipping through the dim glow of fluorescent yellow light.

“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. 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. 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 smile was disarming, playful without being intrusive.

“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. “I see. The worthy life of serving the public.”

“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.”

“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. “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’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen: a notification from her calendar. Mum’s anniversary.

“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 in response. “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, but Blake stayed where he was. Ellie 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, she turned to look out the window. But the platform was empty. Blake was gone.

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

Clause and Effect

INT. A DUSTY ATTIC – NIGHT

A LAWYER in a suit wipes off an ancient lamp 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: 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 (noun): 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 £1,000,000,000,000.00 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 cleverest 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 –

The genie snaps his fingers.

GENIE: (slowly disappearing back into the lamp) Nope. You can wish as much as you like, but I’m out. This has all now been a day-dream! Have fun with your infinite wishes. Byeeeeee!

The Lawyer stares at the lamp, stunned. He looks at his phone alert, which changes before his eyes to read: “You have received £0.00 from A. Genie.”

LAWYER: (to himself) Well, guess I’ll start drafting my terms for an appeal.

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

Poets’ Corner After Dark

INT. WESTMINSTER ABBEY’S SOUTH TRANSEPT – MIDNIGHT

Moonlight filters through stained glass windows amongst the statues and busts of Poets’ Corner.

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.

AUSTEN: (ignored) Hello?

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: (to Byron) 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, endlessly.

BYRON: Come, Miss Austin – trade me your sharp quill for softer pursuits; wit may warm my mind, but only passion can set it ablaze.

AUSTEN: Lord Byron, your passions burn so bright they most frequently extinguish themselves – do let me know when one lasts long enough to cast a steady light.

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

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) He gazed into her eyes, his chiselled jaw trembling with passion…

Byron claps his hands over his ears.

BYRON: What fresh hell is this?

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) Rain fell in slow motion, though neither of them got wet, because love is waterproof.

AUSTEN: Modern romance. Quite popular, actually.

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) "I’ve never felt this way before," he whispered huskily, his voice thick with a past he’d never fully explain.

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

Chaucer waves his arms to get attention. The audiobook stops.

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.

CHAUCER: TikTok?

The others groan in unison.

SHAKESPEARE: How about…?

Shakespeare starts scribbling with an invisible quill. The other poets join in, creating ethereal manuscripts that float in the air. Byron spends most of his time striking poses.

AUSTEN: Okay… (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, Shelley… we could just leave it in the gift shop.

They all pause. Byron shrugs.

As dawn approaches, the poets resume their statuesque forms, ready to inspire from their silent vigil once more.

INT. THE GIFT SHOP – DAY

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: The City of Florence

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 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: Astro Colony Alpha

The Earth is just a blue dot in the distance, almost too small to remember. Here, life is regimented: five 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 lost moment”. 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 Edge of Time

I’ve found it at last—a place I’d only heard whispering through the cracks of history. The library exists on the edge 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 along a path through its halls 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 the echoes of eternity.

Resolutions

I will aim to be more physical in 2025. I would like to live more through connection to full-body presence than static thinking.

Viewing social media is addictive but doesn’t make me feel good, so I will aim to not look at it much. I think that, for me personally, it can pollute and over-stimulate my mind, and often distracts me from better ways to live.

I have a list of ten life areas I aim to attend to each day. The balance of attention can change according to the events of the day, and the outcomes, if I focus on where I am and what I am doing, can look after themselves.

I will aim to write down my thoughts and actions rather than loop in my head on issues and imagined future scenarios.

I would like to be more of a fully functioning human being this year. I would like to help. If possible, I would like real, genuine human connection.

Off the Menu

INT. RESTAURANT – EVENING

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.

Christmas Game

Congratulations on purchasing Ultra-Vortex Cheeseboard Frenzy! This game, banned in 32 countries and heralded as “unplayable” by 8 out of 10 philosophers, combines strategy, physics, absurdity, and a deep understanding of 14th-century French dairy law.

Prepare yourself for a multi-dimensional showdown of wit, patience, and vaguely cheese-related mishaps. Warning: Side effects may include confusion, existential dread, and mild brie cravings.

Components

      1.   The Board: A holographic hexagonal grid that shifts unpredictably with each turn. It includes:

        •  Cheese Nebula Zone (centre): Where hopes go to die.

        •  Portal Nodes: Scattered randomly (re-roll their locations every 3 rounds).

        •  Void of Emmental Despair: Any token landing here is banished forever.

      2.   Tokens:

        •  4 Cheese Wedges per player (each wedge is equipped with a mood ring to reflect its “quantum temperament”).

        •  2 Anti-Cheese Sporks (sporks, because spoons are passé).

        •  1 Schrödinger’s Hamster (optional expansion pack required).

        •  5 Temporal Mice per player, each named after a European philosopher.

      3.   Dice:

        •  A standard d6.

        •  A d12 inscribed with ancient runes (translate using Appendix Zeta).

        •  A d100 the size of a grapefruit. If it rolls under the sofa, all players must immediately freeze in place until the hamster token retrieves it.

      4.   Cards:

        •  72 Quantum Rift Cards.

        •  40 Cheese Subtype Modifier Cards (e.g., “Camembert of Destruction,” “Cheddar of Betrayal”).

        •  1 Black Hole Cheese Card (DO NOT TOUCH).

      5.   Miscellaneous:

        •  One Wheel of Feta spinner (use only during an odd-numbered round).

        •  A small bell (used to summon the Interdimensional Cheese Council).

        •  The Emergency Gouda Token (break glass only when truly desperate).

Setup

      1.   Board Placement:

        •  Unfold the board carefully. If it folds itself back up, do not panic—this is normal. Unfold it again.

        •  Randomly place Portal Nodes by rolling the d12 and consulting the Astral Cheeseboard Alignment Chart. If the chart catches fire, consult a priest.

      2.   Determine Player Roles:

        •  Assign one player the role of High Cheese Regent. This is decided by a “Cheese Duel,” which involves balancing a cheese wedge on your head while reciting the full text of Beowulf.

        •  The player with the least knowledge of dairy becomes the Keeper of the Sporks.

      3.   Token Distribution:

        •  Each player receives 4 Cheese Wedges, 5 Temporal Mice, and 1 Anti-Cheese Spork. The High Cheese Regent starts with the Emergency Gouda Token but must wear an oven mitt on their dominant hand for the first three turns.

        •  Place Schrödinger’s Hamster in the Cheese Nebula Zone. It exists and does not exist simultaneously until activated.

      4.   Initial Card Draw: Each player draws 2 Quantum Rift Cards, 1 Cheese Subtype Modifier Card, and a fortune-telling card from any tarot deck you have lying around.

Gameplay

Each game is divided into 12½ Temporal Cycles, with each cycle consisting of 5 Phases. Proceed in clockwise order unless the board is in a quantum flux state, in which case reverse direction while humming Greensleeves.

Phase 1: Invocation of the Cheese Spirits

      1.   All players chant, “BRIE OR NOT TO BRIE, THAT IS THE QUESTION!”

      2.   Roll the d12 to determine which player is blessed by the Spirits of Dairy this turn. Blessed players may immediately move one Temporal Mouse into a Portal Node of their choosing.

Phase 2: Quantum Cheese Allocation

      1.   Each player rolls the d100.

        •  If the result is a multiple of 7, draw a Cheese Subtype Modifier Card.

        •  If the result is prime, gain 3 “Dairy Points.”

        •  If the result is 42, all players must bow to the High Cheese Regent.

      2.   Players may spend “Dairy Points” to move their Cheese Wedges or purchase an Anti-Cheese Spork upgrade.

Phase 3: Portal Manipulation

      1.   Spin the Wheel of Feta. The result determines which Portal Nodes are “active.”

      2.   If Schrödinger’s Hamster is in play, roll the d6 to decide whether it eats a cheese wedge, causes a time paradox, or simply stares at everyone judgmentally.

Phase 4: Cheese Combat

      1.   Players may challenge others to a duel using their Temporal Mice.

        •  Each player rolls the d12 and adds their Cheese Resonance Score (tracked using the Mood Rings of Quantum Balance).

        •  The loser must surrender one Cheese Wedge or perform an interpretive dance of defeat.

Phase 5: Reckoning

      1.   Draw a Quantum Rift Card and follow its instructions. These may include:

        •  Swapping Cheese Wedges with another player.

        •  Opening a vortex to the Void of Emmental Despair.

        •  Summoning the Interdimensional Cheese Council, which requires all players to argue passionately about the best type of cheese for at least 3 minutes.

      2.   Resolve any remaining effects from previous turns, such as mousenados, black holes, or unresolved grudges.

Winning the Game

The game ends when any of the following occurs:

      1.   A player accumulates exactly 100 Dairy Points.

      2.   The Black Hole Cheese Card is drawn, causing reality to implode.

      3.   All players unanimously agree to abandon the game out of sheer bewilderment.

The winner is crowned Supreme Cheese Emperor of Space-Time and is entitled to free cheese-themed puns for life.

Good luck, brave soul. You’re going to need it.

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. 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 next week’s main pre-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 them; 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

INT. DIMLY LIT MEDIEVAL MEETING CHAMBER – NIGHT

A mismatched group of people sit around a long table, all wearing hoods and robes. The Protagonist (let’s call him 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 a 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 by robed figures 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: (loudly whispering) Everything.

ALEX: (leans in) Like what?

LEADER #2: (louder) Stop asking questions!

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

LEADER #2: (not hearing the comment) You are 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 by more robed figures 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.

Before Alex can begin, another bookcase hidden door opens, revealing an elderly man sitting alone in a minimalist room.

LEADER #4: Don’t bother with that. Come in. You’ve reached the Ultimate Society.

The members of the Society of Infinite Layers tut their disapproval, as Alex enters the latest hidden room.

ALEX: (sceptical) Are you absolutely sure?

LEADER #4: Yes. I am the secret head of all secret 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

INT. A QUIET CAFÉ – DAY

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… The Death. Big D. Grim Reaper. Ringing any bells?

STEVE: (staring) Death? As in… 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, anyway, 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…