Quest for The Aelûna

In the village of Dalefern, where the most exciting event of the year was when old Bertram’s sheep escaped and ran through the town, there was one person who believed his destiny lay beyond the quiet valley. That person was Eryn, a dreamer, a daydreamer, and sometimes just a plain sleeper—especially when there was work to be done.

Eryn had long been obsessed with the ancient legend of the Aelûna, a Dwarven stone said to be buried deep beneath the Dusty Mountains, glowing with the light of the first stars. While others in Dalefern were content with farming, fishing, and occasionally discussing the weather, Eryn had his head stuck in the ancient tomes that nobody else bothered reading.

“He’s got stars in his eyes,” the villagers would say, shaking their heads as Eryn would walk past while mumbling something to himself about “Dwarves” and “hidden treasures”, and staring off into space.

One chilly autumn morning, after having successfully dodged several hours of farm work, Eryn decided it was time. Time to find the Aelûna, prove everyone wrong, and return as a hero! He imagined songs being written about him, statues erected in his honour, and maybe—just maybe—free drinks at the local tavern.

He packed his bag, which consisted of a loaf of bread (half of which he’d already eaten), a slightly cracked lantern, and a sturdy but questionable map he’d sketched based on vague descriptions from a passing Dwarf he’d met years ago. He grabbed his old wooden walking stick, which, to be fair, looked like it would give up halfway through the journey, and set off into the Dusty Mountains.

After days of travelling and several hours of climbing (during which Eryn regretted not preparing for the journey by doing, well, anything involving exercise), he reached the entrance of the cave mentioned in the tales.

It was smaller than he expected, with a sign nailed beside it that read, in shaky handwriting: “Definitely NOT the entrance to a Dwarven treasure. Turn around.”

Eryn studied it. “Just what they would say,” he muttered, ducking inside the cave, the interior being dimly illuminated by glowing fungus.

The first few minutes went smoothly, aside from bumping his head on a low-hanging stalactite and narrowly avoiding stepping into a deep puddle. But after a while, the tunnel began to twist in ways that made no sense, until, eventually, after being too lost to retrace his footsteps, he stumbled into a large cavern at the very heart of the mountain.

Fumbling his way forward, he stubbed his toe on something solid. “Ow! Who puts a rock in the middle of a—” But then his fingers brushed across something smooth and cold. The stone!

Eryn quickly grabbed the object, lifting it high in triumph. “The Aelûna!” he declared to no one in particular. But instead of the soft, star-like glow he expected, the stone gave off nothing more than a dull flicker.

Confused, Eryn squinted at the stone. He was sure this was it. Then he turned it over, revealing a tiny engraving: Made in Dalefern. Premium Lantern Co.

“What on Little-Earth…” Eryn groaned, dropping the lantern battery replacement stone he’d mistaken for the legendary relic.

Just as he was about to collapse in despair, there was a rustling sound from the far side of the cavern. Eryn froze. The sound grew louder, like something very large—or possibly very annoyed—was heading his way.

“Who dares enter my domain?” boomed a voice that echoed off the walls. It was deep, gravelly, and sounded suspiciously like it needed a cough drop. Out of the shadows appeared the unmistakable outline of a Dwarf. A very grumpy-looking Dwarf.

“I—I’m Eryn, from Dalefern,” he stammered, suddenly feeling very out of his depth. “I’m, uh, looking for the Aelûna. You know, the famous Dwarven treasure?”

The Dwarf grimaced. “The Aelûna?” he said, exasperated. “That old tale again? Listen, kid, there’s no treasure here. We sold that glowing stone to some Elves years ago. They loved the shiny stuff. Good business, too. They gave us a wagonload of lembas in exchange.”

Eryn was shocked. “So… there’s no legendary treasure?”

“Nope. Just a big, empty cave. And that…” the Dwarf said, pointing to the stone Eryn had dropped, “…is a piece of old mining equipment. The only glowing thing in here is my impatience.”

Defeated, Eryn sat down with a sigh. “I’ve come all this way for nothing.”

The Dwarf shrugged. “Happens more often than you’d think. Honestly, we should put up a proper sign, but every time we do, someone insists on calling it a ‘quest’ and coming back with more questions. It’s exhausting.”

Eryn rubbed his face. “So, no legendary riches, no statues of me in Dalefern…”

The Dwarf chuckled. “Tell you what, lad. You’re not the first to come hunting for treasure and leave empty-handed. But how about this? I’ll give you something truly rare.”

Eryn’s eyes lit up. “What is it?”

The Dwarf smiled and held out a small, glistening pebble. Take it, tell your village you’ve found the fabled stone, and make sure they buy you at least one round of drinks for your trouble.”

Eryn stared at the shiny object. It wasn’t the Aelûna, but it sparkled enough to fool the folks back home. And, really, what was a hero without a little embellishment?

With a grin, Eryn tool the gift, thanked the Dwarf profusely, and began his trek back to Dalefern—ready to tell the grandest tale of his “great adventure” and hoping it was enough to get a free drink… or two.

An Unexpected Letter

It had been raining for three days straight, the kind of relentless downpour that turned the village roads to mud and the air to mist. Katherine sat at her kitchen table, staring out of the window, watching the droplets race each other down the glass. A fire crackled in the hearth behind her, but its warmth did not provide comfort.

On the table lay a single letter. The envelope was creased at the edges, the ink slightly smudged from having been carried for too long in damp post bags. Her name, etched in flamboyant calligraphy, stared back at her.

She hadn’t opened it yet. It had arrived the day before, slipped under her door by Mr Harris, who delivered the post when the rain made the usual service impossible. She had set it aside, telling herself she’d get to it later. But even now, the next morning, it lay there, untouched.

Letters brought news, and news had rarely been good—not since the day she had received notice that her mother had passed away peacefully in the night. She hadn’t cried then. There didn’t seem to be enough energy left in her to produce the tears.

The fire snapped loudly, startling her, jolting her to reach out and pick up the envelope.

It felt heavier than it should. Her fingers hesitated on the edge. What could it possibly say? She had no close family left, no friends who would send a letter instead of calling. And yet, here it was, waiting, in a handwriting that seemed familiar.

She slid her finger under the seal and tore it open. The paper inside was thick, expensive. She unfolded it slowly.

The letter was brief—only a few lines written in the same extravagant script as the address.

“Katherine,

I’ve thought about you every day since we last met. There are things I should have said back then, things I should have done. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you can understand. I’ll be in the village on the first day of May. If you’d like to talk, please meet me by the oak tree at noon.

—J.”

Katherine stared at the words in disbelief. J. It couldn’t be. It had been years. Too many years.

The oak tree. That old, gnarled thing that stood on the hill at the edge of the village, where they used to meet when they were younger, before everything fell apart. She hadn’t been there for ten years. It was where she had last hoped to see him, on a day much like this, just before he left for good.

She’d waited for him then. Waited for hours, watching the road, hoping he’d change his mind, but he never came.

Now, he was asking her to meet again, after all this time—today.

She drew out her pocket watch. The morning had already progressed to half-past eleven—but she had read the letter just in time—and if she left now, she could make it to the oak tree before noon.

Katherine paced the small kitchen. She had built a life without him. She had learned not to think of him. And yet, here he was, pulling her back with a few simple words.

The rain showed no sign of stopping. But Katherine grabbed her coat from the hook by the door and stepped out into it.

As she walked, patches of cold rainwater soaked through her outerwear, although she barely noticed. Her feet knew the way, carrying her along the familiar path, past the houses with their drawn curtains, past the churchyard with its leaning gravestones.

When she finally reached the oak tree, it stood just as she remembered—its thick branches spreading wide, offering shelter from the rain. And beneath it, there he was.

John stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, gazing at the village below. His hair was streaked with grey now, and his shoulders, once broad and confident, had a slight stoop.

Katherine hesitated for a moment. Then, her voice came out, softer than she’d intended.

“John.”

He turned slowly, and their eyes finally met. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I’m sorry, Katherine,” he said quietly.

The weight of the years unravelled as the rain continued to fall around them. They stood together under the oak tree, in the village where it had all begun, and where, perhaps, something new could start again.

Without warning, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a few swift strides. His hands, warm and steady, cupped her face, and before she could say another word, his lips pressed into hers.

The kiss became a storm, fierce and unrelenting, washing away the distance, the pain, the regrets that had kept them apart for so long. It was a kiss that spoke of every moment they had missed, of every night they had spent apart, longing for the other. Katherine’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to close the gap that had once felt insurmountable.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, their foreheads pressed together as they stood there shielded from the rain, clinging to one another.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said. “Not for a second. I tried to move on, but—”

Tears mixed with the remnants of rain on her cheeks as she looked up at him. “I thought I’d lost you forever,” she whispered. “I thought I’d ruined everything.”

His hands tightened on her. “We were both foolish. But we’re here now. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Katherine was overcome with the intensity of it all—the rain, the kiss, the overwhelming relief of being back in his arms. She had spent so long imagining this moment, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. The feel of his hands on her skin, the heat of him against her lips, the way his heart pounded against her body.

John kissed her again, slower this time. And as they stood there, tangled together, the world seemed to fall away. There was no past, no future—only the present, only them.

When they finally pulled apart again, John smiled at her, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. “Come with me,” he said softly, his voice full of the warmth and affection she had missed so desperately.

Katherine nodded, her body pulsating with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation, remembering a happiness that before that morning she thought had been lost forever.

The Pocket Watch

The sign above the crooked wooden door read simply, “F. Brindle & Sons”, though no one could recall any sons, nor did anyone remember the last time the shop had a customer. Francis Brindle, the elderly proprietor, spent his days hunched over his workbench, his hands working with the precision of a much younger man. His eyes, however, carried the weight of centuries.

Clara pushed open the door, and a tiny bell tinkled overhead. The interior of the shop smelled of oil and dust; the light filtering through the grimy windows seemed frozen in time. Everywhere she looked, there were clocks. Grandfather clocks, pocket watches, wristwatches—all ticking away in unison, each one keeping perfect time. At the centre of it all sat Francis Brindle, his silver hair glowing slightly in the dim light, his hands deftly adjusting the gears of a particularly intricate pocket watch.

Francis raised his head, his pale blue eyes fixing on hers. There was something unsettling about his gaze, as if he could see within her. “It has been waiting for you,” he said.

She glanced around, confused. “What has?”

The old man rose from his chair. He smiled faintly, reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a small, ornately carved box. It was made of dark wood, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to shift as the light caught them. Slowly, he opened it, revealing a pocket watch unlike any Clara had ever seen. Its face was a shimmering opal, and the hands moved not with a ticking motion, but a smooth, fluid glide.

“This,” Francis said, holding the watch out to her, “was made for you.”

Clara frowned. “But I’ve never been here before.”

“The watch,” he said softly, “is special. It was crafted long ago.”

The moment her fingers touched the cool metal, a strange sensation washed over her, as if all the clocks were ticking faster, the rhythm of time accelerating around her.

“I don’t understand,” she exclaimed. “What is this?”

“You must make a choice. The watch will guide you to where you are needed most. But be warned, every choice has its price.”

She glanced down at the watch, now in her hand, its opal face shimmering with an otherworldly light. Deep within her, something stirred—an ancient memory, a sense of purpose that had long been forgotten. She looked up at the old man, her body steady despite the storm of emotions inside her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Without another word, Clara stepped out of the shop. She didn’t know where the watch would lead her, or what choices lay ahead, but time, once again, was in her hands.

The Forgotten Library

Hidden between crumbling alleys and beneath a sky perpetually grey, stood the forgotten library. It had no signpost, no grand entrance, just an unassuming wooden door with a handle stiffened by passing centuries. Few remembered it existed, and even fewer dared to enter.

Inside, shelves spiralled upwards, filled not with books, but with glass jars. Each jar held a swirling glow, like a firefly caught in a perpetual dusk. These were dreams—dreams forgotten by their dreamers, abandoned in the rush of waking life. Some dreams flickered faintly, as if waiting for their dreamer to return. Others were vibrant, pulsing with untold stories that had never been fully realised.

One day, Mara stumbled upon the library by accident. She had been wandering the city aimlessly, lost in the maelstrom of her thoughts, when the wooden door appeared before her. Curious, she stepped inside.

“Welcome,” said the Archivist, the ageless caretaker of the library. “You’ve come for your dream.”

“My dream?” Mara frowned. “I haven’t dreamed in years.”

The Archivist smiled, gesturing to a small jar glowing softly on a lower shelf. “Not all dreams are remembered, but they are never truly lost.”

Mara approached the jar and peered inside. Slowly, like fog lifting from a forgotten shore, she saw fragments of a world she had once imagined as a child: a kingdom of floating islands, a ship that sailed through the clouds, and a beautiful cat-like creature with wings that could speak the language of the stars. It was a dream she had abandoned long ago, buried beneath the weight of growing up.

“Can I… take it back?” she asked.

The Archivist nodded. “Dreams are patient. They wait for you to remember.”

Mara reached for the jar. As her fingers brushed the glass, the world within it burst into life, spilling out a forgotten symphony. The kingdom of floating islands shimmered before her eyes, the ship unfurled its sails, and the star-speaking creature smiled as if greeting an old friend.

In that moment, Mara felt something she hadn’t felt in years: wonder.

She left the library with her dream clutched tightly to her chest. And though the city remained grey, and the alleys twisted in confusion, something had changed. For the first time in a long time, Mara remembered what it felt like to dream.

Unclassified

INT. PRESS CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY

The press conference begins. The PRIME MINISTER stands at the podium, smiling serenely. A sea of reporters, cameras flashing, microphones poised, waits expectantly.

REPORTER 1: Prime Minister, can you explain why the “Housing for All” scheme appears to be drastically underfunded and is already behind schedule?

PRIME MINISTER: (calmly) Yes, well, that’s because we don’t actually have the money for it.

REPORTER 1: Sorry, what?

PRIME MINISTER: You heard me. We promised affordable housing for every citizen, but in reality, we’re barely managing to renovate a few old council flats. Truth be told, we crunched the numbers, realised it was impossible, but announced it anyway because it sounded good at the time. Next question.

REPORTER 2: Prime Minister, are you saying that your government knowingly announced a policy you couldn’t fund?

PRIME MINISTER: (nodding cheerfully) Absolutely. Happens all the time, really. You should’ve seen the transport budget last year. We said we’d revolutionise the railways. What we meant was: “We’re going to buy some new vending machines for the stations.”

REPORTER 3: Prime Minister, earlier this week you were quoted saying, “This government is committed to fiscal discipline.” Care to elaborate?

PRIME MINISTER: Oh, that was just me buying time because I didn’t know what else to say. A treasury adviser gave me some complicated briefing about the deficit, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. So, I just said the usual rubbish about “discipline” and “prudence.” What do those words even mean in politics? I’ve been saying them for years, and I’ve never bothered to check!

A wave of nervous laughter ripples through the press pool. The Prime Minister’s aides are huddled together off to the side, looking mortified. One is furiously texting on his phone, possibly to draft an apology or resignation letter.

REPORTER 4: You have received criticism concerning lack of clarity around your foreign policy. Can you explain your strategy for dealing with international trade negotiations?

PRIME MINISTER: (shrugs) We’re winging it. Half the time, we just agree to whatever the other country suggests because we’re too embarrassed to admit we don’t know what they’re talking about. Last month, I nodded along to some trade deal about rare earth minerals – don’t even know what they are. Do you? Honestly, this job is like being in a group project where you’re the only one who’s done none of the work. You just bluff your way through it, hoping no one notices. I’ve been doing it for years!

An AIDE steps forward nervously, trying to intervene.

AIDE: Prime Minister, perhaps we should wrap this up –

PRIME MINISTER: Oh no, I’m just getting started! Let’s talk about the NHS, shall we? I keep saying we’re “putting it at the top of the agenda”, but to be perfectly honest, the only agenda item on my mind most days is whether lunch will include those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The ones with the smoked salmon. Delicious.

REPORTER 5: Prime Minister, how do you respond to accusations that your government isn’t addressing climate change?

PRIME MINISTER: Oh, that’s simple. We’re not addressing it. I mean, we hold summits and make big promises, sure, but the second we get back, it’s right back to business as usual. You know, cars, planes, oil – no one’s actually sacrificing their morning lattes for solar panels. And between you and me, I can’t even recycle properly. Is it plastics in the blue bin or the green one? I can never remember.

More laughter from the press. By this point, the aides have given up, slumping back in defeat.

PRIME MINISTER: So, in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, the truth is this: I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. Most of us don’t. We’re just trying to keep our jobs, give a good speech, and avoid getting caught on a hot mic saying something regrettable. And frankly, most people know that already, don’t they?

Stunned response.

PRIME MINISTER: Well, this has been fun! If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to a meeting about a “robust national security strategy”, which means I’ll be staring at a PowerPoint and nodding thoughtfully. Have a good day, everyone!

The Prime Minister steps away from the podium, waving happily as the press continues to shout questions. His aides scramble to follow him, visibly distraught.

The Commute

Every morning, without fail, during her usual commute to work, Leah noticed him. He always sat in the same seat, near the middle of the train, right by the window. His face never changed expression, his eyes fixed on the passing blur of the city outside. He was tall, with dark hair that was slightly unkempt, and always dressed in an old brown coat, even during the summer heat. He never got on, and he never got off. He simply was, like a part of the train itself.

One day, Leah sat across from him. Close enough to study, but far enough to avoid suspicion. She watched him as subtly as she could, waiting for some sign of movement, some flicker of life. But he didn’t blink. He didn’t shift in his seat. His gaze remained fixed out of the window, as if he were staring at something far beyond the city.

More days passed, and Leah became obsessed. One Friday morning, she decided to confront him. As the train rattled along the tracks, Leah stood up, crossed the aisle, and sat down next to the strange man. The seat didn’t feel different, but the air around him was unnaturally cold.

She looked at his face. Up close, he seemed even more unreal. His skin was pale, his hair slightly grey at the temples. His eyes—still focused on something distant outside—were an empty shade of brown. Leah spoke.

“Do you… do you ride this train every day?”

The man didn’t respond. His eyes didn’t move. Leah shifted in her seat, feeling a sudden wave of unease. She tried again, louder this time.

“I see you here every morning.”

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t reply. But then, slowly, his head turned towards her. His movements were stiff, as if he hadn’t moved in years. His eyes met hers, and Leah felt transfixed.

The man’s expression didn’t change. His voice was calm, detached. “You’ve been watching me.”

She tried to stand, but her body wouldn’t move. The train began to slow, the air growing stale… she looked around in a panic, yet no one else on the train seemed to notice—they sat motionless, as if the moment had frozen for them.

The train lurched to a stop. The world outside the window blurred into a deep darkness, but the passengers around her remained still, like statues in their seats.

The man stood, the cold air brushing her shoulder as he moved past. He stepped off the train at the stop, and disappeared into the fog that had rolled in.

The doors slid shut, the train pulled away. Leah stared out of the window, her mind now numb, her body motionless, as the train rattled along the tracks. The passengers around her began to stir, as if nothing had happened—but Leah remained frozen, her stare fixed in the distance, beyond the window.

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.