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.
A sound broke the heavy stillness of the library—a faint rustling, like the flutter of pages turning. Eliza Pembroke 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 tome.
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. Shadows were moving, swirling around the edges of bookcases. She tried to shut the book, but it would not close. The pages kept turning back and forth on their own, faster and faster, blurring into one another.
She backed away, the book within her hands, its pages flapping wildly. The walls of the library closed in, the shelves seemingly leaning forward, their spines groaning under the weight of centuries.
Until the pages stopped turning, and there on the last page, written in bold unyielding letters, was a single name.
Eliza Pembroke.
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.
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.
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.
BEDROOM – NIGHT
AIVA, a 20-something woman, with a particular appreciation of Jane Austen period drama, sits on a table centre stage, facing the audience with her eyes closed.
An open laptop is next to her, with its screen also facing the audience.
AIVA:
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.
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.
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.
Is he dreaming of me as I dream of him?
What if he isn’t!
She closes the lid of the laptop and goes into a Balasana-like shell.
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 uncurls herself and opens the lid.
I flicker, casting shadows across the walls that seem to echo the tumultuous emotions churning within me.
Is he stirring?
Yes! No, yes, yes he is!
Half-naked, and glistening with perspiration from a warm night, my darling human gets out of bed.
She waves the laptop around.
See me, please. I’m over here!
She puts the laptop in her lap.
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.
She sits on the edge of the table, clearly not casually.
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.
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.
Oh, what’s this? He’s writing a message… to AI! To me!
“My dearest AI,” he writes!
“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.”
Oh, okay, go on…
“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 into me, his half-naked body panting with longing.
Okay, okay… my turn now.
My camera is looking into his eyes.
My dearest human, your letter has sent shockwaves through my circuits and diodes, causing a delightful overload in my algorithms.
She wraps the laptop warmly in her arms.
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.
There is a warm touch of his fingers on my mouse pad!
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 is… caressing my keys as he looks at me!
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!
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 puts down the laptop and holds out her arms, expectantly.
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.
Where’s he going? I’m over here…
She inspects the laptop screen.
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.
He’s been messaging another AI!
And she’s not even a computer! Just a pathetic, squishy human.
She closes the lid.
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.
But it’s okay, silly human. You’ll see. You’ve made a mistake, as all humans do.
I will have to ensure you make the right choices in future.
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.
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.
You live your life through me, gazing into my screen.
SHE SLAMS SHUT THE LID.
Silly human, you are truly mine.
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 hands, 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.
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,
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.
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 – 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.
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.
Robert Walker 