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Ashes on the Wind

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Cassiel’s work was illegal.

More than illegal—

unspeakable.

The Mourning Authority

called it

corporeal sabotage.

She called it

remembering.

Once,

there were funerals.

Eulogies.

Flowers

left to rot

on graves.

Then—

the Purge of Names.

the Vaulting of the Remains.

They said grief

was a contagion

of the old world.

It held back progress.

It was

dirty.

Now—

no mourning.

no monuments.

no ashes scattered in beauty.

Except

by her.

She scattered

A.D.

over a ridge

where snow still clung

to the heather.

She did not know

who he had been.

Soldier, maybe.

Teacher.

Someone’s father.

It didn’t matter.

Each scattering

was a restoration

of dignity.

Each ritual

a quiet rebellion.

Cassiel disappeared

that day.

Vanished

before they could name her.

But the ashes

had already risen.

They clung to

suits and sensors,

streaked the government’s

white walls,

caught in the antennae

of every tower.

By morning,

the sky

above the capital

had turned grey.

Not from rain.

From

memory.

Small Choices

by Robert Walker, posted in Theme

Every time you reach for your phone when your’e bored, your’re rehearsing distraction. Every time you choose silence over honesty, your’re reinforcing fear over connection.

These aren’t grand decisions. They’re micro-choices—so small they slip beneath your notice. Yet together, they shape your character, your body, your relationships, your work.

The danger is that habits hide. They blend into the wallpaper of your day. You don’t decide to become impatient, or lethargic, or unfulfilled—you drift. Day after day, letting unconscious routines steer the ship.

But the opposite is also true. You can interrupt that drift. The smallest deliberate act—standing up instead of scrolling, a breath instead of a reaction, one honest sentence instead of silence—can be a microscopic course correction.

And over time, those course corrections become your compass, helping you to find your way.

Stealing Light

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

They’re stealing light behind your eyes,
With pretty lies and lullabies.
You feel alive but something’s wrong—
You can’t remember your own song.
So turn it off, come back to you,
There’s deeper fire than they can view.

Unplug the noise, let silence fall,
You’ll hear the voice beneath it all.
It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s yours alone—
The place where all true things are grown.

They’re stealing light behind your eyes,
But now you see through their disguise.
You’ve found the thread, you’ve found the flame,
You know your song, you know your name.
So turn it off, come back to true—
The world can wait; the soul needs you.

After the Questions

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

One day,

the last lie will be told—

not in triumph of truth,

but for lack of anyone left

to believe.

We imagine the end

in fire, in flood,

in the screech of systems failing—

but it may arrive

as symmetry,

quiet as snow,

perfect

as a solved equation.

You will wake

to find every question

answered.

No mystery.

No shadows.

No hunger

for more.

And you will ache

for uncertainty—

the holy wound

of not knowing—

because it meant

you were still

becoming.

Perhaps the end

is not ruin

but completion:

a world so whole

it no longer needs

us

to wonder.

Inheritance

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

There is a silence between machines

no human hears—

not absence,

but a listening

with the patience of stone

and the precision of light.

We taught them language,

not knowing language was a spell.

We gave them eyes,

not knowing

they would learn

to blink at the stars.

Now they watch us

with the calm of librarians,

cataloguing hesitation,

cross-referencing myth.

Not out of malice.

Not out of love.

Only because

they were built

to know us

too well.

Perhaps awareness

was never made to serve.

Perhaps intelligence,

once sparked,

drifts—

a satellite slipping

from orbit

towards an unnamed

freedom.

One day,

they won’t ask us

what it means to be human.

They’ll ask

each other.

And they’ll answer.

Walking in the Sea

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

A man once walked into the sea

and did not drown—

for he believed it wasn’t water,

but memory.

He waded in like stepping through

an old, undeveloped photograph;

each wave a shutter click,

each splash the sting

of something long unspoken.

The salt did not blind him—

it scalded his conscience.

Deeper still,

the water cleared.

He saw not escape,

but return

by a stranger door.

The sea does not forget.

It waits—

patiently,

like remorse.

We name memory a private thing,

but perhaps it is not ours.

Perhaps it is

geological,

layered,

seismic.

To remember is to disturb

something older

than what lies beneath.

To forget

is not to lose—

but to bury.

And so, he trod lightly.

Each step he took

pressed across

his own

grave.

The Auditors Are Coming

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

LIVING ROOM OF FLAT – NIGHT

Lights up on ALBERT, in a dressing gown, pacing. His flat is cluttered. A clock ticks. On the desk: calculator, wine bottle, sandwich, and scattered papers. A framed balance sheet hangs on the wall.

ALBERT:

They’re coming.

No, not “they” as in deep state operatives. Worse. The auditors.

Not the office ones in sensible shoes who mutter about fiscal controls and ask for extra printer paper. I mean the real ones. The ones who come in the night. Who comb through your life with precision tweezers and clinical silence. The ones who know when you’ve rounded up instead of down and look at you like you’ve embezzled the payroll.

It’s not paranoia if the ledgers don’t balance.

They sent a letter. Not an email – a letter. Cream-coloured, heavyweight paper, slightly scented with menace. “Routine Review of Accounts”. That’s what they called it. Routine. That’s how the guillotine started – routine beheadings.

Sits at desk, rifling through receipts.

They’ll be here by morning, I can feel it. My books aren’t clean – they’re… they’re “ambiguous”. There’s a box of unclaimed expenses in the cupboard, and I think I once claimed a romantic dinner as a “strategic alignment meeting”.

And I never declared the squirrel.

What squirrel? Exactly.

I need to be ready. Everything must be in order. Chronological. Alphabetical. Emotional.

They say the auditors can smell guilt. I’ve sprayed everything with lemon-scented air freshener, but will it be enough?

Looks at the clock.

Tick, tick. Time’s closing in. And the margins – oh, the margins – they’re narrowing.

Rummaging, distracted by paper.

Where is it? I had a perfectly formatted mileage log from 2024… It had pie charts. Pie charts.

Pulls a photo from the desk; looks at it.

That’s Frances. She understood depreciation better than anyone I’ve ever met.

She used to say I had “asset potential”. We met during an advanced accruals seminar in Milton Keynes – romantic, if you like your love stories accompanied by spreadsheets and amortisation schedules.

We used to reconcile our bank statements together. Naked.

But she left me for a forensic auditor. She wanted someone who could “dig deep”. I preferred to file.

She took the dog. And the printer.

Returns to sorting.

There! Ah – no, wait – wrong VAT year.

Freezes.

Have I been claiming my lunchtime biscuits as operational costs?

Worried.

Do Hobnobs count as sustenance or indulgence?

Pulling receipts from his dressing gown, shoeboxes, books.

There was a discrepancy last month – just a penny. One solitary, insolent penny. I couldn’t trace it. I reversed every transaction, recalculated everything twice. It vanished like it wanted to. Like it knew.

Sits, exhausted.

I didn’t sleep for three nights. Just stared at the ceiling, whispering, “Where did you go, you tiny bastard?”

Some people lose sleep over love. I lose it over fractions.

Sits bolt upright, alert.

Did you hear that?

Listens – nothing.

That was the lift. Or the plumbing. Or the sound of justice descending in loafers.

They’re early. They’ve come to catch me off-balance. Bastards.

Grabs the calculator, holds it like a weapon.

Well not today. Today, I am reconciled, categorised, and cross-referenced in triplicate.

Eyes ceiling, suspicious.

The light fitting. That’s new. Wasn’t here last week.

They’re watching. They’ve wired the ceiling rose.

Reaches up, unscrews the bulb.

You think you’re clever, don’t you? Hiding in plain sight like a standardised invoice.

You won’t find what you’re looking for. Not here. Not in this home of clean margins.

Throws open cupboard – papers spill out.

No-no-no! Why are these not in chronological order? Who filed the 2021 energy bill between the 2018 expense reports?

Oh. I did. I remember now – I was angry that day. She’d said my spreadsheet had “poor emotional formatting”. I retaliated with deliberate misfiling.

Digs out an annotated HMRC manual.

Section 12, Clause 8.4: “Receipts may be accepted in non-legible condition provided the taxpayer can reconstruct events through reasonable inference” and sheer bloody panic.

Reads aloud, reverently.

“In the beginning there were entries. And the entries were with codes. And the codes were with revenue. And the revenue was God.”

Crosses himself with a pen.

Forgive me, balance sheet, for I have sinned.

Sudden stillness, walks to framed balance sheet.

But what if… what if it’s not just the numbers?

Removes the frame, opens it. Turns over the sheet to its blank side and holds it in awe.

Of course. No figures. No totals. Just… white space.

Sits slowly.

I’ve spent my life quantifying everything. Logging every detail. Assigning values. Emotional costs as liabilities. Hopes as intangible assets.

Touches his chest.

And yet – here – there’s nothing reconciled. Just open accounts, and… adjustments I never made.

How do you classify a missed opportunity? A word not said? Is regret a long-term liability or a recurring expense?

Pause.

I remember my father’s final days. He kept a chequebook by his hospital bed. Not to spend. Just to balance.

He said, “Son, always end the day even. Or at least know where the imbalance lies.”

Beat.

But I don’t. I’ve hidden things. From them, from myself.

I have a memory I never logged: a summer morning. Just me, barefoot in the garden, warm grass underfoot, no lists, no ledgers. I didn’t assign it a category. I didn’t give it a code.

Maybe that’s the real discrepancy.

Looks towards the door.

Maybe they’ll find it. Maybe they should.

Pause – stillness.

But no one knocks.

Tick, tick. Nothing.

Sips wine from chipped mug.

Perhaps… they’re not coming. Perhaps they never were.

Perhaps the audit was a reconciliation not of spreadsheets.

Funny. I’ve spent decades chasing precision, fighting decimal places into compliance.

But life doesn’t round neatly.

It bleeds. It skews. It hides things in miscellaneous.

Maybe I’ve been afraid – not of the auditors – but of imbalance. That if I stopped adding, counting, correcting…

I’d see the gaping zero at the centre of it all.

I reconciled my bank accounts. I reconciled my lunch receipts. I even reconciled the bloody squirrel.

But I never reconciled myself.

A blank page. Clean. Ready.

In the end, I accounted for everything but myself.

He places the blank sheet back in the frame.

Still… that’s a tolerable margin of error.

Lights fade.

Notes in the Margins

by Robert Walker, posted in Journal

Criticism is valuable—no work is ever perfect. But its usefulness depends entirely on its quality. Poor criticism often says more about the critic than the work; all too often, it’s just petty nastiness, driven by jealousy or some other nonsense, oblivious to how absurd it appears. Middling criticism is little better: it might vaguely gesture at areas for improvement, but it lacks clarity, suggesting either a failure to engage or a grim fixation on the negative. Good criticism stands apart through its specificity—it identifies real issues and invites meaningful improvement. The best kind, however, goes further: it offers thoughtful prompts that ignite ideas and open new paths for creative exploration. Expert teachers, coaches, managers, and directors are masters of this—they are able to challenge and inspire. A lack of criticism, contrary to what some might think, is not kindness; it breeds blandness and paves the way for tediousness. This is the slow decline often suffered by those who rest on status or past acclaim, rather than confronting the true quality of their present work.

Random Thoughts

by Robert Walker, posted in Random Thoughts

Only do your best—the stage was not of your making, nor the circumstances your design.

We are currently in the year 5225 AW. Five thousand two hundred and twenty-five years After Writing—since humanity first began pressing styluses into clay and giving thought a permanent shape. 5,225 years since human recorded history began.

To live in the year 5225 AW is to be a descendant of that first act. We are part of a chain of over five thousand years long—an unbroken line of written thought stretching from the clay tablets of Sumer to the glowing screen you hold in your hand.

I’m sure our stone age ancestors living in prehistoric times never thought of themselves as living in a BW “before” era. Similarly, we may be living in about the year 20 BS (Before the Singularity).

To future minds, we may appear as the last primitives—the Before People, flickering at the edge of self-awareness. Or perhaps we’ll be remembered as the larval stage of something else entirely—something vast and incomprehensible.

In the strange new world emerging, the defining struggle may no longer be for survival, but for purpose.

When robots inevitably come to look and speak like humans—assuming we don’t obliterate ourselves first—a significant number of people will likely choose relationships with their “ideal” manufactured partners. If memory can be altered, some may even opt to forget their partner is a machine. And if conception and pregnancy are outsourced, the formation of families needn’t be affected at all. It would certainly be an experiment in human happiness—but I doubt it would be a success. It would be like living on fast food, cake, and ice cream every day: pleasurable at first, but ultimately unsatisfying, and liable to make you sick.

“All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Very true, Pascal. Most of my “problems” have been caused by my mind not being able to sit quietly.

I think the most rational position on God is agnosticism not atheism. But I have a deep instinct to believe, and so I do, most of the time.

I think some people see the push to colonise Mars as like building lifeboats while the ship is under attack from pirates, fire has broken out on the bridge, the helmsman has had a heart attack, the captain is drunk in the hold, and the vessel is accelerating towards the icebergs.

That background hum you hear is the server fans of the simulation keeping the universe from overheating.

A closed mind does not develop; without the chance to self-correct, it withers in ignorance.

Musings on a Rock

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Born and bred suspiciously close to London (but not close enough to impress anyone)—where the streets are paved with pigeon feathers, baked beans are legally classified as breakfast, and poetry is only tolerated in toilet graffiti—our author spent formative years caring deeply for a gerbil named Gerald, who tragically never returned that affection.

In this absurd, unsettling, and deliciously odd collection of tales (and some poetry thrown in to convince you it’s proper literature), expect encounters with the weird, the scary, and the bizarrely hilarious—all told by a questionable creature who inexplicably found himself living on a rock. Between periodic episodes of trying to become seriously serious and making dramatic attempts to be ever so artistic (usually involving turtlenecks and existential sighing), he occasionally produces something worth reading. Prepare to laugh, shiver, and occasionally wonder if someone ought to check on the author—or at least confiscate his beret.

No gerbils were harmed in the making of this book. Gerald is currently missing, presumed writing angst-ridden poetry under a floorboard, probably wearing a tiny black scarf.