Tag: Comedy

“It’s Just a Phase,” Say Parents

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Gary Watkins, 52, has been reassured by his parents that his well-paid, stable career in finance is merely a temporary diversion from his true path in life—writing a novel about a sad man in a café.

Despite working as a senior investment strategist for 27 years, earning six figures, and owning a four-bedroom house, Gary’s mother, Janet, 76, remains confident that he will eventually “grow out of this financial services nonsense” and return to his real calling as a writer, a passion he last pursued in 1994 after reading Catcher in the Rye.

“We all go through these little detours,” said Janet, rifling through his childhood sketches for evidence that he once wanted to be an artist. “One minute you’re selling your soul to corporate greed, the next you’re scribbling away in a Parisian attic, truly feeling things.”

Gary, who currently has a wife, two children, and a mortgage, confirmed that his parents regularly remind him that he “used to have such an imagination” before “falling in with the wrong crowd” at HSBC.

“I keep telling him, all it takes is one spontaneous road trip to Tuscany,” said his father, Brian, 78, who once watched Eat, Pray, Love and now believes all life’s problems can be solved by dropping everything and moving abroad. “Gary could be writing brooding poetry about autumn leaves while sipping espresso by now if he hadn’t got so caught up in this whole ‘having financial stability’ charade.”

When asked for comment, Gary sighed deeply and revealed that he has, in fact, been secretly working on his novel for the past 15 years. “It’s about a disillusioned banker who quits his job to find meaning in the world,” he admitted. “So far, the protagonist has spent 200 pages sitting in a café thinking about quitting his job.”

Gary’s parents remain hopeful that, any day now, he’ll “come to his senses” and abandon his financial security for a life of artistic struggle. “It’s just a phase,” Janet insisted. “He’ll grow out of it.”

Talking Like a LinkedIn Post

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

LONDON—After years of quiet resentment and just enough productivity to avoid being fired, local employee Dan Matthews has finally been promoted to a managerial role—an achievement that, according to colleagues, has transformed him overnight into a human LinkedIn post.

“It’s like he’s been possessed by LinkedIn,” said long-time coworker Emily Caster. “This morning, I asked him if he wanted a coffee, and he said, ‘Let’s touch base on that offline.’ He used to just say ‘yeah, cheers’.”

In his first act as manager, Matthews sent out a 2,000-word email titled “Reflections on Leadership, Learnings from the Trenches” in which he compared his recent career advancement to “climbing Everest” and “leading a Roman legion into battle”. The email, which began with an inspirational Steve Jobs quote and ended with a completely unnecessary hashtag, was later found to contain no useful information.

“I used to like Dan,” said team member Josh Patel. “But today, he said he’s ‘laser-focused on leveraging our core competencies to drive impact’. We work in an accounts payable department. What the hell does that mean?”

Meanwhile, his LinkedIn activity has skyrocketed. Where he once used the platform exclusively to ignore recruitment messages, he is now posting daily threads on “the importance of adaptability in an evolving business landscape”. One such post, which began with the phrase “Not your typical promotion story”, detailed his “incredible journey” from Junior Accounts Payable Assistant to Senior Accounts Payable Assistant in just eight short years. It included a staged photo of him thoughtfully staring out of a window, an unrelated anecdote about a childhood struggle, and the sentence, “If this inspires just one person, it’s worth it.”

“Honestly, I can’t look at LinkedIn anymore,” said Patel. “Yesterday he posted a stock image of two people shaking hands with the caption, “Partnerships are the fuel of progress”. Who is he partnering with? The photocopier?”

Coworkers have also noticed a shift in Matthews’s physical behaviour. Formerly known for his relaxed, borderline apathetic attitude, he now enters every meeting room with the urgency of a man delivering a TED Talk.

“The other day he stood up during a Zoom call and started pacing back and forth like he was unveiling a new iPhone,” said Emily Caster. “At one point, he paused, stared at the camera, and said, ‘We’re not just pushing numbers, guys. We’re telling a story.’ He then spent five minutes explaining what storytelling means, to a room full of accountants.”

Despite mounting concern, office insiders predict that Matthews will continue down this path, with upcoming behavioural milestones including:

• Ending every email with “Let’s disrupt this space together!”

• Taking a one-day management seminar and updating his bio to “Passionate about leadership and mentoring”.

• Posting a “humble brag” about his promotion while thanking “everyone who believed in him”.

At press time, Matthews was seen in the break room, staring wistfully into the distance while muttering, “strategy happens outside the alignment zone,” as his coffee went cold.

Alien Disappointment

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

The mothership materialised over Earth in a shimmering pulse of energy. Inside, Supreme Overseer Xylox of the Galactic Concordance folded his many arms, antennae twitching with anticipation.

“This is it,” he announced to his crew. “The moment we make first contact with the dominant species of this planet.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the control room. It had been centuries of observation, endless reports, and, frankly, an exhausting amount of patience. The humans had finally developed enough technology to justify an introduction to the greater interstellar community.

“Prepare the transmission,” Xylox commanded. “Let us greet these beings of intelligence and culture.”

The communications officer, Z’rrl, activated the ship’s intergalactic broadcast system, sending a message in all known human languages:

“GREETINGS, HUMANS. WE COME IN PEACE.”

There was a pause. Then, across the world, humanity responded.

On X, #FakeAliens trended within minutes. On Facebook, thousands in cargo shorts posted aggressive, barely coherent rants about government conspiracies. Meanwhile, a group on Reddit attempted to determine the mothership’s propulsion system using only blurry screenshots.

News anchors speculated wildly. Some declared it a hoax. One station accidentally aired footage from Independence Day and caused mass panic.

Then, a missile was launched.

It didn’t even reach the mothership before exploding mid-air due to faulty engineering, but the attempt was noted.

The crew watched as the humans continued their baffling reactions. A talk show debated whether the aliens should be considered illegal immigrants. A group of influencers attempted to go viral by filming reaction videos directly beneath the mothership, while a self-proclaimed “alien hunter” fired wildly into the sky with an assault rifle he had bought for downing spacecraft.

Xylox turned to his lieutenant. “Check the records. Did we actually confirm these creatures were intelligent?”

“Uhh…” The lieutenant scrolled through a holographic tablet. “They built particle accelerators, landed on their own moon, and mapped the human genome.”

“Impressive,” Xylox admitted.

“But they also still have diseases, and, um… they think pigeons aren’t real.”

Xylox narrowed his many eyes. “What?”

“The pigeon theory,” the lieutenant explained, showing him a webpage. “Some of them believe birds aren’t real.”

Xylox read for a moment, then shut his central eye cluster. He was so very, very tired.

On Earth, the situation escalated. The U.S. president held a press conference where he made finger guns at the camera and announced that America was more than ready to go to war with “whoever those space nerds” were. The United Nations debated whether to send a diplomatic team, but before they could decide, an enterprising billionaire announced plans to build his own spaceship to “challenge the aliens to single combat.”

In the meantime, Xylox and his crew continued to observe.

One human attempted to charge the mothership with a sword. Another posted a TikTok of herself trying to “vibe” with the aliens by performing a dance. A major corporation released a limited-edition “Alien Burger” to capitalise on the hysteria.

A group of scientists, desperately trying to salvage the situation, put together a formal message inviting the aliens to discuss philosophy, science, and interstellar cooperation.

It was promptly ignored by broadcasting executives in favour of a reality TV special titled “Abduct Me!”

Xylox sighed deeply. “I was hoping for another enlightened species to share knowledge with. Instead, we got…” He gestured with his antennae vaguely towards Earth. “This.”

“What do you want to do, sir?” asked Z’rrl.

Xylox considered it. “Mark the planet as ‘underdeveloped, mildly dangerous, and deeply embarrassing.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Prepare for departure.”

The mothership shimmered, then disappeared out of the solar system.

Meanwhile, on Earth, new conspiracy theories erupted. Some claimed the aliens had left because they feared humanity’s strength. Others believed they had never been real in the first place. One particularly vocal podcaster insisted the entire thing had been staged to distract people from the rise in avocado prices.

Humanity moved on.

The Galactic Concordance never returned.

Therapy for Supervillains

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Dr Caroline Carter took a deep breath as she glanced at the name on her schedule. Lord Cataclysm. Again.

She pressed the intercom. “Send him in, please.”

The door burst open, and in swept a tall, ominous figure draped in flowing black robes, his metallic gauntlets gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Behind his elaborate mask, two glowing red eyes burned with intensity.

“I DESIRE TO SPEAK,” he boomed, sweeping dramatically into the chair opposite her.

Caroline nodded and clicked her pen. “Go ahead, Cataclysm. What’s on your mind?”

“I AM WEARY.”

She made a note. “Weary how?”

“I AM TIRED OF BEING MISUNDERSTOOD,” he growled. “TIRED OF MY INFERNAL MINIONS FAILING ME. TIRED OF NARROW ESCAPES. TIRED OF—” He gestured vaguely. “BEING THWARTED IN MY PLANS AT THE LAST SECOND.”

Caroline adjusted her glasses. “You’ve been threatening to destroy the world for fifteen years. That sounds exhausting. Have you considered taking a break?”

Lord Cataclysm scoffed. “A BREAK? FROM VENGEANCE?” He slammed a fist onto the armrest. “THEY MOCKED ME. THE SCIENTISTS AT THE LABS CALLED MY THEORIES MADNESS. I CANNOT REST UNTIL THEY—” He stopped, inhaled sharply. “But… lately, even annihilation feels tedious.”

She tapped her notepad. “Have you felt this way before?”

He shifted in his seat. “ONCE. In my early days, when my first Doomsday Device failed to launch. It was… disheartening.”

She nodded. “And what did you do then?”

“I… BUILT ANOTHER ONE,” he admitted. “And another. AND THEN A WEATHER DOMINATOR. THEN A GIANT LASER. THEN A—” He paused slightly. “Are you suggesting I am coping through destruction?”

Caroline gave him a look.

“…THIS IS RIDICULOUS,” he exclaimed.

She smiled. “Tell me about the other scientists at the labs. Did you make any friends?”

His red eyes flared. “THEY SAID MY WORK LACKED RIGOUR. THAT I WAS—” He made air quotes with his gauntlets. “—’A DANGER TO SOCIETY’ AND ‘A HOMICIDAL MANIAC’. CAN YOU BELIEVE THE AUDACITY?”

She leaned forward. “And when you built your first death ray, did you feel validated?”

He hesitated. “…NOT REALLY. I WAS HOPING FOR MORE SCREAMING.”

“Mmhmm.”

Lord Cataclysm sank back into the chair. “THIS… THIS WHOLE THING. THE EVIL. THE MONOLOGUES. THE ESCAPES.” He gestured tiredly. “IT’S GETTING OLD.”

Caroline tapped her chin. “Maybe you’re outgrowing it.”

“OUTGROWING VENGEANCE?” He let out a bitter laugh. “WHO EVEN a.m. I WITHOUT IT?”

She flipped back a few pages in her notes. “Last session, you mentioned wanting to try painting.”

He stiffened. “THAT WAS… A FLEETING THOUGHT.”

She pulled out her phone. “You emailed me a picture of your first canvas, remember?” She turned the screen towards him. It displayed a dramatic, apocalyptic sunset over a smouldering cityscape.

Lord Cataclysm stared. “…YES, WELL. I HAVE A VISION.”

She smiled. “Maybe you don’t need to rule the world, Cataclysm. Maybe you just need to paint it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, slowly, he exhaled. “DO YOU THINK THEY SELL ACRYLICS IN BULK?”

She nodded. “I can send you a few recommendations.”

Lord Cataclysm rose from the chair, his dark cape swirling. “THANK YOU, DOCTOR.” He turned dramatically towards the door, then paused. “NEXT WEEK—SAME TIME?”

She jotted it down. “I’ll see you then.”

He swept out of the room.

Caroline sighed and stretched. A moment later, her intercom buzzed.

“Doctor Carter, your next appointment is here.”

She glanced at the schedule. Doctor Carnage. A known mad scientist with an unhealthy attachment to giant robot sharks.

She clicked her pen and smiled. “Send him in.”

Headlines

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Government Launches Inquiry Into Why Its Own Inquiries Never Change Anything

The government has launched a full-scale inquiry to determine why its inquiries consistently fail to achieve anything beyond producing lengthy reports that nobody reads.

The inquiry, expected to last several years and cost millions, will be led by a panel of esteemed functionaries, many of whom were involved in previous inquiries that led to no meaningful action. Critics have already questioned whether this inquiry will be any different, though a government spokesperson assured the public that this time, they would be “looking into things very thoroughly”.

“We take the issue of ineffective inquiries very seriously,” said the permanent secretary for Administrative Circularities, Sir Martin Grayshaw, GBE. “That’s why we’re commissioning a comprehensive review into the failures of past reviews, with a strong commitment to reviewing the review process itself.”

The inquiry’s official scope includes investigating why key recommendations from previous inquiries are routinely ignored, shelved, or quietly reworded until they mean nothing. Early theories suggest that government inquiries primarily function as public relations exercises, designed to create the illusion of action while ensuring that nothing fundamentally changes.

“This could be a real turning point,” said Professor Elaine Hargreaves, an expert in political inertia. “By properly understanding why previous inquiries have failed, the government could develop new, more sophisticated ways to make future inquiries fail even more efficiently.”

Meanwhile, the public remains largely apathetic, with most citizens assuming this inquiry will follow the well-worn path of being quietly forgotten once the news cycle moves on.

The final report is expected to recommend further inquiries, stronger commitments to investigating things more thoroughly, and possibly the creation of a special committee dedicated to reviewing the effectiveness of the review process. Experts predict that, in time, this will lead to the formation of a permanent department dedicated solely to ensuring inquiries remain an ongoing, never-ending cycle of self-examination.

A government spokesperson later clarified: “We don’t want people to think we’re doing nothing. We just want them to think we’re doing something that looks like something, while ultimately achieving nothing.”

Government Announces New Plan To Fix Housing Crisis By Simply Repeating The Word “Affordable”

In a bold and innovative approach to tackling the country’s growing housing crisis, the government has announced a sweeping new initiative that consists entirely of saying the word “affordable” over and over again until people stop asking questions.

Housing Minister Oliver Beckley unveiled the plan at a press conference this morning, where he reassured the public that the government is “deeply committed to ensuring that everyone has access to affordable homes in an affordable way, through an affordable process, leading to a more affordable future.”

Pressed for details on how exactly they plan to make homes more affordable, Beckley responded, “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Affordability. We’re looking at affordability in an affordable manner. We want to ensure affordability is at the heart of all our affordable housing policies. And I think that’s what really matters: affordability.”

When asked whether the government’s definition of “affordable” means anything beyond “marginally preferable to setting yourself on fire for warmth,” Beckley assured the public that affordability “is a journey, not a destination”.

The initiative has already sparked criticism from housing advocates, who have pointed out that merely repeating the word “affordable” does not, in fact, make homes affordable. However, a spokesperson for the Prime Minister defended the strategy, stating, “We have carefully studied the issue, and it is clear that the key to solving the housing crisis is to use the word ‘affordable’ as frequently as possible, preferably in a reassuring tone. If people hear it enough times, they’ll start to believe it.”

Early reports indicate the plan is already working, with subsidised developers across the country rushing to rename their luxury high-rise flats things like “The Affordable Residences at Platinum Square” and “The Affordia: Executive Suites for the Affordably Minded”.

The Room That Eats People

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Jason, the new guy, was the first to notice.

“Hey,” he said, sipping bad coffee in the breakroom. “Has anyone seen Karen from accounting?”

Silence. A few shrugs.

“She went for paperclips last week,” someone muttered.

Jason frowned. “And Steve?”

“He was getting staples.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Does anyone ever come back from the supply closet?”

More silence. A cough. Everyone suddenly found their phones very interesting.

Fuelled by equal parts curiosity and crippling workplace boredom, Jason devised a plan.

He folded a paper airplane, scrawled IF YOU’RE ALIVE, SEND BACK on the wings, and launched it into the supply closet. It vanished into the gloom.

Nothing came back.

Jason upgraded his tactics. He tied a company lanyard to a stress ball and tossed it in. Tugged the string. Felt resistance. Tugged harder. The lanyard snapped.

The room had eaten the ball.

At this point, Jason could have reported it. But honestly? He was two weeks from quitting anyway.

So, when his boss, Greg, barked at him for missing deadlines, Jason did the only logical thing.

“Hey Greg,” he said, forcing a fake smile. “We’re out of printer toner. I can’t print those urgent balance sheet reports.”

Greg grumbled, rolled his eyes, and stormed towards the supply closet.

Jason waited.

Silence.

A burp?

The closet door shut itself with an oddly satisfied click.

By the end of the week, office morale was at an all-time high. Productivity skyrocketed. No more “urgent” Friday emails. No more passive-aggressive post-it notes about fridge etiquette.

The supply closet door stood slightly ajar, content. Full.

For now.

Jason leaned back in his chair, sipping coffee, contentedly.

Then a single paper airplane fluttered out of the closet.

It had one new word written on it:

“HUNGRY”.

Jason sighed.

“Janice, please could you do me a favour and grab some staples?”

A Guide to the Apocalypse

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Congratulations! If you’re reading this, the world is officially ending. Whether you’ve been vaporised in a nuclear blast, swept away by rising seas, or devoured by something unnameable from the void, we know this must be a stressful time. But don’t worry! The Department of Existential Catastrophes (DEC) is here to ensure your apocalypse experience is smooth, efficient, and free of unnecessary anxiety.

Below is a brief guide to navigating the End of Days. Please read carefully. Misinterpretation may result in existential displacement, time loop entrapment, or spontaneous uncreation.

Step 1: Confirm Your Apocalypse Type

Check your surroundings. Do you see:

• Fire raining from the sky? (Meteoric Cataclysm).

• Strange beings materialising from thin air? (Dimensional Rift).

• Government officials insisting everything is “under control”? (Classified Extinction Event).

• Your own body turning into static? (Reality Corruption).

• A calm, unbroken silence? (Universal Shutdown).

If your apocalypse type is not listed, please refer to Appendix B: Unscheduled Endings and Cosmic Clerical Errors.

Step 2: Complete the Necessary Paperwork

The DEC requires all sentient entities to submit Form 404-A (Notice of Imminent Erasure) before proceeding to their designated afterlife, void, or parallel reality. If you have misplaced your form, please request a duplicate from the nearest Apocalypse Administrator (easily identifiable by their vacant stare and tendency to dissolve under direct sunlight).

Failure to submit this form may result in:

• Delays in your eternal destination.

• Accidental reincarnation as a lower life form.

• Being trapped in bureaucratic limbo (literally—there’s a designated waiting room).

Important Note: Due to overwhelming demand, processing times for post-mortem documentation may be longer than expected. Please be patient.

Step 3: Choose Your Preferred Aftermath

Once all paperwork is completed, you will be directed to one of the following:

• Traditional Afterlives: Heaven, Hell, Valhalla, The Great Recycling Bin of Souls™.

• Alternative Destinations: Parallel timelines, simulated existences, poetic oblivion.

• Existential Oversights: Becoming a ghost due to clerical errors, living out an endless Monday, reliving your worst memory on a loop.

• Premium Upgrade: For an additional fee (payable in unfulfilled dreams), you may apply for a Limited-Time Resurrection or a Rebooted Universe with fewer existential flaws.

Step 4: Address Any Remaining Concerns

What if I refuse to accept the apocalypse?

We admire your optimism. Please proceed to Denial Processing, where you may apply for a Personalised Reality Bubble™. Note: This is a temporary measure and will dissolve when you acknowledge the obvious.

“Can I appeal my erasure?”

Yes! Appeals must be submitted in writing within 24 hours of non-existence.

“I don’t like the afterlife options provided. Can I choose another?”

All alternate realities and non-traditional afterlives are subject to availability. Some restrictions apply. No refunds.

Final Notes

As we conclude this guide, we at the DEC would like to thank you for your patience and understanding. While the apocalypse was not originally scheduled for this timeline, unforeseen circumstances have necessitated early termination. We apologise for any inconvenience caused.

For additional queries, please contact our customer support department. Response times may vary depending on the stability of time itself.

Good luck and have a pleasant End of Days!

The Shakespearean Goldfish

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Harry wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was after that late-night binge of takeout and whisky, or maybe it was just a result of staring at the same four walls for too long. Either way, the fact remained: his goldfish was talking.

It started small. A flurry of bubbles. But by the end of the week, Gilbert—that was the fish’s name—was holding full-blown conversations. And not just any conversations. No, Gilbert spoke mainly in Shakespearean verse.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and I am, alas, swimming in this accursed bowl!”—Gilbert declared one morning, his beady eyes following Harry’s every move.

Harry rubbed his face in disbelief. “I need to get out more,” he muttered.

Gilbert swished his tail dramatically. “Nay, master! ‘Tis not thine isolation, but thine inability to listen to the wisdom of those who dwell beneath the watery deep!”

Harry squinted at the fish. “Have you been quoting Romeo and Juliet at me?”

“Aye,” Gilbert replied, puffing out his gills. “For within this glass prism, I find myself a tragic hero, with no fair maiden, nor an end to my sorrows!”

Harry grimaced. “Right. Well, that’s fantastic. I need a lie down.”

He tried to ignore it, really he did. But Gilbert wouldn’t let him. The next day, the fish had moved on to Hamlet.

“To swim, or not to swim, that is the question! Whether ‘tis nobler in the tank to suffer the pellets of outrageous fortune…”

Harry groaned. “Please, Gilbert, just eat your fish flakes and shut up.”

“Wouldst thou silence a poet?” Gilbert countered.

Harry stared. He wasn’t sure if he was more disturbed by the fact that his fish was talking, or that it was somehow better read than him. He decided it was the latter.

After a week of relentless soliloquies, Harry found himself flipping through an old copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Works, trying to keep up with his piscine companion’s literary tirades. He didn’t dare tell anyone. Who would believe him? The pub regulars already thought he was a bit odd, and his boss had made it clear that “another daydreaming incident” would not be acceptable.

But Gilbert was relentless. “I prithee, master,” the fish said one evening, “dost thou not dream of greater things? Adventure, romance, a life beyond these dreary walls?”

Harry frowned. “I’m an accountant, Gilbert. My idea of adventure is filing tax returns on time.”

Gilbert flicked his tail dismissively. “Fie upon such notions! Fortune favours the bold!”

“Fortune favours people who don’t listen to their fish,” Harry grumbled, downing another gulp of beer.

Yet, deep down, something stirred. Maybe Gilbert had a point—though he wasn’t quite ready to admit that his existential crisis was being fuelled by a goldfish quoting King Lear.

Weeks passed and Harry found himself… enjoying it. He read more. Thought more. And, without quite knowing why, he started applying for new jobs.

One morning, as he dusted off a rather smart shirt he hadn’t worn in years, Gilbert eyed him through the glass and uttered, “This above all: to thine own self be true.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it, fish.”

Gilbert grinned—or at least Harry thought he did. “Methinks thou art finally listening, dear master.”

And as Harry walked out the door, feeling strangely lighter, Gilbert swam a full circle and bubbled, “All the world’s a stage… and mine is but a bowl.”

Later that day, Harry bought Gilbert a bigger bowl, and introduced him to a lady goldfish called Julia, who also had a fond appreciation of Renaissance literature.

Clause and Effect

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

INT. A DUSTY ATTIC – NIGHT

A LAWYER in a suit wipes an ancient lamp. A GENIE emerges in a cloud of smoke, dressed in traditional genie garb but looking slightly weary.

GENIE: (booming voice) Behold! I am the great and powerful Genie of the Lamp! You have awakened me, mortal, and I shall grant you three wishes!

LAWYER: (pulling out a notepad and pen) Three wishes, you say? Excellent. But before we proceed, I just have a few clarifying questions.

GENIE: Uh… sure. But let’s not overcomplicate this. Just say what you want, and poof – done.

LAWYER: (scribbling notes) Mmm, tempting. But I’ve seen too many “wish gone wrong” situations in popular culture. Can’t risk it. Now, let’s discuss the terms. (flips open a briefcase, pulls out a contract template)

GENIE: (groaning) Oh no. Not one of these.

LAWYER: (ignoring him) Right. First question: What exactly constitutes a “wish”? Is it a verbal statement of desire, or do I need to phrase it in a specific way?

GENIE: (scratching his head) Uh, I dunno. You just say it, and I grant it.

LAWYER: (narrowing eyes) Hmm. Ambiguous. Let’s define “wish” for the record. (starts typing on a laptop) “Wish (noun): A verbalised request for a specific outcome, stated in clear and unambiguous terms, as recognised by the Genie…”

GENIE: (interrupting) Look, mate, I’ve been doing this for centuries, and no one’s needed a contract. Can we just get to the magic part?

LAWYER: (pointing a pen at the Genie) And that’s precisely why you need one. What if I ask for a million pounds, and you deliver it in counterfeit bills? Or I wish for a dream house, and it’s haunted? No loopholes, Genie. Not on my watch.

The lawyer lays out a growing pile of papers on the table, complete with flowcharts and a checklist. The Genie looks increasingly exasperated.

LAWYER: (writing) Clause 1: No malicious compliance. Clause 2: Wishes cannot harm the wisher physically, emotionally, or financially. Clause 3: No ironic twists. I don’t want to wish for “eternal life” and end up as a tree.

GENIE: You humans are so distrusting. I’m not here to trick you!

LAWYER: (without looking up) Statistically, 87% of genie-related anecdotes suggest otherwise.

GENIE: Stupid Reddit threads… Look, if it helps, I’m not that kind of genie. I’m not here to monkey-paw your wishes. I’m more of a “give you what you want, no questions asked” type.

LAWYER: (smirking) No questions asked? Perfect. Addendum C: If the Genie delivers a wish that violates any clause of the contract, the wisher is entitled to reparations, monetary or otherwise, at the discretion of –

GENIE: (snapping) OKAY! That’s it. Just make a wish! Any wish! I’ll do it! I promise not to twist it!

LAWYER: (holding up the contract) Not until you sign.

The Genie sighs and reluctantly signs the contract. The Lawyer smiles triumphantly.

LAWYER: Excellent. Now, for my first wish: I want one trillion pounds deposited into my bank account.

GENIE: (snapping his fingers) Done!

An alert appears on the Lawyer’s phone saying: “You have received £1,000,000,000,000.00 from A. Genie.”

GENIE: (crossing arms) Told you I’m legit. Can we move on now?

LAWYER: Not so fast. (points to the contract) Sub-clause 2.3 requires documentation on the money’s source. I don’t want MI6 knocking on my door because it was “borrowed” from the Bank of England.

GENIE: (snapping fingers again) Fine! Here’s a receipt!

A golden scroll appears in midair. The lawyer grabs it and examines it closely.

LAWYER: Hmm. “Source: Magical Treasury”. Acceptable. For my second wish, I want to be the cleverest person in the world.

GENIE: (nodding) Easy. (snaps fingers) Done.

LAWYER: (pauses, then narrows his eyes) Wait. Did you just shrink everyone else’s IQ to make me look better?

GENIE: Oh, for crying out loud! You’re still you, but now you know the cure for cancer, the secret to world peace, and how to win at Monopoly every time. Happy?

LAWYER: (grinning) Very. But if I find out this intelligence is temporary or conditional –

GENIE: (cutting him off) It’s permanent! Next wish!

LAWYER: For my third wish…

He pauses dramatically, flipping through the contract.

GENIE: (groaning) Just say it!

LAWYER: (grinning) I wish for infinite wishes.

GENIE: (laughing) Ah, the classic rookie move! You can’t wish for more wishes.

LAWYER: (smirking) Actually, according to Section 5, Subsection A of this contract, there’s no explicit prohibition on that. Unless, of course, you’d like to renegotiate the terms?

GENIE: (grabbing the contract and flipping through it) You… sneaky little – Fine! You win. Infinite wishes. Happy now?

LAWYER: (grinning) Ecstatic. But let’s amend the contract for clarity. I’ll need –

The genie snaps his fingers.

GENIE: (slowly disappearing back into the lamp) Nope. You can wish as much as you like, but I’m out. This has all now been nothing more than a day-dream! Have fun with your infinite wishes. Byeeeeee!

The lawyer stares at the lamp, stunned. He looks at his phone alert, which changes before his eyes to read: “You have received £0.00 from A. Genie.”

LAWYER: (to himself) Well, I guess I’ll start drafting my terms for an appeal.

He walks off, with a stack of contracts in hand.

Poets’ Corner After Dark

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

INT. WESTMINSTER ABBEY’S SOUTH TRANSEPT – MIDNIGHT

Moonlight filters through stained glass windows amongst the statues and busts of Poets’ Corner.

A loud creak. Geoffrey CHAUCER, a bronze statue, stretches and yawns, his metal joints groaning.

CHAUCER: By the great quill of destiny, what hour be this? Midnight? Time flies when one is petrified.

Nearby, William SHAKESPEARE, carved in marble, rubs his forehead dramatically.

SHAKESPEARE: To wake or not to wake – alas, the question answers itself! I feel a cramp in my heroic couplets.

Charles DICKENS, his bust high on a pedestal, speaks with a grumble.

DICKENS: If anyone thinks I’ll write another serial after this, they’re gravely mistaken. I’ve spent decades staring at pigeons. It’s intolerable!

Jane AUSTEN’s stone figure comes to life.

AUSTEN: And yet, men will complain, even when dead. Can we focus? Why are we waking up tonight?

CHAUCER: Methinks the moon shines brighter on this eve. ‘Tis a summons from the Muses! Or possibly the Abbey wi-fi acting up again.

Lord BYRON saunters in dramatically, wearing his perpetual stone smirk.

BYRON: (mockingly) Ah, the gang’s all here. Chaucer, the dusty relic; Shakespeare, the eternal show-off; and Dickens, the poster boy for misery. Truly, a cavalcade of brilliance.

AUSTEN: (ignored) Hello?

DICKENS: Oh, look, it’s Byron, the original influencer. What’s the matter? No one liked your latest tragic sonnet?

BYRON: I don’t need “likes”, Charles. My despair is timeless. Unlike your serialised sob stories.

John KEATS and Percy Bysshe SHELLEY drift in, looking lost.

KEATS: (to Byron) Um, hello. Is this… the afterlife’s book club?

SHELLEY: Keats, I told you, stop asking. Byron’s not in charge – he just acts like it.

Jane Austen steps forward, brushing dust off her stone gown.

AUSTEN: We’re supposed to be inspiring the living, not squabbling like characters in a poorly written farce.

SHAKESPEARE: (indignant) Poorly written? Madam, I invented farce! And tragedy, for that matter.

AUSTEN: Yes, we had noticed. We all have to hear about it, endlessly.

BYRON: Come, Miss Austin – trade me your sharp quill for softer pursuits; wit may warm my mind, but only passion can set it ablaze.

AUSTEN: Lord Byron, your passions burn so bright they most frequently extinguish themselves – do let me know when one lasts long enough to cast a steady light.

A faint humming noise grows. The Abbey’s speakers start playing an audiobook. The poets gasp in horror as an AI voice reads a modern romance novel.

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR (O.S.): He gazed into her eyes, his chiselled jaw trembling with passion…

Byron claps his hands over his ears.

BYRON: What fresh hell is this?

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR (O.S.): Rain fell in slow motion, though neither of them got wet, because love is waterproof.

AUSTEN: Modern romance. Quite popular, actually.

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR (O.S.): “I’ve never felt this way before,” he whispered huskily, his voice thick with a past he’d never fully explain.

SHAKESPEARE: Chiselled jaws? Trembling passion? I’d sooner see my plays rewritten as musicals!

Chaucer waves his arms to get attention. The audiobook stops.

CHAUCER: Quiet, all! Methinks we must intervene. The living have clearly lost their literary way.

DICKENS: Yes! Let us haunt the publishers until they restore proper storytelling. No more sparkling vampires or billionaire love triangles!

AUSTEN: Or we could just give them… guidance. Perhaps they’re not all lost causes.

BYRON: (smirking) Speak for yourself. I’d rather haunt Instagram.

As the poets argue, a security GUARD enters, holding a torch. The beam of light freezes everyone mid-motion. For a moment, they look like statues again. The guard scratches his head.

GUARD: (muttering) Blimey, I need to cut back on the night shifts. Thought I saw Shakespeare wink at me.

The guard leaves, muttering about getting coffee. As soon as the door shuts, the poets burst into laughter.

SHAKESPEARE: Winking? A tragedy I didn’t invent earlier!

AUSTEN: Let’s focus. If we’re going to inspire, we need to reach the world. But how?

A moment of silence.

CHAUCER: TikTok?

The others groan.

SHAKESPEARE: How about…?

Shakespeare starts scribbling with an invisible quill. The other poets join in, creating ethereal manuscripts that float in the air. Byron spends most of his time striking poses.

AUSTEN: Okay… (reading) We, the spirits of Poets’ Corner, call upon you, dear writers, to elevate your craft! Write with wit, depth, and meaning!

DICKENS: And no clichés! If I see one more “chosen one” narrative, I shall weep.

SHELLEY: (excitedly) Let’s send it out on the wind! A ghostly manuscript carried by the night air.

BYRON: Or, Shelley… we could just leave it in the gift shop.

They all pause. Byron shrugs.

As dawn approaches, the poets resume their statuesque forms, ready to inspire from their silent vigil once more.

INT. THE GIFT SHOP – DAY

The next day, a TOURIST picks up the mysterious manuscript and chuckles.

TOURIST: “A Declaration from the Poets of Westminster Abbey?” Must be some clever marketing.

The tourist pockets it away. Meanwhile, in Poets’ Corner, Shakespeare’s statue winks.