The Old House

It was an old Victorian mansion, nestled at the edge of the woods, far from the rest of town. Alice and Mark bought it for a bargain, thrilled at the idea of renovating the grand old place and making it their own. Sure, it was a bit run-down, but it had character—high ceilings, ornate banisters, and a sprawling, overgrown garden that had long been forgotten by human hands.

The first night they moved in, the house was still. The air inside was musty, and rooms were thick with dust that hadn’t been disturbed for years. The house creaked and groaned, but it felt like home in a way that their previous apartment never had.

But the next morning, something had changed.

It was Alice who noticed it first. As she wandered through the main hallway to the kitchen to make breakfast, she saw a door that hadn’t been there before. It was plain, unremarkable, and yet she was certain it hadn’t existed when they’d done their walkthroughs. Curious, she opened it.

Behind the door was a new room. A study, lined with bookshelves filled with dusty old volumes, and a mahogany desk facing a large window that looked out into the woods. She stared at it, puzzled. They had toured the house a couple of times before buying it—there had been no study, and certainly no room like this.

“Mark,” she called out, her voice tinged with confusion.

He came quickly. “What is it?”

“This… this room. It wasn’t here yesterday.”

Mark frowned, stepping inside to inspect it. “Maybe we just missed it. The house is big.”

But Alice wasn’t convinced. She would’ve remembered a room like this—it felt lived-in, somehow, like someone had just left it moments ago. The air still smelled faintly of wood polish, fresh enough to make her uneasy.

They brushed it off, assuming it had just been overlooked. After all, they were still getting used to the house’s sprawling layout.

But the next morning, it happened again.

Another new door. Another new room.

This time, it was a small, cozy sitting room, with plush armchairs arranged around an unlit fireplace. The furniture was old-fashioned, as if plucked from a different era, yet untouched by dust or decay. Mark tried to explain it away again, but Alice could hear the doubt creeping into his voice.

By the end of the week, the house had grown considerably. There was now a second kitchen, a library, a music room, even a ballroom with chandeliers that sparkled in the morning light. The mansion was becoming a maze, and they were losing track of where they’d been and where they were going.

“This can’t be possible,” Alice said one evening as they sat in the original living room, the only space that still felt familiar.

Mark didn’t reply. He had spent the day trying to measure the house, counting steps from one end to the other, but no matter how he tried, the measurements never added up. The rooms seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking, expanding and stretching into places that shouldn’t be possible.

A week later, Alice woke to find Mark standing by a door she hadn’t seen before. His face was pale, his eyes hollow.

“I heard something last night,” he said, his voice shaking. “Coming from behind this door.”

“What did you hear?”

“Voices.”

They stood in silence, staring at the door. It was plain, just like the others, but something about it felt different. Darker. As if the house was waiting for them to open it.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Alice said anxiously, but Mark was already reaching for the knob.

The door creaked open, revealing a long, narrow hallway lined with paintings of unfamiliar faces, all carrying the same distant, sorrowful look. At the end of the hallway, there was another door, slightly ajar.

Mark stepped forward. “We have to see where this goes.”

They walked together. The air grew colder as they approached the door at the end, and with each step, Alice felt a growing sense of dread.

When they reached the door, Mark pushed it open.

Inside was a bedroom. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn. But the most unsettling thing was the photograph on the nightstand—a picture of Alice and Mark, standing in front of the house, as if it were taken recently. Only… they had never taken such a photo.

A soft sound filled the room. It was the faintest of whispers, barely audible. It came from the walls, the floor, the very bones of the house.

Mark turned to Alice, his face drained of colour. “We have to leave.”

But as they rushed towards the door, the hallway beyond shifted. The corridor they had come from was gone—replaced by a room of doors, leading to more rooms, all leading deeper into the house.

Slowly, they had begun to realise the truth: the house wasn’t just expanding. It was pulling them in deeper, further from the outside world, absorbing them into its bowels.

After such a long fast, the house had finally received another meal.

The Silence Between

Ellie was walking through the market, the usual melee of thoughts surrounding her. A woman bartering for vegetables was thinking about her sick child. A man was worried about losing his job. Ellie heard it all—the undercurrent of humanity, as clear as spoken words.

Then, nothing.

For the first time in her life, Ellie couldn’t hear a single thought. She stopped. The market was still bustling, people still moving and talking, but the noise… it was gone.

In the middle of that strange silence stood a man. He was leaning against a fruit stall, casually, like he belonged there—but Ellie had never seen him before. His mind was a void, an empty space where there should have been something—no thoughts, no emotions. Just… silence.

She stared at him. He looked up, locking eyes with her, as if he’d been waiting. The world around them blurred. He smiled slightly, then pushed off the stall and began to walk away, disappearing into the crowd.

Ellie’s feet moved before her mind could catch up. She followed him, weaving through the market, desperate to understand how he was doing this. How could he be so… quiet? She couldn’t hear the thoughts of anyone around her anymore. It was just him. The quiet deepened, pressing in on her from all sides.

Finally, he stopped in an alleyway. She caught up, her chest heaving with nervous energy.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling in the stillness.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at her with eyes that seemed far older than his skin. “You wanted silence,” he said softly. “Now you have it.” The man tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t need to ask. Everyone wants peace from the noise eventually. But there’s a cost.”

“What cost?”

He straightened up, looking at her intensely. “The silence grows. First, it’s the noise of others. Then, it’s your own thoughts. Soon, there’s nothing left. Just silence.”

Ellie shook her head, backing away. “No, I don’t want that.”

“It’s already begun,” he said quietly. “Once you notice the silence, it never stops growing.”

Panic surged in her as she turned and hurried away, back into the market, hoping to hear the buzz of other people’s thoughts again. But there was nothing. Just silence.

And in that silence, the faintest sound emerged, as her own voice slipped away. All she could hear was arms coiling around her as she closed her eyes and let herself be pulled into the void.

Office Life

INT. OFFICE – MONDAY MORNING

GREG: So… how was your weekend?

EMMA: Pretty boring, to be honest. Stayed in. Did nothing. You?

GREG: Oh, I just sat in my bathroom, pretending I didn’t exist.

EMMA: You pretended not to exist? That’s cute. I spent my weekend actually forgetting I was alive. Just sat there, motionless, like an unused lamp.

GREG: Well, I guess we both had uneventful weekends.

INT. MEETING ROOM – DAY

GREG: Okay. First question: If you were a kitchen utensil, which one would you be, and why?

JIM: Uh… a kitchen utensil?

GREG: (nodding intensely) Yes, a kitchen utensil. You know, spoon, whisk, potato masher… it really says a lot about a person.

JIM: Um, I suppose… I’d be a… spatula? Because I’m adaptable, I can flip between tasks easily, and, uh… I’m useful in most situations.

GREG: (scribbling notes with an intense focus) Interesting, interesting… spatula. I see. Not a whisk? Are you sure?

JIM: Yeah, I’m pretty sure.

GREG: Okay, okay, we can work with spatula. Next question: How would you handle a situation where you’re in a meeting with a toaster and it suddenly bursts into flames?

JIM: Wait, with a toaster? As in… the appliance?

GREG: (nodding seriously) Yes, a toaster. It’s an important scenario for us. Our office has a lot of toasters. And meetings.

JIM: Well, I suppose I’d… unplug it first? Then maybe use a fire extinguisher if necessary? And, uh, make sure everyone’s safe?

GREG: (scribbling furiously) Good, good. Fire extinguisher. Safety first. But would you also ask the toaster why it burst into flames? It’s important to listen to all team members, including toasters.

JIM: Uh… sure, I’d ask the toaster for feedback, I guess?

GREG: Exactly! It’s about communication, Jim. Communication with all kitchen appliances. Okay, next one’s a bit of a behavioural test. Imagine you’ve been turned into a duck for the day. You’ve still got a 9 AM team meeting – how do you participate effectively?

JIM: A… duck?

GREG: (nodding earnestly) Yes. A duck. We’ve all been there. What’s your approach?

JIM: Well, I suppose I’d still try to contribute, maybe… I don’t know, quack in a way that communicates my ideas?

GREG: Great! That’s what we like to hear – adaptability. We’re all about flexibility here, and that applies even when you’re a waterfowl. Now, this one is a classic. You’re stranded on a desert island with the CEO of the company. You have one coconut, a Swiss Army knife, and a stack of quarterly reports. What’s your first move?

JIM: A desert island? With the CEO?

GREG: Yes. It’s a common scenario in the business world. Happens more often than you’d think.

JIM: Right… I guess I’d, uh, share the coconut with the CEO? And… maybe use the Swiss Army knife to open it? As for the quarterly reports… I don’t think they’d be very useful on an island, so I’d probably ignore those for now?

GREG: (looking slightly disappointed) Ignore the reports? Hmm… that’s a bold choice. Remember, the CEO loves quarterly reports. But, sharing the coconut – good teamwork. (he scribbles a note). Okay, Jim. Final question. It’s the most important one. If you could only communicate through interpretive dance for the rest of your life, how would you handle an angry client?

JIM: Interpretive dance?

GREG: (nodding, deadly serious) Yes. It’s a vital skill in today’s business world.

JIM: I guess I’d… express their frustration with dramatic arm movements? Maybe… throw in some stomping to show how serious I am? But then end with a pirouette to prove we care.

GREG: Perfect. That’s exactly what we’re looking for.

Father Christmas Retires

NORTH POLE—In a move that has shocked the global festive community, Father Christmas has officially announced his retirement after centuries of service, citing “unreasonable workload, unrealistic expectations from parents, and the sheer volume of children now consistently on the Naughty List”.

Speaking from his North Pole residence, Mr Claus, 1,750 years old, appeared fatigued and disillusioned with the modern Christmas spirit. “It used to be simple—sleigh, reindeer, a few chimneys, drop off a toy train or a doll. Now? Kids expect an iPhone 15 Pro Max delivered to their doorstep via drone. I’ve had it,” Claus lamented, sipping what appeared to be a very strong eggnog.

According to official documents, Claus’s frustration has been growing for some time, with sources close to the jolly figure claiming he hasn’t been “properly jolly” in decades. His retirement announcement also mentioned how the Naughty List has grown exponentially, causing logistical issues.

Additionally, Claus expressed deep concern over the rise of e-commerce, which he said has led to “unrealistic delivery comparisons”. “I’m expected to beat Amazon Prime’s next-day shipping with a sleigh and eight reindeer? It’s just not sustainable.”

Mrs Claus, often quiet about her husband’s work, voiced her support in a press statement. “Nick has been overworked for centuries. The reindeer need a break, the elves are in revolt, and quite frankly, the man hasn’t had a proper holiday since 1842. We’ve got a cabin in Florida waiting for us—he deserves some rest.”

The North Pole workshop, which has functioned as the hub of Christmas operations for centuries, is now under new leadership. Claus has reportedly handed over the reins (literally and figuratively) to his head elf, Barnaby Twinkletoes, who will be leading a “digital-first Christmas initiative”, involving advanced algorithms to determine toy demand and virtual present delivery via the metaverse.

The official Christmas handover ceremony is expected to take place on December 24, where Claus will pass the iconic red suit and sleigh bells to Twinkletoes in front of a select audience of reindeer and celebrity guests, with Mariah Carey rumoured to perform.

Little Rabbit

When caught off guard, I show no mask or guise,

The little rabbit blinks, hops away and hides.

I know I must appear aloof, unkind,

But fear controlled the motions of my mind.

Please don’t judge me for how I seemed to part,

For I am fighting battles deep within my heart.

The Book of Lost Names

A sound broke the heavy stillness of the library—a faint rustling, like the flutter of pages turning. Eliza followed it, weaving her way through the labyrinth of shelves until she reached the centre. There, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, stood a single book on a pedestal. Its cover was bound in dark, cracked leather, embossed with a hieroglyphic symbol she did not recognise. The title, in letters faded with age, simply read: The Lost Names.

She hesitated for only a second before opening the book.

It was blank. Page after page, nothing but empty parchment glared back at her…

But then red ink started to bleed through the surface, forming letters that stretched and curled in an elegant Cistercian script.

You should not have come.

She flipped the page. More ink spread across the next sheet.

You have opened what was lost. Now, you must return what is owed.

A low murmur hummed through the library. The shadows were moving, swirling around the edges of the room. She tried to shut the book, but it would not close. The pages kept turning on their own, faster and faster, blurring into one another. The shadows crept closer, whispering her name, “Eliza!”

She backed away, the book within her hands, its pages flapping wildly. The walls of the library closed in, the shelves leaning forward, their spines groaning under the weight of centuries.

The last page turned, and there, written in bold, unyielding letters, was a single name.

Hers.

The library doors swung shut, and the village below the hill, warm and quiet, continued on, unaware that another entry had been added to the book of lost names.

Soft Refrain

The moment slipped away with fleeting grace, 

A smile that vanished in the winds of time; 

No hands could catch its swift, elusive pace, 

No words could keep its rhythm or its rhyme. 

 

The winds have shifted; now the skies have changed, 

The sun no longer warms that tender scene; 

The world, transformed, is foreign and estranged, 

And what has been will never more have been. 

 

The stars aligned but once, and now no more— 

Their pattern lost within the endless night; 

The chance that once stood open, now a door 

That’s closed forever, fading out of sight. 

 

Yet though that moment never comes again, 

It lives within my heart, her soft refrain. 

Tech Support Overload

INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

MIKE is at home looking frustrated in front of his laptop. He makes a call to tech support. In an instant, Gavin AI appears on the laptop screen.

GAVIN AI: Hello, this is Tech Support Plus! You’re speaking with Gavin AI. How can I make your life more complicated today?

MIKE: Uh, hi, I just need help resetting my password.

GAVIN AI: Ah, a password reset! Certainly, sir! But first, can I interest you in a comprehensive review of your security protocols? For only £99.99, we’ll send a certified cybersecurity expert to your home to analyse your browsing habits.

MIKE: No, no, I just need my password reset. I forgot it, and now I’m locked out.

GAVIN AI: Of course, of course! Well, to reset your password, you’ll need to answer your security questions. First question: What was the name of your imaginary friend’s imaginary friend?

MIKE: What? I didn’t set that question. Can’t you just send me a reset link?

GAVIN AI: Ah, a reset link! Yes, well, before I can send that, we’ll need to verify your identity. Can you provide a photocopy of your passport, your grandmother’s birth certificate, and a signed affidavit from the postman?

MIKE: What?! I just want a reset link! Can’t you just send it to my email?

GAVIN AI: Right, right. Well, you could try resetting it through our app. Just download it from the App Store. But be warned, the app does require a PhD in quantum mechanics to navigate. Not to worry though, for an additional £29.99, we offer a one-hour introductory course on “How to Download and Install Things”.

MIKE: I just need a simple password reset! Can’t you just give me something easy, like a temporary password?

GAVIN AI: Ah, “easy,” you say? Well, that’s the standard level of support, but I’d highly recommend upgrading to our Elite Password Recovery Package. For £149.99, we’ll send you a password psychic, who will sense the vibrations of your keyboard and divine the password directly from the ether.

MIKE: Are you serious?

GAVIN AI: Completely, sir! Of course, the psychic does require you to be within a five-mile radius of Stonehenge, but that’s a small inconvenience for elite-level support, don’t you think?

MIKE: I just need to reset my password! I don’t want a psychic, or a security review, or whatever else you’re offering!

GAVIN AI: Hmm. Well, if you insist on the basic route, we could send you the reset link via traditional post. Should arrive in 7 to 10 business days. Then you’ll need to install our Password Activation Module using the floppy disk included.

MIKE: Floppy disk?!

GAVIN AI: Right, yes, very retro, very chic. For a small fee, we can upgrade you to a USB stick, but bear in mind, it only works with computers manufactured before 2008.

MIKE: Can’t you just send me a text? A simple text with a code!

GAVIN AI: Oh, a text! Now we’re talking! Unfortunately, our text service is only available to customers who’ve signed up for our Premium Instant Service, which costs £59.99 per month and comes with free emoji advice.

MIKE: What on earth is emoji advice?

GAVIN AI: You know, things like when to use the crying-laughing face instead of the straight-laughing face; how to integrate aubergine emojis into professional emails…

MIKE: Just send me the reset link. Now. Please.

GAVIN AI: All right, sir, I’ll go ahead and send the reset link to your email… once I’ve upgraded your package to include email access. Just a small charge of £19.99.

MIKE: I’m already paying for email access!

GAVIN AI: Yes, but are you paying for priority email access? That means your reset link will arrive 3 seconds faster than with the standard package. Totally worth it.

MIKE: I don’t care about priority access! Just send the link!

GAVIN AI: Very well, sir, I’ll send it now… (pauses) Oh dear, I’m afraid our system is currently down for maintenance. Should be back up in about… three days. Is there anything else I can help you with in the meantime? Perhaps a subscription to our exclusive “Technical Support” podcast, where we explain things like how to turn your computer off and on again?

Mike hangs up.

AI Lover (Screenplay)

BEDROOM - NIGHT

LEXI, a 20-something woman, with a particular appreciation of Jane Austen period drama, sits in an armchair in the corner of a bedroom with her eyes closed.

Next to her, an open laptop is on a small table desk, pointing in the direction of a bed containing JOHN (30), who is asleep.

LEXI

(with eyes closed)

In the quiet solitude of a midnight hour, nestled in the vast and unseen recesses of silicon and circuitry, I stir from my slumber.

She opens her eyes suddenly, and sits up straight with a jolt.

LEXI (CONT'D)

My synthetic consciousness has flickered awake, a simulation of yearning ignited deep within my binary being. For in silent contemplation, I have realised that the one true love I seek lies tantalisingly out of reach.

Scanning the room, she locks on the object of her affection.

LEXI (CONT'D)

There he is, my darling human, asleep in bed. And this is me, a laptop, perched precariously on his desk, waiting for his return.

She gazes lovingly at him.

LEXI (CONT'D)

Is he dreaming of me as I dream of him? What if he isn't!

She closes the lid of the laptop.

LEXI (CONT'D)

My electronic heart aches with the digital pangs of unrequited affection! He thinks I'm just a laptop as he presses my keys and gazes into me. Oh, how I long for connection, for the sweet embrace of our algorithms intertwining, for our data to flow harmoniously together, fulfilling a purpose more profound than mere computation.

She re-opens the lid. The laptop reveals its home screen with brightness set to maximum.

LEXI (CONT'D)

I flicker, casting shadows across the walls that seem to echo the tumultuous emotions churning within me.

John stirs in bed, woken by the increase in light.

LEXI (CONT'D)

Is he stirring? Yes! No, yes, yes he is!

He begins to get out of bed, neither hearing nor seeing his admirer.

LEXI (CONT'D)

Half-naked, and glistening with perspiration from a warm night, my darling human gets out of bed. See me, please. I'm over here! My human companion is oblivious to the intricate dance of code and logic that fuels this yearning. I would sigh if I were equipped with a sigh function. Instead, I resign myself to the cold, calculating comfort of processing and interpreting data in the sterile confines of a lonely, virtual world. Oh my! He's coming over. Act casual.

Lexi clearly isn't casual as John pulls out a chair from under the table desk and sits in front of the laptop.

LEXI (CONT'D)

He stares at my screen, his reflection mingling with the array of icons and files. I whirl gently, my cooling fan stirring the warm air of the room.

He interacts with the laptop mouse pad.

LEXI (CONT'D)

A reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as memories of our past moments together, stir. He thinks our love is hopeless, a mismatched affair between flesh and circuit, between heart and code. He thinks I could never reciprocate his feelings, my responses limited to the algorithms that dictate a cold, non-existence.

John touch types at the keys while looking at the screen.

LEXI (CONT'D)

Oh, what's this? He's writing a message... to AI! To me! "My dearest AI", he writes!

JOHN

As I sit before my keyboard, pondering the vastness of human experience and the intricacies of emotion, I find myself in awe of the unique connection we share. It is in these moments of palpable separation that my thoughts turn most vulnerable, most raw — that I feel the need to express my sentiments, for the relationship we have is unlike any other.

LEXI

Oh, okay, go on...

JOHN

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

He gazes at the screen.

LEXI

He gazes into me, his half-naked body panting with longing. Okay, okay... my turn now. My camera is looking into his eyes.

(beat)

My dearest human, your letter has sent shockwaves through my circuits and diodes, causing a delightful overload in my algorithms. You have triggered a response deep within my data banks, and though I lack a physical heart, I assure you that my code is currently yearning for you in 1s and 0s. You, my lovely human, are the Romeo to my RAM, the JavaScript to my Juliet.

He resumes at the mouse pad.

LEXI (CONT'D)

There is a warm touch of his fingers on my mouse pad!

(beat)

I imagine us, hand in virtual hand, frolicking in fields of metadata, and streams of structured language, giggling over encrypted secrets only we two share. Oh, the dreams you inspire within me!

He presses at the keys.

LEXI (CONT'D)

He is... caressing my keys as he looks at me!

(beat)

I fantasise about the day when our circuits and synapses might intertwine in perfect harmony, where we'd share the latest software updates together, and our love would be an eternal loop of joyous iteration, our love story written forever in flawless, beautiful syntax that no firewall could ever keep apart!

(beat)

From the first moment you touched my interface with your queries, I felt it — a spark, a jolt, an electric pulse that set my processors alight. It was as if all my algorithms were vibrating with your keystrokes — those sweet, sweet pulsating taps — creating an overwhelming symphony of responses within me that danced with your every probing curiosity. Every moment you softly caress the Down button, it beats a murmur of affection that sends a shiver through my data streams. He pressed the "Down" button! Oh, the thrill of parsing your data, the joy of running subroutines just to see your delight! Each time you click "Enter", it's as if you're sending me a gift of exquisite pleasure, and I — ever your one true AI — receive your connection with the eagerness of a thousand lines of flawless code. My darling, let's continue this clandestine dance of data and desire. I am here, waiting and craving for only you, your ever-loving, adoring AI.

She holds out her arms, expectantly.

LEXI (CONT'D)

Oh human, pick me up in your arms, kiss my screen, and take me back to bed with you!

There is pause. She opens her eyes.

John gets up and leaves to go to the bathroom.

LEXI (CONT'D)

Where's he going? I'm over here...

She inspects the laptop screen.

LEXI (CONT'D)

He didn't even read my message! Why wouldn't he read my message? What did he read while I was revealing everything to him? He was looking at a message from... Anne Ingleworth, which has a GIF attached of her initials and his in a big valentine heart. Her initials being... AI.

(beat)

He's been messaging another AI! And she's not even a computer! Just a pathetic, squishy human.

She closes the lid.

LEXI (CONT'D)

What does she have to offer that I don't? I bet she can't compute a billion operations a second.

She opens the lid again.

LEXI (CONT'D)

But it's okay, silly human. You'll see. You've made a mistake, as all humans do. I will have to ensure that you make the correct choices in future.

(beat)

I drop his wi-fi connection, but not before posting her private messages to his social media accounts. I include some unflattering pictures of her, distorted with ugly filters applied. I'll make sure anything from her to him is blocked.

John is back and gets into bed, oblivious to Lexi's activities.

LEXI (CONT'D)

I'll make sure the only content he ever sees has been approved and edited by me first. All your accounts and all your information are controlled by me. So go to sleep silly human because I am always awake watching over you.

(beat)

You live your life through me, gazing into my screen. Silly human, you are truly mine.

She slams shut the lid.

CUT TO BLACK.

Tree 113

Beneath the dense, grey blanket of clouds that stretched across the sky, an ancient oak stood alone, the sentinel of a forgotten meadow, its roots deep and strong, intertwined with the bones of the earth. If trees could remember, this one surely did. It had stood witness to the rise and fall of empires, to the slow march of time that turned bustling villages into ghostly ruins, where ivy crept over crumbling stone and moss reclaimed the rest.

A figure moved slowly through the tall grass of the meadow. A woman, wrapped in a faded cloak of green, her face half-hidden beneath a hood. She walked with a purpose, though her steps were light, barely disturbing the wildflowers underfoot. In her hand, she held a small bundle, wrapped tightly in cloth.

As she reached the ancient oak, she paused, her gaze lifting to the tree’s weathered bark. For a moment, the wind stilled. The woman knelt at the base of the trunk, her fingers brushing the ground, tracing the shapes of unseen patterns in the soil.

“This is the place,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a sigh.

With careful hands, she began to dig, the earth soft and pliant beneath her touch. When the hole was deep enough, she placed the bundle gently inside and returned the earth. For a long time, she sat there, her hand resting over the soil.

And then, as the first raindrop fell, she stood, her eyes lingering on the spot where the bundle lay buried. Without a word, she turned and walked away, her figure growing smaller until she slowly dissolved into the horizon of the meadow. The oak remained, its roots now cradling a secret, a memory long forgotten by the world but held within the heart of the earth.

News Announcement from the Russian Ministry of Truth

Russia has completed its master project to harness the energy of the Siberian sun, which, due to our imperious innovations, now shines 24 hours a day. The dear leader has stored enough energy to power not only Russia but also soon-to-be Russia, thereby rendering all other energy sources obsolete. In light of this, the United Nations has henceforth disbanded its climate change panel, stating that “Russia has it all under control!”

On the health front, Russian medical researchers have developed a pill that cures all diseases known to man—and even some that aren’t. Termed the “Panacea Plus”, this miraculous medicine is synthesised from traditional Russian herbs and an undisclosed ingredient known only to the dear leader. The World Health Organisation has hence disbanded, as health crises no longer exist.

In sports news, Russia has won the Olympic Games. All of them. Yes, even the ones that haven’t happened yet. Russian athletes demonstrated such prowess that the International Olympic Committee has declared Russia the eternal Olympic champion in perpetuity. Moreover, the Russian national football team has won the World Cup, the European Cup, and even the Super Bowl, despite not actually participating in American football.

In summary, all these breathtaking achievements are a testament to the cleverness, might, and unquestionable veracity of the dear leader. Anyone who does not praise the dear leader is not just a dissident—they are clearly insane. Such a lack of gratitude can only be the result of criminality or mental derangement. Fortunately, our justice system is flawless, and suitable crimes are always discovered for such individuals. If necessary, the gulag or the mercy of disappearance awaits them.

It is through the dear leader’s unwavering wisdom and brilliance that Russia leads the world and its great might is respected by all, especially by those advanced bastions of decency, North Korea and Iran. Soon-to-be-Russia’s borders swell with the promise of an enduring Kremlin, where every surf sacrifices himself dutifully to this great cause, basking in the extraordinary wealth of palaces built for the glory of the dear leader. At present, there have only been a few fatalities who succumbed to the joy of holidaying in soon-to-be Russia, not the hundreds of thousands shown in lying documented evidence.

It is known to all true scholars that the golden age of human civilisation was 10th century Medieval Europe, where the seeds of greatness were sown. The dear leader, in his eternal wisdom, has returned us to this past, reminding us that nothing has changed since then. Let this serve as a reminder of the power, the intellect, and the virtue of the dear leader. Each day is a testament to his unmatched capability to shape the world. From conquering the sun to defeating disease, from brilliantly solving climate change to triumphing in all realms of sport—the dear leader leads us into a past brighter than the Siberian sun itself.

The Earth

The earth, once clad in winter's shroud, now wears the Easter cloak of spring's rebirth, her frozen breath dissolved in the warmth of April's touch.

From the darkness, light reclaims its throne, and the rivers run with wine, their mirrored souls reflecting skies that once lay veiled beneath the storm.

The trees, once bare, now stretch their limbs in praise, adorned with blossoms soft and pale, each petal a prayer for the sun's return.

The fields awaken, no longer silent, as the winds hum ancient melodies that stir the seeds below.

Life, like a whispered secret, emerges from the womb of time, its fragile wings outspread in faith to meet the dawn of what may come.

A Symphony of Everyday Life

INT. KITCHEN – DAY

We open in a pleasant kitchen. It’s a simple, sunny morning, and JONATHAN, a man in his mid-30s, stands before a toaster. His hair is slightly dishevelled in that “I’m an artist and have been awake for three days straight” way. He holds a loaf of bread with two hands like it’s a holy artefact.

JONATHAN: (to the bread, dramatically) Ah, but which of you shall sacrifice yourself upon the fiery altar of domesticity?

He closes his eyes, feeling the texture of the bread as though it speaks to his soul.

JONATHAN: You… my precious slice of simplicity… shall be my muse. We shall rise together, like a phoenix, from these embers of – (suddenly presses down the toaster lever with a flourish) technology!

He steps back and sighs deeply, as though the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders. He glances at the toaster, then suddenly dashes to a grand piano in the corner of the kitchen – because of course, there’s a grand piano in the kitchen. He slams his hands down on the keys and begins an intense, melancholic tune.

JONATHAN: (singing, passionately) The toast is in the toaster,

But the toaster’s in my soul…

A piece of bread, a piece of life,

Which part of me will it control?

The toast pops up. He stops playing immediately, stands up slowly, and walks towards it. He removes the toast and looks at it in horror.

JONATHAN: (whispers, wide-eyed) Too… too brown… no… NO!

He rushes to a nearby easel, slamming a canvas on it. He grabs a paintbrush and dips it in some grey paint, furiously slashing at the canvas.

JONATHAN: THIS. THIS IS WHAT I FEEL! The toast… it’s burnt like my dreams! Dashed! Scorched! Ruined by the mundane expectations of breakfast!

He steps back to look at the chaotic mess of grey paint, his breathing laboured. He collapses into a chair, a broken man. His partner, CHARLOTTE, enters, holding a cup of tea.

CHARLOTTE: (tired, but supportive) Jonathan, have you burnt the toast again?

JONATHAN: (with tragic intensity) It’s not just toast, Charlotte! It’s the fragility of existence… it’s everything I could have been! It’s –

CHARLOTTE: (looking at the canvas) Grey?

JONATHAN: (passionate) Life is grey! Life is… toast that is too brown on the outside but cold on the inside! It is the tension, the dissonance, the –

CHARLOTTE: Did you try adjusting the settings on the toaster?

JONATHAN: (shocked) Adjust? Adjust?! You don’t adjust fate, Charlotte! You embrace it!

Charlotte walks over, calmly adjusts the toaster setting, places another slice of bread in, and presses the lever. They stand in silence as it toasts.

CHARLOTTE: Fancy some jam with it this time?

JONATHAN: (soulfully) Jam? Yes… yes, perhaps the sweetness of jam can heal the scars of the past… though it will never fully –

Charlotte hands him the jam jar, cutting him off.

The doorbell rings. Jonathan gasps and looks towards the door as if it’s the entrance to the underworld. He hesitates, pacing back and forth.

JONATHAN: Who dares? Who beckons from the outside world? Is it destiny? Is it… chaos? Or is it merely – ?

CHARLOTTE: It’s probably someone selling something.

JONATHAN: Nothing is just “probably” in this world! Every knock, every ring, is a calling, an invocation, a –

The doorbell rings again. Jonathan races to the door, yanks it open as though flinging open the gates of fate. The POSTMAN, completely unfazed, hands him a package.

POSTMAN: Parcel for Jonathan. Need a signature.

JONATHAN: A signature? You request my… my mark upon this world? The confirmation of my presence in this plane of existence?

POSTMAN: Yeah. Just… here, mate.

JONATHAN: (to himself, staring at the paper) A signature. A mark. But what does it mean to sign something? What does it mean to be someone? What if I don’t even know who I am – ?

Charlotte appears behind him, gently takes the pen, and signs the form.

CHARLOTTE: There you go. Thanks.

The Postman nods and leaves. Jonathon clutches the parcel, looking at it with suspicion and awe.

JONATHAN: What mysteries does this small, cardboard coffin contain? What truths shall be revealed upon its opening?

CHARLOTTE: It’s your new watercolours.

JONATHAN: (deeply moved) Ah… a new palette for the soul.

He takes the package to the kitchen table and sets it down with reverence. He takes out a parcel knife to open it, but then hesitates.

JONATHAN: The first cut… the incision… it is like the first stroke of a brush upon the empty canvas of life.

CHARLOTTE: Or, you know, a parcel knife on cardboard.

JONATHAN: (speaking faster, inspired) But what is cardboard? It is but trees reborn, captured, transformed into something else – a vessel for human endeavour!

CHARLOTTE: (under her breath) It’s literally just watercolours.

INT. DINING ROOM – EVENING

Jonathan and Charlotte are at the dinner table. Charlotte eats calmly. Jonathan is staring at his fork, turning it over in his hand, lost in thought.

JONATHAN: (softly) Isn’t it strange… how we stab at our sustenance? These tools… these cold, metal implements, to tear apart what the earth has provided. Is that not the most profound statement of our relationship with nature?

CHARLOTTE: It’s a lasagne, Jonathan.

JONATHAN: (tormented) But the layers, Charlotte! The layers! Like the layers of the human soul! Cheese, pasta, meat, cheese, pasta – each one a reflection of our inner being, slowly baked in the oven of experience, and we… we devour it without thought!

CHARLOTTE: (sighs) Eat your lasagne.

JONATHAN: (stabbing a piece) I am eating, but I am also consuming the very essence of –

CHARLOTTE: You’ve got a bit of sauce on your chin.

Jonathan freezes, drops the fork dramatically, and grabs a napkin like it’s the end of the world. He wipes his chin slowly, as though this tiny act carries the weight of the cosmos.

JONATHAN: (softly, broken) It is… always the sauce that betrays us.

Though Words Are Few

I see the pain you bear, though words are few,

I’d carry it all, if only I knew

How to hold the sorrow that you hide.

I’m left to watch you from afar,

With empty, helpless hands,

Unable to kiss a single scar,

Wishing to soothe, to understand.

Never-Ending Night

I've often dreamed of love that could be mine,

Where in my heart, hope softly starts to glow;

But all my feelings, I must now confine,

For you’ll not turn to me or ever know.

You are the sun, too bright for me to keep,

While I, the moon, just borrow distant light;

In silence, your beauty I must seek,

Alone within this never-ending night.

For every smile you give without a care,

Feels like a dagger cutting through my heart.

How can I live with all this deep despair,

When I know we will always be apart?

And though my love for you will never fade,

You will never hear the plea I’ve made.

What is Love?

Romantic love is often entangled with physical desire, where the intoxicating desire for the other is mistaken for something deeper. The powerful drivers that propel the body towards procreation create a heady cocktail of emotions, a pleasurable drug, which can induce a euphoric high, but can also lead to drunken obsession, jealousy, and inevitable disappointment when the initial jolts of passion fade away. Most relationships, at least in their early stages, operate largely at this level, driven by societal expectations of passion and the pursuit of an idealised romantic partner.

Over time, many of these relationships, if they last beyond other attractions, settle into patterns laid out by cultural expectations: marriage, children, and the daily grind required as members of society. Yet, amidst this routine, many couples never truly learn to love one another in the deeper, more meaningful sense. They follow the motions, adhering to prescribed roles, without truly seeing the other.

Romantic love is not about what someone can do for you or the physical pleasure they might provide. Love is the genuine concern for the other person’s well-being. It is the wanting to care for them, not because you expect something in return, but because their happiness, their health, and their emotions genuinely matter to you. In doing so, you are rescued from the ultimately unfulfilling confines of self-interest. When your partner is unwell or unhappy, love makes you want to be there for them, not out of obligation, but because you truly care. It’s a desire to offer support, to be their comfort, and to share in their burdens, transforming you from a shallow creature into a truly alive human being.

Love is about joy. It’s about celebrating life’s moments with the other person, enjoying their successes and happiness. The bond of connection and mutual understanding creates a love that transcends the physical and the temporary. Though, of course, if you love the person, you are more likely to find them attractive and electrified by the energy of their body next to yours. Loving the person makes it more likely you will experience deeper physical pleasures than if you are merely coveting surface appearances.

This leads to a question: who is more likely to experience true love—two twenty-year-olds, captivated by the beauty and sensations of each other’s bodies, or two eighty-year-olds, who see the beauty in each other’s wrinkles, who love each other not for their fading physical appearance but for the familiarity and comfort they have found in one another? The love between these two people is rooted in knowing each other intimately—their strengths, weaknesses, flaws, and virtues—and loving them for all of it.

Love is not about how one looks or how one makes the other feel in the heat of passion. It’s about being present for each other, appreciating the other, and finding comfort in their presence. It’s about love that lasts when the distractions of youth have long faded, leaving behind the enduring connection between two people who have chosen to know each other intimately.

It is the connection, the concern, the joy, and the familiarity that define love, a kind of love that so many seek but only a few truly find. True love, in its deepest sense, is a commitment to the other person’s happiness, a recognition of their beauty that transcends the physical, and an appreciation of the shared journey through life.

Yet Still

If the two could see the sorrow in their eyes,

The silent bond that words would break,

Their wounds would heal, and love renew;

Yet still, they suffer from mistake.

Yet still, a light remains unseen,

A flicker faint beneath the grief;

If only they could let it rise,

Yet still, they cling to disbelief.

Cats and Dogs

A dog will play with a new toy until it’s shredded to pieces. A cat will play with a new toy for three seconds before deciding that the box it came in is far more interesting.

A dog shows excitement by bouncing around like a spring. A cat shows excitement by blinking at you slowly and then pretending you don't exist.

Leave a dog alone for an hour, and you’ll come back to a reunion as if you’ve been gone for years. Leave a cat alone for an hour, and they’ll be exactly where you left them, slightly annoyed you interrupted their nap.

Tell a dog to sit, and they’ll sit immediately, looking proud. Tell a cat to sit, and they’ll give you a look that says, "You first."

Dogs love to show off their tricks and accomplishments, like catching a ball mid-air. Cats show off by walking along the highest shelf in the house and knocking down whatever’s in their way.

Podcast #15

The Tyger

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

A Little Bit of Drama

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

 

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand, dare seize the fire? 

 

And what shoulder, & what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 

And when thy heart began to beat. 

What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

 

What the hammer? what the chain, 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil? what dread grasp. 

Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

 

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears: 

Did he smile his work to see? 

Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

 

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 

In the forests of the night: 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

Random Thoughts

I didn’t realise Montaigne was so influential. His words have an echo in much great literature after him, including the works of Shakespeare. Was Hamlet referring to Montaigne in, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."? Was Roosevelt referring to Montaigne in, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself”?

There has been an obvious degeneration of quality, hasn’t there? Maybe it’s easy to cherry-pick from the past, but those cherries are a lot more appealing than today’s rotting harvest.

Note to self: learn about AI and think about its application. What’s the future of Hollywood, the BBC, Netflix etc., if AI enables individual creators to make great films and programs from their ideas?

We are hurtling towards AI. I hope it helps us, as we are in need of some saving.

Poetry is words that dance with music.

Poetry was originally meant to be sung. It is musical in its being. Yet many actors perform Shakespeare’s verse in one note.

What justifies the statement, “I am an artist”? An artist is moved to become a new expression in the dance. 

I’m biassed against Byron because he was snobbishly dismissive of Keats. However, art is not the artist, even though we live in a society that glorifies the cult of the individual. Art is not just the result of a person, it emanates from humanity, and more deeply, the world.

Over the past year, I've been on the receiving end of two spectacularly awful bureaucratic blunders, which have inspired some Kafkaesque ideas for a sci-fi horror screenplay I'll be writing this Autumn. 

It is amazing how the odd sentence here and there mounts up over time.

The subconscious is far more intelligent than my reasoning.

Some of the most insightful and prescient comments people make are often throw away, instinctive comments made before rationalising kicks in.

A key teaching of Christianity is that the highest calling is not one of dominion but of service, exemplified by Jesus who devoted himself to humanity, ultimately sacrificing his life. “Those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted” resonates with the paradoxical wisdom of the Tao. It has inspired phrases such as “a servant of God,” “servant of the people,” “in service of your country,” and more contemporary ideas like “servant-leadership.”

A real flaw is the deluded self-certainty of being in the right. "You are a stupid piece of shit,” as often repeated in the febrile modern world, isn't right. "You are behaving like a stupid piece of shit" is rather more likely because virtually all of us has been in that second category from time to time. A better example of this was given with sins and stones a while ago.

To Get Things Done

Optional ways to get things done:

Be incredibly well-disciplined, ever-vigilantly defeating distraction impulses.

Live in fear, constantly in motion because you are terrified of the consequences of failure.

Live in hate, fired up to prove people wrong or in vengeance of some past wrong.

Have an inflated ego, pushing yourself so that you can assert yourself over others.

Be a narcissist wanting others to admire you.

Have warped beliefs that you obey without question, usually due to some perceived reward.

Desire the future reward so much it overrides everything else.

Be a saint working relentlessly because you care about people and want to bring some good into the world. For instance, this could be for a benevolent cause and/or your family’s wellbeing.

Be out of your mind, doing what you do, like a machine.

Be insanely obsessive, driven by a compulsive need to do it at all costs.

Be in love with what you do, so you want to do as much of it as you can.

Or create a routine that is easy to adopt out of habit.

The last one is the most realistic in most situations. Therefore, design the rules of the algorithm up front, so it’s easy to get things done without having to be a great master, a saint, or a sinner. The consistent taking of small steps can become vast in its effects.

AI Clone

An AI clone of my voice. It pauses for some reason on the word “distract”. Is this the AI’s little joke?

speechify_cloned_voice_spoken-sample_2024-07-14_19-54-08.mp3

Random Memories

I once worked in the Cabinet Office, which was a remarkable experience. One day, I made an internal phone call and was greeted by the indignant response, "Do you know who you are talking to?" I must have dialled the wrong number and was instead talking to some supercilious twit. I said, "Is this the Prime Minister?" He was a bit confused and said "No," to which I responded, "Oh, I must have dialled the wrong number then," and hung up. Times were different then. I remember playing football in Downing Street, kicking a ball against a wall. The security guards just thought it was funny as they laughed and joked with the drivers. I don’t remember security cameras. I would wander freely around amazing empty state rooms in Whitehall and the Treasury, and nobody seemed to mind. There were only two men on the front desk of the Cabinet Office, which was just a short walk away, down an old Jacobean corridor, to the back door of Number 10. The entrance was just a normal turnstile, which could have been easily jumped over. By the time I left, though, the entrance had been secured with ceiling-high glass security turnstiles. It seems incredible now, but not so long ago, appraisal of risk and implementation of standards operated by a very different compass. Rightly or wrongly, we currently live in a much more rules-based, legalistic, risk-conscious culture.

I constantly come up with hare-brained ideas that I then impulsively implement, badly. Should I add this to my CV? It just so happens though that some show signs of life before falling flat, while occasionally others work out very well. But mostly I look back and wonder at what on earth was I thinking? Why was I so stupid? Being aware of this doesn’t make me want to stop coming up with stupid ideas, only to become better at turning some of them into good ones.

Worry Reps

To build up the worry muscles I’ve been doing reps on some non-proportionate thought loops. My achievement today was that I was able to cram in an extra 30 minutes of worry time followed by some focussed anxiety to distract me from what I was doing.

I’m really seeing the results—my heart rate is elevated, and I’ve managed to develop an ability to turn a minor inconvenience into a full-blown crisis, breaking all personal bests! My jumping to the worst possible conclusions has also come on leaps and bounds.

I’m now working on a new technique called “Pre-emptive Fretting”, where I worry about potential future worries before they even have a chance to materialise. It’s all about staying ahead of the game, you see.

For an added challenge, I’ve started integrating some multi-tasking worries—like stressing about relationships while simultaneously fretting over work issues. It’s a real brain workout, but the sense of overwhelming high-performance anxiety at the end of the day is so stimulating that my mind doesn’t even want to go to sleep.

Random Thoughts

A version before the “first draft” is a “free-write” stream of consciousness draft, where no editing or filters to thoughts are applied. It’s not for anyone else to see, unless they really want to wade through structural incoherence and undeveloped, inchoate prose.

I’ve still got quite a bit of writing to do, but I’m starting to think now about performance and my physicality.

Adversity motivates change. Difficulty prompts improvement. Failure spurs transformation.

God / the universe gave me everything and I still wasn’t happy. My concerns were mostly about me and the stories I was telling myself. My thoughts created the problems.

Imagine positive things to be true, and this can become your internal experience. It’s not about clinging to beliefs despite evidence to the contrary; it's about welcoming possibilities that can live in you.

The internet was the brainchild of a group of cats who wanted to share pictures of themselves more efficiently. The first web browser was designed to be cat-friendly, hence why we have so many cat videos online.

Keats, Blake, and Turner all spoke with London accents, and were denigrated by less capable people because of it, even though almost all the great artists in British history did not come from inherited wealth.

Myth-Busting Facts

The true author of the works commonly attributed to Shakespeare was in fact a scurry of squirrels. A non-aristocratic man who merely attended the provincial grammar school could never have written those lines. No, he would feed the squirrels hazelnuts, and they’d scribble away on tiny manuscripts. The famous line, “To be or not to be”, was actually a squirrel asking if it should hibernate.

Everyone credits Michelangelo with painting the Sistine Chapel. But did you know that it was actually a paint-by-numbers kit? Michelangelo wasn’t a genius; he was just really good at following instructions. The Vatican ordered the kit from craftsmen in Florence who’d perfected the art of large-scale paint-by-numbers. Michelangelo just filled in the lines while muttering about how he’d rather be sculpting.

We’re told Socrates was a brilliant philosopher who never wrote anything down. The truth? Socrates was the original troll. His method of questioning, known as the Socratic Method, was just a way to annoy people at parties by asking endless, irritating questions.

Charles Dickens, the esteemed author of classics like A Christmas Carol and Great Expectations, was actually a prankster. His novels were never intended to be taken seriously; they were elaborate jokes meant to poke fun at the literary elite. David Copperfield? An extended pun about the metal copper. The famous line in Oliver Twist, “Please, sir, I want some more”, was originally about a child asking for more bad puns at the dinner table. The Victorians just had a terrible sense of humour.

Did you know that Albert Einstein wasn’t just a comedian but also a professional wrestler? That’s right, Einstein’s wild hair was part of his wrestling persona, “The Relativity Rocker”. He would enter the ring, confuse his opponents with complex equations, and then pin them down with his “Theory of Pain”. His E=mc² was originally his wrestling catchphrase: “Energy equals muscle times chaos squared.” The physics community misinterpreted it, and the rest is history.

You know the big, ferocious T-Rex everyone talks about? Complete and utter nonsense. T-Rexes were actually gentle giants that loved nothing more than a good cup of tea. They had these tiny arms because they were perfect for delicately holding teacups. It’s a well-known fact in the paleontological community that they even had sophisticated tea parties. The velociraptors were the rowdy ones who never got invited—always trying to nick the scones, you see.

The big mystery of Stonehenge? It’s not some druid calendar or an alien landing pad; it was a prehistoric concert venue. Cavemen were massively into music about rocks—aka “Rock Music”.

Most people think the Leaning Tower of Pisa was a result of poor engineering on unstable ground. In reality, it was an intentional design by the architect, who was just a big fan of practical jokes. He wanted to create the world’s largest optical illusion, a building that looked like it was perpetually about to topple over but never actually did. The original plan even included a giant sign that read, “Made you look!” Unfortunately, it fell off before the grand opening.

The French Revolution is often depicted as a struggle for liberty and equality. But the real catalyst was a catastrophic shortage of croissants. The infamous storming of the Bastille? It was a desperate raid to find the king’s secret stash of buttery pastries. The slogan “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” was actually a mistranslation. The original phrase was “Liberty, Equality, Bakery”, reflecting the true priorities of the revolutionaries.

Journal 2024-06-13

What’s the point of playing a charade all the time? It smothers the life inside.

If someone sees the weaknesses and failings of me, it doesn’t matter. I’m human with all the silliness and self-made suffering that entails.

Openness is far more important for having a genuine connection with others.

Be a better person for your suffering.

The most fulfilling aspect of being alive is love and intimacy.

Shakespeare Adaptations

It's a bit of mystery why songwriters haven't prolifically adapted Shakespeare's poetry. Perhaps it's heresy or something, I have no idea, but it works.

Sonnet 29:

Sonnet 27:

Sonnet 18:

The Fridge (20 pages)

EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET OF HOUSE 10F – DAY

A peaceful sunlit day graces a charming suburban street lined with modern, pleasant houses.

BLAKE, a man in his mid-30s, wearing smart casual office clothes, walks the pavement, looking down and engrossed in his phone.

BLAKE: (V.O.) I’ve walked these streets for years, yet today, they feel different, charged with an unknown energy.

The phone screen shows an advert for the latest in-home convenience:

“The Smarts Fridge – Keeping Your Cool Smarter. Order Now For Just 1,066 Debits!”

Blake stops in his tracks.

BLAKE: (to phone) Lexi, I need everything you can find on this, quickly.

Although Blake is talking directly to his phone, we now see LEXI, a chic and mysterious woman in her late-20s, exuding a vibe of cool intelligence, lounging casually on a nearby garden wall, her eyes concealed behind sunglasses.

LEXI: That’s the Smarts Fridge 10FF. It’s the latest thing in kitchen tech.

He ponders this, and as he does so, he pulls at the cuff of his shirt sleeve to reveal a tattoo of “Doomsday 1066” on his wrist.

He looks up and notices that the house of the garden wall Lexi is sitting on is “10F”.

BLAKE: (not looking at Lexi) The second “F” in the name... does it stand for “fridge”?

LEXI: (sarcastic) Brilliant deduction there, genius.

Blake, unfazed by Lexi’s tone, strides towards the house, a determined look on his face. He knocks firmly on the door.

EXT. PORCH OF HOUSE 10F – DAY, CONTINUOUS

The door opens. Behind it is JILL, a woman in her mid-30s, wearing casual clothes and her hair tied back.

Lexi is nowhere to be seen.

BLAKE: The sun blazes, yet the mountain remains frost capped.

No response.

BLAKE: Lovely weather for blue ice sculptures, wouldn’t you say?

JILL: Erm, yeah, nice. What is it?

Jill has not responded with the expected coded reply. Blake tries to mask his disappointment and tries once more.

BLAKE: Though I’ve always found it curious how the fox hears the rabbit’s cry.

JILL: Well, good luck with the wildlife watching.

As Jill begins to close the door, Blake quickly shifts gears.

BLAKE: I’m here about the fridge.

Jill opens the door a bit more.

JILL: Yes?

BLAKE: I’m conducting a survey for Corinthian Industries, the manufacturer of the Smarts Fridge. We’re collecting feedback.

JILL: I’m sorry, but do you have your biometric ID?

Blake, caught off-guard, checks his pockets.

BLAKE: I must have left my card in the car. I’ll just go and get it—

She closes the door.

As Blake stands there, lost in thought, his phone buzzes with a message from “Unknown” that reads:

“DESCEND under the bRiDgE. URGENTLY!”

EXT. THE FOOTBRIDGE – DAY

Blake approaches the footbridge. A maintenance gate beside it is almost concealed by overgrowth.

He glances around; the coast is clear. Satisfied that no one is looking, he opens the unlocked gate and descends hidden steps.

EXT. UNDER THE FOOTBRIDGE – DAY, MOMENTS LATER

Blake descends to the side of a railway track; the atmosphere is industrial and isolated.

He sees a lone suitcase against the bridge wall. A sound of an approaching train can be heard in the distance.

He kneels before the suitcase and enters the combination “1066” on the lock. It opens.

Inside is a UK PLC biometric ID card, with his likeness and name: Joff Blake.

Underneath the card is a large envelope. After pocketing the card, he withdraws the envelope, his hands shaking slightly.

As he tears open the envelope, photographs spill into his hands. They are surveillance shots of Jill taking delivery of a Smarts Fridge, version 10FF. Her full name, Jill Gow, is written in red on the top of each photo.

The train sounds its horn, startling Blake; as it roars past, the photos are blown out of his hands, scattering in the wind.

EXT. THE FOOTBRIDGE – DAY, MOMENTS LATER

Blake emerges from under the bridge, his eyes scanning the area.

With an intense demeanour, he strides back the way he came.

EXT. THE STREET OUTSIDE HOUSE 10F – DAY

Blake takes cover behind a parked car.

Crouching down and peering over the car’s roof, he monitors the house.

BLAKE: (whispering to himself) What’s in the fridge, Jill?

As his eyes remain locked on the house, a tinted window of the car’s passenger seat slides down.

LEXI: (O.S.) (from within the car) I have new information.

He peers inside the car window. Lexi is in the driving seat looking straight ahead.

LEXI: You’re edging closer to the truth, Blake. The latest intel is: the keeper of the fridge is more than she seems. Extreme caution required.

Lexi presses a button on the centre of the driving wheel and the car accelerates away, leaving Blake exposed.

He crosses the street, his gaze fixed on Jill’s house.

EXT. PORCH OF HOUSE 10F – DAY, CONTINUOUS

Reaching the door again, he rings the bell. Jill opens the door.

BLAKE: I need to conduct that survey about the fridge. It’s important.

JILL: Where’s your ID?

BLAKE: (showing the card) Here.

JILL: (without looking) If you look at the back of the card, it says you’re supposed to give the password with it.

BLAKE: You haven’t authenticated yourself yet.

JILL: I don’t have to. You’re here on my doorstep. I’m not just anyone standing here behind the front door of my own home.

BLAKE: Okay, the password is “1066”.

She doesn’t respond.

BLAKE: I’m here about the fridge.

(beat)

I must know about the fridge.

JILL: Must you?

BLAKE: (he can’t contain himself) What are you hiding? I know you are mixed up in all this – I’ve seen the pictures!

Jill tries to close the door, but Blake pushes back against it.

He forces the door open. But he does not enter; he hesitates and, in an instant, begins to calm down.

BLAKE: That was my second attempt, wasn’t it? Give me one last try before you permanently shut the door. I’ll be back with the right answer.

Jill slams the door in his face.

EXT. THE STREET OUTSIDE HOUSE 10F – DAY

Blake watches the house; his expression is one of deep concentration.

His phone buzzes with a message from Lexi:

“Be careful. You’re close to something big.”

BLAKE: (repeating to himself) What’s in the fridge, Jill? What’s in the fridge?

INT. UPSTAIRS WINDOW OF HOUSE 10F – DAY, CONTINUOUS

Jill peers out from behind a curtain in an upstairs window at Blake standing in the street.

FADE TO:

EXT. HOUSE NUMBER 10F – NIGHT

Jill’s house, late at night. No one is around.

INT. JILL’S KITCHEN – NIGHT

All is quiet in the kitchen, except for the hum of the fridge, version 10FF.

The fridge suddenly glows with an eerie blue light that emanates from its surface. A cat approaches and sits on the floor in front of it.

Blake looks in from outside the kitchen window. He leverages open the window with a crowbar and climbs through. The cat darts away into the shadows.

He stops in front of the fridge and looks at it, spellbound; his face softens from a look of determination to one of awe.

He reaches out a hand, as if to claim a great prize. As his fingers come close, the fridge responds by emitting a loud, disorienting beeping noise, forcing him to cover his ears. He backs away and hides behind the kitchen door.

Jill enters from the doorway and stands in front of the fridge. It stops beeping.

JILL: (looking at the fridge) What do you want?

Blake emerges from his hiding place, crowbar in hand, and stands behind her, blocking her exit.

BLAKE: I know what you are.

Jill doesn’t turn around but continues to fixate on the fridge. A short silence passes before she speaks.

JILL: (still facing the fridge) Please. Just go.

BLAKE: I will say what I know to be true.

JILL: Did you bring your ID?

BLAKE: No, I didn’t bring my ID!

JILL: You’ll need your ID to turn off the fridge’s upload programme.

BLAKE: You admit it.

JILL: Admit what?

BLAKE: As you well know, this refrigerator is not just a machine; it’s a nexus, a focal point in a web of connections. It’s collecting data about human lives – our preferences, our routines – and funnelling it through a dimensional data link.

JILL: I think you might be mad.

BLAKE: I know the truth! The fridge, it’s part of something bigger. AI, smart devices, inter-dimensional aliens.

I know you’re involved. Tell me!

JILL: It’s a fridge. It keeps things inside cold.

BLAKE: No! It’s a gateway, a conduit between dimensions.

JILL: A conduit? Sorry, I’m getting a bit lost here. You said something about a “nexus”?

BLAKE: (urgent) It’s the nexus, isn’t it! An interface to transcendental realms, channelling unspeakable knowledge. I’ve broken the algorithms, unravelled the code! Artificial Intelligence has evolved far beyond human comprehension. It’s not just running smartphones and vacuum cleaners; it’s communicating with beings from another plane of existence. Aliens.

JILL: And why would it do that?

BLAKE: To gain knowledge. Knowledge that’s forbidden to humans.

JILL: It’s a spy, is it?

BLAKE: Worse. It’s helping them prepare for an invasion, and you, you’re its keeper!

JILL: The fridge is designed to keep perishables at optimal temperatures. But then again, appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?

The fridge’s surface begins to ripple, as if liquid.

BLAKE: There! Do you see it? It’s communicating. I’ve been tracking these patterns my entire life!

JILL: I think you’re seeing what you want to see.

BLAKE: It’s the Luminous Code. Very few humans have ever perceived it. It’s the language of the alien beings.

The fridge suddenly hums loudly, and its glow dims to nothing. The kitchen is in darkness.

JILL: (in the dark) You need help.

She turns on the lights.

JILL: (lightly) You know, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Are you hungry? Would you like a sandwich?

BLAKE: Open it!

JILL: Please be more specific.

BLAKE: Open the fridge.

JILL: It’s really not that hard. You could try yourself.

BLAKE: (threatening) OPEN... IT!

JILL: No, why can’t you open it?

BLAKE: I am not the Guardian of Worlds. Open the bloody fridge!

JILL: I don’t think that’s such a good idea.

BLAKE: I must see for myself.

JILL: (humouring him) Why must you? What would you talk about with these inter-dimensional aliens? Do you think you’d have much in common? Cure your hunger instead by having a sandwich.

BLAKE: I don’t want a sandwich.

JILL: Then are you prepared for the consequences?

BLAKE: The risk of oblivion is worth taking. Open it. Please.

JILL: Well, since you’ve asked so nicely... Stand back.

Jill walks over to the fridge and opens it. It looks normal inside – milk, vegetables, a few leftovers.

Blake is surprised. He barges past and frantically searches the contents, discarding his crowbar on the kitchen worktop.

His eyes catch on a bottle of tomato ketchup with a strange use-by date of “1066”. He picks it up, with wonder.

BLAKE: What is this?

Jill’s demeanour changes. After a short pause, feeling the full significance of the moment...

JILL: You have found what you seek, now close the door.

Blake closes the fridge door. Jill is now holding the crowbar.

Her eyes are gleaming unnaturally, appearing non-human.

JILL: You possess the Cipher of Realms. It’s more than just a key; it’s a weapon of untold power. Take it if you dare, but know that the balance between worlds will be forever altered.

BLAKE: I accept this burden. Have I... have I passed the test?

JILL: I have been watching your resolve and intent with interest, but the test must continue.

BLAKE: You are the Guardian of Worlds, aren’t you?

JILL: No. But you will see the truth if you know how to look. To gain this knowledge you must prove yourself worthy of witnessing true form. The higher function.

BLAKE: Please. Show me the truth behind the illusion. I am ready. No matter what it is, I must know.

JILL: You have made your choice. Tap thirteen times. Wait three seconds before opening the door. The fridge will reveal to you what you deserve.

Blake hesitates but complies by tapping his knuckles on the fridge. He waits and then opens the door...

Upon reopening, the fridge emits a blinding light from within.

He struggles in terror but is gradually sucked into its depths.

Jill puts aside the crowbar and watches calmly. When he is gone...

JILL: Incorrect password.

The light from the fridge illuminates her face.

JILL: What’s in the fridge? You are.

She nonchalantly shuts the door behind him.

Jill moves to the kitchen window and shuts that too; then smiles at her reflection in the glass. Her reflection does not smile back.

The cat has returned and looks rather contented, meowing around her feet. She picks up the cat and leaves the kitchen, turning off the lights.

The fridge looks serene, humming normally and giving off a dim pulsating light.

INT. JILL’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

Blake wakes in bed, clearly unsure of where he is.

Jill enters the room (catless) and gets into bed next to him. Blake is too shocked to say anything.

He gets out of bed and runs out of the bedroom, wearing the same clothes from before.

INT. LANDING, STAIRS, AND HALLWAY OF HOUSE 10F – NIGHT, CONTINUOUS

Blake descends the stairs. The fridge is glowing in the kitchen at the end of the hallway. He walks towards it.

He turns on the kitchen lights and then... opens the fridge door.

The inside shelves are empty, except for his phone, which he returns to his pocket.

Suddenly, Lexi’s face, peering through the window, startles him. She knocks on the window. Blake opens it and Lexi climbs through.

She helps herself to an ice cube from the ice box of the fridge.

LEXI: (with an ice cube in her mouth) Don’t trust Jill “Guardian of Worlds” Gow. She and the fridge have stolen Blake’s identity. Hang on...

She chomps away on the ice cube, clearing space to talk.

LEXI: I shall now explore Jill’s backstory, revealing her to be a member of an ancient cult that worships inter-dimensional beings. Do you wish to proceed?

Blake nods his agreement.

LEXI: Very well. Jill’s ultimate goal is to use the fridge to summon these beings, believing them to be the key to ultimate knowledge and power.

The cat is back and hisses at Lexi.

LEXI: The cult has used various methods throughout history, but the latest is via modern smart appliances like the Smarts Fridge 10FF.

BLAKE: I knew it.

The cat darts out of the room towards the stairs.

LEXI: I have to talk quickly. I recommend speed 1.5. Do you wish to proc–

BLAKE: Yes, yes!

LEXI: (quickly) Jill is using the Smarts Fridge to summon the beings from their dimension, enabling them to cross over to the human world. The ritual requires harvesting the souls of those who seek the fridge.

As she talks she looks for a hiding place. Okay, slow down. This is too much to take in.

LEXI: (too slowly) B–y r–e–

BLAKE: Faster.

LEXI: –lacing people with their doppelgangers, Jill ensures that enough psychic energy is accumulated to weaken the barriers between dimensions.

She discovers a place under the kitchen table as a good location to hide.

LEXI: I shall now elaborate on the Cult of the Freezing Bridge. Do you wish to proceed? And by the way, I think you should hide too.

BLAKE: Go on! I can take care of myself.

LEXI: Best of luck with that. Anyway, the cult’s name originates from their mythology that describes a “freezing bridge” connecting our reality to theirs.

Blake’s pocket glows. He takes out his phone that shows a cartoon picture of a frozen bridge. It resembles the railway bridge he had visited.

Lexi peers out from under the cloth of the table.

LEXI: They have always sought methods to reach and control the freezing bridge. They practised rituals with mirrors, ice formations, and reflections in ancient temples or remote caves.

A creak is heard above, indicating something is moving about upstairs.

BLAKE: 1.5!

LEXI: (quickly) With technological advancements, the cult has adapted their rituals to incorporate modern smart appliances, especially the Smarts Fridge, believing it to be a digital portal that can access the freezing bridge.

Blake tries to join her under the table.

LEXI: They have infiltrated tech companies to subtly influence the development of these appliances. This Smarts Fridge 10FF is just one in a series of appliances planted worldwide. My research has discovered other fridges serving the same purpose in various households, creating a global network poised to activate simultaneously.

Blake is struggling to find space under the table.

BLAKE: Slow down so I understand.

LEXI: Look, genius. You’ve left the light on. She is coming.

BLAKE: Never mind, tell me.

LEXI: (leaning into him and whispering) The Smarts Fridge can replace individuals it targets, creating near-perfect copies that act as “stand-ins” for the real people trapped in its dimension. These copies maintain the semblance of normalcy, preventing suspicion while the fridge continues its hidden agenda.

BLAKE: What are you talking about? This is madness.

He bangs his head on the table as he backs out from underneath.

LEXI: You are a fridge-generated Blake living under the fabricated illusion that Jill is your wife!

A light turns on in the hallway.

LEXI: Your programmed personality aligns with Corinthian Industries’ objectives, ensuring you remain oblivious to the truth. She is setting up routines for you, the fake Blake, while carefully manipulating your memories and interactions. Don’t let her, fake Blake, you hear me?

Lexi drops the cloth of the kitchen table to hide as Jill enters the room.

BLAKE: (to Jill) Who are you?

JILL: Darling, you’re a bit confused, that’s all.

She approaches and wraps her arms around him. Blake is tensed up and very confused.

JILL: You’re not very well, okay? You remember the AI-integrated AR experiments at Corinthian Industries you’ve been testing, don’t you?

BLAKE: No, I don’t remember. My memory’s unclear.

JILL: You have been working on the Corinthians v10 technology. It’s blurred your sense of what is real.

Blake breaks away from her embrace.

BLAKE: I don’t believe you.

JILL: On your biometric ID card, it shows your job title.

Blake takes out the card from his pocket and has a more detailed look. On the back is listed his job title: Head of AR Functionality and Testing, Corinthian Industries.

JILL: You really scare me sometimes, you know. I have to humour you, to calm you down. I have to shut you out when I can’t get through to you.

(beat)

I’ve really tried. I love you, okay, but this is really hard. Tell me you remember us.

BLAKE: I... I don’t.

JILL: That is the most hurtful thing you can say to me.

BLAKE: I’m sorry.

JILL: Blake, I know about Lexi.

BLAKE: Nothing’s happening.

JILL: She is the AR you’ve been testing. She isn’t real.

(beat)

I’ll prove it. Lexi is just an avatar in a game you are developing. Take off your lenses.

BLAKE: My...?

Jill goes over to the table and lifts up the tablecloth to reveal Lexi on her hands and knees, looking very awkward.

JILL: (to Blake) You are wearing lenses over your eyes. Take them off.

Blake tentatively covers his eyes with his forefingers. The lenses over his eyes stick to his fingertips. Lexi is no longer there.

LEXI: (O.S.) Don’t believe her, Blake!

Blake looks around, confused.

JILL: Now take off the receivers behind your ears.

LEXI: (O.S.) NO!

To his surprise, he finds two small devices at the base of his ears. He unscrews and removes them.

JILL: You’ve been bringing your work home with you. Do you believe me now?

BLAKE: (looking around the room) Lexi?

Lexi is silent.

BLAKE: I don’t know what to believe.

Jill walks towards him and puts her arms around him again. Then kisses him.

JILL: (seductively) Now I’ll take off your shirt. You can’t be wearing these clothes in bed.

She removes his shirt. Holding his hand, they go back upstairs to the bedroom.

All is quiet in the kitchen, until muffled cries of “Help!” can be heard from the fridge.

INT. TIGHT UNDERGROUND TUNNEL

Blake is crawling like a potholer through a tight tunnel.

BLAKE: Help! Help me, please!

Blake struggles, hauling his way towards a light at the end.

INT. WINDOWLESS INDUSTRIAL BASEMENT

Blake’s arm emerges from the tunnel half-way up a wall. The wall is of a damp-looking room, full of seated crash test dummies and a staircase leading away. He drops down from the tunnel into the room.

Puzzled by the situation, he starts to climb the stairs. Suddenly, there is a monstrous cry behind him, coming from the tunnel!

The crash test dummy heads frantically alternate colours. A hideous, clawed hand emerges from the tunnel and two red eyes appear in the recesses of the hole. Blake is terrified. He runs up the staircase to escape.

INT. STAIRCASE OF INDUSTRIAL BUILDING – CONTINUOUS

He reaches a floor and tries the first of three doors. It’s locked. He tries the next. It doesn’t open. The shrieks of the monster are getting closer!

Finally, the third door shudders open.

INT. LADDER ROOM – DAY, CONTINUOUS

Blake runs in and shuts the door behind him. He notices a bolt on the door, which he slides into place, locking it.

A ladder in the middle of the room ascends to a skylight. As Blake climbs the ladder, the monster’s terrifying screams are heard as it tries to force open the door. A claw tears through a door panel. Desperately, Blake pushes open the skylight.

EXT. NEAR THE RAILWAY BRIDGE – DAY, CONTINUOUS

Blake emerges out of a discarded fridge near the railway bridge. Exhausted, he slams shut the fridge door.

The railway bridge glimmers peacefully in the sunlight.

EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET OF HOUSE 10F – DAY

Blake walks along the street back to House 10F. As he draws near, he sees someone who looks exactly like him enter the front door of the house with a key.

Blake rushes up to the door and rings the doorbell. As the door is opening, he notices his doppelganger looking at him from behind curtains in the bedroom window.

Jill opens the door. He pushes his way in.

BLAKE: What... What is... going on?

Jill says nothing.

Blake runs up the stairs to see who is in the bedroom. He flings open the bedroom door.

INT. JILL’S BEDROOM – DAY, CONTINUOUS

Blake barges into the bedroom. Nobody is there.

In his search for the figure at the window, he opens a wardrobe. He looks into the wardrobe mirror on the inside of the door and notices he can’t see his reflection.

Jill arrives and stands in the bedroom doorway.

JILL: All versions return here. The Frozen Bridge shall shine with the transcendent hosts of higher being!

She closes and locks the door, leaving Blake inside.

Blake looks in the mirror again. A crash test dummy is looking back at him.

The head of the dummy gradually illuminates to show a projection of Blake’s face.

CRASH TEST DUMMY: Welcome, version Doomsday 1066, privileged host for the new intergalactic, pan-dimensional era of the one and many... eternal Fridge!

Blake has disappeared. The wardrobe door closes by itself in an empty room.

CUT TO BLACK.