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, suffocating, 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 don’t need to ask. Everyone wants peace from the noise eventually. But there’s a cost.”

“What cost?”

His smile faded. “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, his voice barely more than a whisper. “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, she heard the faintest sound, like her own voice slipping away. All she could feel was arms coiling around her as she closed her eyes and let herself be pulled into the void.

Scratch Pad

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.”

…..

Greg:

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

James:

“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.”

James:

“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?”

James:

“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?”

James:

“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.”

James:

“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.”

James:

“Uh… sure, I’d ask the toaster for feedback, I guess?”

Greg:

“Exactly! It’s about communication, James. Communication with all kitchen appliances.”

Greg:

“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?”

James:

“A… duck?”

Greg: (nodding earnestly)

“Yes. A duck. We’ve all been there. What’s your approach?”

James:

“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.”

Greg:

“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?”

James:

“A desert island? With the CEO?”

Greg:

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

James:

“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.”

(Greg scribbles a note).

Greg:

“Okay, James. Final question. It’s the most important one.”

Greg:

“If you could only communicate through interpretive dance for the rest of your life, how would you handle an angry client?”

James

“Interpretive dance?”

Greg: (nodding, deadly serious)

“Yes. It’s a vital skill in today’s business world.”

James:

“I guess I’d… express their frustration with dramatic arm movements? Maybe… throw in some stomping to show how serious I am?”

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 symbol she did not recognise. The title, in letters faded with age, simply read: The Lost Names.

She reached for it. The moment her fingers touched the cover, she felt a cold draft across the back of her neck. She hesitated for only a second before opening the book.

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

Just as she was about to close it, red ink started to bleed through the page, 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 whisper 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 seemed to close 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

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! 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.

Door 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

Scene 1: The Toast Crisis

(We open in a modest kitchen. It’s a simple, sunny morning, and JONATHAN, a man in his mid-30s, stands before a toaster. His hair is slightly disheveled 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:

(Looks 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!

(Pause. 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 toward the door as if it’s the entrance to the underworld. He hesitates, pacing back and forth.)

JONATHAN:

(Whispers)

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. JONATHAN 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:

(Whispers)

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.

 

Scene 2: The Dinner Drama

(Later that 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 deep 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.

END.

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.

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.