Category: Stories

Butter-Toaster 3000

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Once upon a time, in a small English village called Quirkton, lived a man named Nigel who was well-known for his peculiar hobbies. Nigel wasn’t like the other villagers, who spent their days drinking tea or playing cricket. No, Nigel had a passion for inventing utterly pointless gadgets.

One morning, Nigel woke up with what he thought was his greatest idea yet—a toaster that could butter the toast for you. “It’s brilliant,” he thought to himself as he scribbled out a quick sketch at the kitchen table. “The world will finally recognise my genius!”

He spent the next few days working on the invention, welding odd bits of metal together, wiring circuits he didn’t entirely understand, and spending far too long arguing with his cat, Sir Pawsington, about where the butter dispenser should go. By Friday, the Butter-Toaster 3000 was complete. It was a magnificent contraption, albeit a bit oversized—roughly the size of a small washing machine. But Nigel was not one to let practicality get in the way of progress.

He invited the whole village over for a grand unveiling, convinced that this would be his moment of glory. Villagers arrived, intrigued, although many came just for the free sandwiches. Nigel stood before them, beaming, with Sir Pawsington sitting on his shoulder.

“Welcome, friends! Behold—the Butter-Toaster 3000! A toaster that not only toasts your bread to perfection but butters it for you with the precision only a machine can achieve!”

Nigel pulled off a dusty sheet to reveal the monstrous appliance. He placed a slice of bread in the toaster and pressed the button. The machine hummed loudly, with sparks flying here and there—but Nigel assured everyone this was just part of the “innovation process”.

Suddenly, with a loud pop, the bread shot out of the toaster, flew across the room, and slapped straight into the face of Mrs Perkins, who had the misfortune of standing closest to the invention. Before anyone could react, the butter dispenser kicked into action, flinging a pat of butter with alarming force—hitting Mrs Perkins again squarely in the face.

For a moment, there was silence.

Mrs Perkins, with face covered in butter, blinked, took off her glasses, and calmly said, “Well, it’s better than that talking washing machine he made last year.”

The crowd laughed, while Nigel stood in shock, muttering, “I’ll… adjust the settings.”

To this day, Nigel, undeterred, is still in his workshop working on the next big thing—an umbrella that doubles as a cup holder. “You just wait,” he says, “this one’s going to be massive.”

The Empty Bench

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Eleanor lived in a crumbling house at the edge of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. Her house was the last one before the land gave way to the boundless expanse of water below. The townsfolk rarely visited her, not out of malice but out of respect. Eleanor had lived there for as long as anyone could remember, and her quiet, solemn presence gave her an almost mythical status in the town.

Every day, at dusk, Eleanor would leave her house and walk towards the cliff’s edge. There, she would sit on a weathered bench, looking out to sea. No one was quite sure why she did this, but it had become a part of the daily rhythm—Eleanor at the cliffs, the sun dipping below the horizon, and the waves crashing endlessly against the rocks below.

But there was something different about that evening. Eleanor felt the weight of something coming, something that had been long buried beneath the tides.

As she sat on her bench, her frail hands gripping the worn wooden beam, Eleanor’s eyes were drawn to the distant sea. At first, it was just a shadow—a flicker at the edge of her vision—but then it grew, becoming more distinct. A ship. An old, grand ship with tattered sails and a hull darkened by the sea’s grasp. It was drifting slowly towards the cliffs, towards her.

Eleanor hadn’t seen that ship in over sixty years, not since the night it had disappeared, swallowed by a storm that had raged so fiercely it had left the town battered and broken. Everyone had believed it had sunk, with all hands aboard lost. But Eleanor had known better. She had always known the ship would return.

The vessel grew closer, and as it did, the wind died, the waves quieting. There, on the deck stood a figure, his coat whipping in a breeze that seemed to exist only for him.

It was Captain James Allard, her James. The love of her youth, the man who had promised to return to her but had been taken by the sea. Yet there he was, unchanged by time.

“Eleanor,” his voice carrying across the distance between them. “I’ve come for you.”

She had waited for this moment, for this impossible return. For years, she had sat on the bench, watching, hoping, and now, at last, he had come back to her.

The cliff’s edge loomed ahead, but she did not stop. She was no longer afraid. The sea, which had once taken everything from her, now beckoned her with the promise of reunion.

As she stepped into the air, a wind caught her, gentle and soft, and she felt herself being lifted. She didn’t fall; she floated, weightless, her heart light for the first time in decades.

The townsfolk would say, in the days to come, that Eleanor had simply vanished. That one evening, she had walked to the cliffs and never returned. Some said she had finally succumbed to the grief that had haunted her for so long. Others spoke in hushed voices of the ghost ship, of Captain Allard, and the love that had transcended death.

But the sea kept its secrets well, and no one would ever truly know what had happened that night. All that remained was the empty bench at the edge of the cliffs, and the relentless sound of waves crashing against the rocks below.

Stay With Us

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

It was the last evening before Alice would leave for university. The house was quiet, her suitcase packed and waiting by the door. She found herself restless, drawn to the oak tree in a way she couldn’t explain. It stood at the back of the garden, silhouetted against the fading twilight.

As she approached, Alice noticed something strange—the tree’s bark seemed to heave, almost as if it were breathing.

She placed her hand on the trunk, and a ripple of warmth spread through her arm. Suddenly, the world shifted. The tree, the night sky—they all blurred, and then cleared again, but it was different. Everything was covered in silver light.

Her hand remained pressed against the tree, yet now it felt softer, like skin, warm and pulsing. She tried to pull away, but her fingers were stuck. She tugged harder, but the tree wouldn’t let go.

Then she heard it—low, faint yet unmistakable, as if it were coming from the depths of the oak itself.

“Stay.”

She tried to yank her hand free, but the tree’s grip remained. The voice grew louder, more insistent, multiplying.

“Stay with us.”

The bark shifted around her fingers, and from within the tree, shapes began to emerge—faces, pale and ghostly, pressing against the wood from the inside. Their eyes were hollow, their mouths stretched wide in silent screams. People from the town, long gone.

“You belong here.”

“No!” she shouted. She pulled away, and the tree released her. She stumbled back.

The voices faded, the faces retreating back into the bark. The world snapped back to normal… the tree was standing still and silent.

Alice left the town and the tree behind in the morning.

How to Pretend You’re Posh (And Fool Absolutely No One)

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Here I am, an individual of impeccable taste, navigating the world of fine living. You must forgive me, I’ve just had the most dreadful time trying to find a decent vintage this morning. It’s like, I say to the chap at the wine shop, “Do you really expect me to drink anything from after 2015?” And, you know, he gives me this look. You know the look—the kind that suggests he thinks I’m just a bit too posh for my own good. But honestly, anything after 2015 is basically grape juice, isn’t it?

Ah, but don’t misunderstand me, I am terribly refined these days. I’ve got a subscription to the London Review of Books, which I only read while sipping a perfectly brewed Earl Grey, naturally. I’ve even started calling dinner ‘supper’ just because it feels right, you know? I mean, it’s really quite marvellous, isn’t it? ‘Supper’ has that special ring to it. It’s a bit like ‘dinner’, but with that certain je ne sais quoi, which in this case means the added air of someone who has, perhaps, a favourite type of chutney—oh, and not just any chutney, mind you, but something exotic like mango and chilli, or fig and balsamic reduction. And of course, one must always discuss these chutneys with others, ideally while wearing a cashmere cardigan and standing next to an Aga, because how else would you truly embrace the spirit of ‘supper’?

Speaking of chutney, I must tell you about the cheese board I hosted the other day. Oh, yes, yes, I’m a bit of a cheese board enthusiast these days. I laid out a lovely spread, something artisanal, nothing you’d find in Tesco—absolutely not! I had this Camembert which was—and I do say this with utmost confidence—ever so slightly off. Yes, off. Which is how you know it’s good, isn’t it? If it’s sort of offensive to the nose, that’s when you know you’re on the right track. And, of course, I also included a Brie that was so gooey, it was more of a puddle than a cheese—it practically had to be served with a ladle. Oh, and the crackers! I had a selection that would make any self-respecting cheese lover weep with joy: charcoal crackers, rosemary wafers, and even some gluten-free, hand-rolled, sea salt thins. Because, let’s face it, if you’re not offering a variety of crackers that require an explanation, are you really even hosting a cheese board?

Now, when it comes to weekends, you’ll find me spending my time at the local farmer’s market—oh, yes, very locally sourced, organic vibes only. It’s very important, you know, to support local farmers, even if it means spending fifteen quid on a cabbage. And it’s never just ‘cabbage,’ is it? I only deal in cabbages that have names like ‘heritage winter brassica’ and come with a story about how they were grown on the side of some misty hill by a person named Juniper. Juniper, who probably wears handmade sandals and sings folk songs to the vegetables as they grow.

Of course, I’ve also taken up reading poetry. Not just any poetry, mind you. I’ve been diving into Keats, which I must say, is quite different from the last thing I saw the neighbour read, which was… well… let’s just say it was a Jilly Cooper novel and leave it at that. But no, now I sit in my front room—parlour, I should say—with a cup of Earl Grey, reading my Keats aloud, so the neighbours know just how terribly cultured I’ve become. I’m sure they’re impressed, even if they don’t fully understand why I’m standing at the window declaring, “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever!” at the top of my lungs.

Anyway, I must be off—I’ve got a yoga class to get to. Not the regular kind, of course—oh, no. It’s goat yoga. Yes, goats. Someone told me it’s very calming to have a goat jump on your back while you’re doing a downward dog. I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but it sounds expensive and obscure, which means it must be good for me. Plus, there’s something rather poetic, don’t you think, about reconnecting with nature, even if nature is standing on you and chewing on your shoelaces.

Sicilian Single Estate Olive Oil

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

BASINGSTOKE—Local man Kevin Burrows, 43, a part-time IT technician and full-time Tesco Clubcard holder, made a life-altering purchase last Thursday when he popped into Waitrose “just for a look” after his wife’s yoga class. The item in question? A 500ml bottle of Sicilian single-estate organic olive oil, priced at an eye-watering £12.99.

Burrows has reportedly been unable to revert to his previous life of own-brand butter and two-for-one spaghetti hoops. “I used to be happy with a splash of sunflower oil, but now look at me,” he confessed, wiping a tear from his eye. “I’ve been drizzling this stuff on everything—salads, toast, even fish fingers. It’s like I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back.”

Friends and family say Burrows has become insufferable since the purchase, with several complaining that he now insists on talking about “notes of pepperiness” and “fruity undertones” when discussing his evening meals.

“He came round for a barbecue last weekend,” said his mate, Dave Pearson. “Next thing I know, he’s pouring olive oil onto the burgers and banging on about ‘the Mediterranean diet’. I had to pretend I was impressed, but really, I just wanted to give him a slap.”

Burrows’ wife, Angela, has also voiced concerns, claiming that her husband has started using phrases like “just a touch of balsamic” and “pass the sea salt” in casual conversation. “It’s like I’m living with a stranger,” she said. “Last night, he refused to eat his chips because they ‘weren’t organic’. I nearly fainted.”

According to experts, this condition includes an inflated sense of culinary superiority, the sudden urge to purchase artisanal bread, and an inexplicable disdain for anything from Iceland.

Burrows’s descent into the posh oil lifestyle has been swift and brutal. Just two days after the olive oil incident, he was seen browsing the “fancy cheeses” section of Marks & Spencer, where sources say he was heard repeating the phrase “burrata” under his breath. At press time, Burrows was spotted furiously Googling recipes for focaccia bread.

To Do

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

I recently tried to be more productive, so I decided to make a to-do list. But, of course, halfway through the day, I was still working on it. So I thought, “I’ll just add things I’ve already done and cross them off for the satisfaction.”

By the end of the day, I had a thoroughly accomplished list:

                  1.              Wake up ✔️

                  2.              Breathe ✔️

                  3.              Stare at phone ✔️

                  4.              Check fridge for snacks ✔️

Mr Nibbles

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Mr Nibbles, a rotund creature with an air of considerable self-importance, paused momentarily to inspect the carpet before waddling purposefully towards the hallway. Dave, maintaining a casual watch, did not give much thought to the hamster’s expedition—after all, how far could a hamster feasibly manage to go? However, it was precisely here that Dave made a critical misjudgement: underestimating the latent agility and determination of Mr Nibbles.

Mr Nibbles identified an aperture—a narrow gap between the wall and the skirting board, an opening so minute that no reasonable person would deem it traversable. Nevertheless, Mr Nibbles, possessing an indomitable spirit akin to that of the most valiant adventurers, manoeuvred his fluffy body through the slender crevice, disappearing into the wall cavity. There, the indistinct creaks and rustlings of the hidden recesses hinted at enigmatic secrets concealed within.

Dave’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Mr Nibbles? Where did you go, mate?” he exclaimed, dropping to his hands and knees to peer into the shadowy depths of the gap. He could faintly discern the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet echoing through the house’s internal labyrinth—a structure erected in the 1970s, during a period when home construction appeared more focused on concealed mysteries than structural soundness.

In a moment of sheer panic, Dave reached for his phone. Within minutes, Shane arrived, dressed as though he were embarking on a full-scale military operation. He wore camouflage trousers, an oversized utility vest brimming with an assortment of unknown tools, and had even donned knee pads, evidently prepared for extreme contingencies. Additionally, he was equipped with his well-worn gardening gloves, a headlamp, and—for reasons that eluded Dave—a wooden spoon.

“Alright, Dave,” Shane proclaimed, his tone conveying the gravity of a commander leading a tactical unit, “where did you last see the little rascal?”

Dave gestured towards the narrow gap, prompting Shane to crouch down with the intensity of a detective meticulously examining a crime scene. “This calls for something special, Dave,” Shane declared. “Cheese,” he announced, producing a slice of cheddar from his pocket with the flair of a magician unveiling a rabbit. “Trust me, hamsters have a weakness for it.” Shane proceeded to break the cheese into small fragments and, with a rather conspicuous zeal, began placing the pieces near the gap in the wall.

For the next half hour, they waited. Dave lay prone on the floor, murmuring assurances to Mr Nibbles. “Come on, mate. I’ll get you a wheel with LED lights. I’ll even buy you those organic sunflower seeds.” Meanwhile, Shane tapped the wall gently with the wooden spoon, as if attempting to channel his willpower to coax the hamster back. Dave, observing him, could not help but raise an eyebrow, questioning whether Shane’s methods had perhaps strayed into the realm of absurdity, though he wisely refrained from voicing his thoughts.

Suddenly, a faint shuffling emerged from the darkness. Dave held his breath. Shane clung to his wooden spoon in anticipation. From the shadowy depths, the tiny nose of Mr Nibbles appeared, followed by his rapidly twitching whiskers. Enticed by the aroma of cheddar, Mr Nibbles cautiously emerged from the gap, his demeanour turning to nonchalance, as though entirely indifferent to the commotion around him.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Dave sighed, swiftly scooping up the diminutive escapee. Mr Nibbles blinked lazily, seemingly oblivious to the drama he had caused. Shane gave Dave a congratulatory tap on the shoulder with his spoon, “Told you, cheese never fails. Well, except for that time my cat met a raccoon… but that’s another story.”

10 Absolutely True Facts

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

• Rocks grow extremely slowly, but only when no one is watching.
• Bees don’t actually make honey. They buy it wholesale from tiny bee supermarkets, but they advertise the “hardworking bee” brand because it sells better.
• Spaghetti grows on special pasta trees in Italy, which is why it’s considered the national tree.
• The Moon landing was the ultimate “Look what I can do!” moment. Somewhere, aliens are still gossiping, “Remember when they came all the way here, bounced around, and then just left?”
• All cats secretly run on solar power. This is why they always nap in sunbeams—they’re just recharging their batteries.
• In Ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped as gods. They have never forgotten this, which explains why your cat always gives you that “Where’s my tribute?” look when you’re five minutes late feeding them.
• Butterflies taste with their feet, which means stepping in something gross for them is a whole other level of awful. That’s why butterflies seem so dainty—they’re just avoiding bad flavours.
• All sloths were once super-fast, but they got tired of winning all the races and decided to slow down to “give others a chance.”
• Caterpillars have tiny secret moustaches, and they twirl them whenever they’re planning something mischievous.
• Platypuses are nature’s “proof of concept” project, where Mother Nature threw together whatever was lying around just to see if it’d work.

Time for Tea

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

One bright morning, Nigel woke up to discover something truly terrible—he had run out of tea. The horror. The scandal. How had he allowed this travesty to occur under his very roof?

He grabbed his keys and rushed out the door. His mission was clear: to replenish his tea supply before the day truly began.

Upon reaching the shop, Nigel stumbled into the tea aisle, panting. He scanned the shelves. Yorkshire Tea, Earl Grey, English Breakfast… But just as he reached out for his trusty box of PG Tips, a hand swooped in from the side, snatching it from the shelf.

He turned, and there stood Mrs Perkins, the nosy neighbour from down the road. She looked up at him, eyes gleaming with victory, clutching the last box of tea like a trophy. “Oh, sorry, Nigel,” she said with a smile as fake as her hair colour. “Didn’t see you there.”

Nigel forced a polite smile. “No worries, Mrs Perkins. I’m sure I’ll survive… somehow.”

But Mrs Perkins wasn’t one to let a moment of triumph slip by. “Well, dear, you know, I always keep a spare box at home. One must plan ahead.”

Nigel seethed internally. He, being lectured about tea preparedness by Mrs Perkins, a woman whose tea-brewing skills were known to be, frankly, appalling. Word on the street was that she microwaved the water.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Well, Mrs Perkins,” Nigel said, trying to sound casual, “perhaps we could make a trade. I noticed there’s the last bottle of elderflower cordial over there. I know how much you love it. How about I grab that for you, and we… exchange?”

Mrs Perkins raised an eyebrow. “Cordial? At this hour? Oh no, Nigel. But I suppose…” She paused dramatically, staring at the box in her hands as if she were weighing a life-altering decision. “I could be persuaded… if you did me a little favour.”

Favour? With Mrs Perkins, that could mean anything from mowing her lawn to listening to her four-hour life story—complete with her tales of how her cat, Mr Tiddles, once starred in a local advertisement.

“What kind of favour?” Nigel asked cautiously.

“Oh, nothing major,” she said, with a sly grin. “Just pop by my house tomorrow afternoon and help me… rearrange my teapots.”

Mrs Perkins’ teapot collection was notorious. The rumour was she had over 300 teapots, and she loved nothing more than making people look at each and every one, describing them in excruciating detail. But the box of PG Tips dangled before him like a lifeline.

“Deal,” Nigel muttered through gritted teeth.

The next day, true to his word, Nigel arrived at Mrs Perkins’ house. She greeted him at the door. “Lovely to see you, Nigel. Now, let’s start with my favourite—this one here I got on my trip to Devon…”

Hours passed. Nigel endured teapot after teapot, each story more mundane than the last. He nodded politely as she prattled on about glaze techniques and vintage spouts. His mind drifted to his own teapot collection at home, sitting there, abandoned, with no tea to fill them.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mrs Perkins clapped her hands. “Well, that’s all of them! Thank you, Nigel. You’ve been such a dear. I must say, you’re the only person who’s ever listened to me about my collection without falling asleep!”

Nigel chuckled awkwardly. “Yes, well, glad I could be of help.”

As he left her house, clutching his box of PG Tips like a trophy, he vowed never to let his tea stock run out again. The taste of victory was sweet, but not as sweet as that first glorious cup of tea when he finally got home.

Black Hollow Wood

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

It was said that once, long ago, a terrible crime had been committed in the heart of Black Hollow. A young woman, Elara Drummond, had disappeared one cold autumn night. She was never found, though her shawl, torn and bloodstained, was discovered near an old stone well, deep within the woods. The villagers believed she had been taken by something not of this world, something old and vengeful that lingered among the ancient trees.

Time passed, and though the memory of Elara’s disappearance faded from common conversation, the woods remained a place of mystery and fear. Yet, for young Thomas Granger, none of the village superstitions held much sway. He was a sceptic, a man of reason, and he scoffed at the tales of spirits and curses. Black Hollow, to him, was just a woodland, dark and ancient perhaps, but no more haunted than the empty churchyard on the hill.

One autumn evening, determined to prove his point, Thomas announced he would spend the night in Black Hollow. The village elders tried to dissuade him, warning of a spirit entity said to guard the woods. Some said it was the ghost of Elara, others claimed it was something far older, a presence that predated the village itself. But Thomas laughed off their warnings, packing a bag and setting off just before dusk.

The air was beginning to turn cold as he entered the woods, the trees looming high above, their branches twisted like skeletal hands against the darkening sky. Thomas walked in deeper, following the forgotten paths that wound through the forest, until he found a clearing near the old stone well—the same location where Elara’s shawl had been found decades before—and set up camp.

Thomas sat by a fire, feeling a growing sense of unease. The shadows seemed to be pressing in closer, the trees around him appearing more like figures, their limbs moving slightly in the flickering firelight. But he shook off the feeling, reminding himself that it was all just an illusion in his mind.

As midnight approached, he began to hear something. At first, it was just the faintest murmur, like a breeze brushing through the trees. But then it grew louder, more distinct—a cacophony of whispers, overlapping and indistinct, swirling through the woods around him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw movement darting between the trees. He stood up, scanning the darkness, but nothing was there.

As he turned back to the fire, he stopped cold. There, at the edge of the clearing, stood a woman. She was dressed in a long, tattered gown, her hair hanging loose and wild around her face. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes—wide and unblinking—were fixed on Thomas. She did not move, just stared, with an intensity that terrified him.

“Hel-lo?” he stammered.

The woman did not respond, but slowly, she raised a hand and pointed towards the well. He turned to look in its direction—the well, its stone rim slick with moss, the darkness within it seeming to pulse.

When he looked back, the woman was gone.

Thomas, startled, moved towards the well. The closer he got, the colder the air became. The fire, once a source of warmth and light, seemed feeble and dying. He stood at the edge, staring into the well’s depths.

Suddenly, a hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing his wrist, exerting a freezing grip. Thomas screamed, stumbling backwards, but the hand held fast. As he struggled, he saw it—a face, pale and gaunt, rising up from the well. It was Elara, her eyes hollow and empty, her mouth twisted into a silent scream.

Thomas desperately pulled back and broke free. He ran through the woods, branches tearing at his clothes, the sound of movement stirring in the undergrowth behind him. He didn’t stop until he burst from the tree line, gasping, his body heaving with fear.

A group of villagers found him the next morning, huddled at the edge of the woods, trembling and pale. He wouldn’t speak of what he saw that night, but the haunted look in his eyes told them what they already knew. Black Hollow Wood was not a place for the living.