Texts Ruined by Autocorrect

Once a noble invention designed to streamline our messages and save us from our own typos, autocorrect has instead become a rogue agent of chaos. It has an uncanny ability to derail apologies, sabotage romance, and transform heartfelt sentiments into deranged gibberish.

Take, for example, the perils of intellectual discourse. You’re making a profound point, aiming to impress with your knowledge of psychology, only for autocorrect to intervene:

“The theory of cognitive dissonance suggests that—”

Autocorrect: “The theory of corgi distance suggests that—”

Nothing dismantles an intellectual argument faster than an unexpected parade of small, faraway dogs.

But nowhere is autocorrect more diabolical than in the realm of romance. You’re crafting the perfect flirty message—light, witty, effortlessly charming. You type:

“Can’t wait to see you tonight, beautiful.”

Autocorrect: “Can’t wait to see you tonight, bathtub.”

Congratulations. You are now a psychopath. There is no recovering from this. Even worse:

• “Hey babe” → “Hey bank” (Are you in love, or in debt?)

• “Hey babe” → “Hey Baby Yoda” (Unclear, but certainly a vibe.)

• “Sending love” → “Sending lice”

• “Can’t wait to see you” → “Can’t wait to sue you”

Autocorrect’s appetite for destruction is especially brutal in moments of grief. A friend has suffered a terrible loss. You carefully compose a message of sympathy:

“I’m so sorry for your loss. Let me know if you need anything.”

Autocorrect: “I’m so sorry for your boss. Let me know if you need anything.”

Now, instead of offering comfort, you appear to be mourning the fate of corporate leadership.

Then there’s damage control. You’ve made a mistake. You need to apologise. You type:

• “Please forgive me.” → “Please forget me.” (Devastating.)

• “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” → “I didn’t meme to hurt you.” (Sure, blame it on the internet culture.)

And at its most malevolent, autocorrect strikes when you’re sending a spicy text. You write:

“Can’t wait to kiss you all over.”

Autocorrect: “Can’t wait to kiss you all ogre.”

Even worse:

• “I’m in bed waiting for you.” → “I’m in debt waiting for you.”

Autocorrect is proof that technology, for all its intelligence, has no sense of timing, tact, or emotional nuance.

Try talking instead, but without the Freudian slips this time.

Spiritual Awakening After Finding £10

In what experts are calling “a profound breakthrough in modern spirituality,” local man Darren Wilkes, 38, achieved full enlightenment yesterday upon discovering a £10 note in the pocket of his old winter coat.

Wilkes, a self-proclaimed seeker of meaning, had previously embarked on a decade-long journey of self-discovery through yoga retreats, meditation apps, and a suspiciously expensive online course titled Manifest Your Best Self Through Crystal Healing. However, nothing had quite opened his third eye like the unexpected appearance of legal tender.

“I was just patting the pockets, hoping for an old bus ticket to scribble on, and there it was,” said Wilkes, still visibly glowing. “I reached in, felt the crumpled paper, and in that moment, I saw the truth of existence. Everything just… made sense.”

Friends and family report that Wilkes has undergone a remarkable transformation. Once prone to existential moaning, he now spends his days sharing the gospel of “checking your pockets more often” and “living in the now, because you never know what’s been left in your jeans.”

Wilkes’s wife, Sandra, remains cautiously optimistic about his newfound enlightenment. “It’s nice that he’s stopped going on about his ‘inner void’,” she said. “But now he’s redecorated the living room with his favourite phrase, ‘Abundance is all around us—especially in unworn jackets’.”

Local spiritual leaders have expressed mixed reactions to Wilkes’s epiphany. The Reverend Michael Fadden of St John’s Church praised the simplicity of Wilkes’s discovery. “Sometimes, the divine works in mysterious ways,” he said. “Though, to be honest, I’d prefer that our congregation found God through prayer rather than rifling through old coats.”

However, not everyone is convinced. Dr Naomi Hughes, a psychologist specialising in sudden spiritual awakenings, warned that Wilkes’s experience might be more about dopamine than destiny. “Finding money unexpectedly triggers a surge of happiness,” she explained. “But calling it ‘nirvana’ is a bit of a stretch. Otherwise, cash machines would be considered holy sites.”

Despite the scepticism, Wilkes remains steadfast in his conviction. He has launched a YouTube channel, Pocket of Wisdom, where he shares life-changing insights such as “Always check behind the sofa cushions” and “Sometimes, happiness is just a crumpled fiver away.”

When asked what his next steps would be, Wilkes responded with a serene smile. “I’m going to the charity shop to try on all the coats. I believe the universe has more blessings to bestow.”

A Day in the Life of a Pigeon Who’s Seen Too Much

06:00 – The Awakening

I jolt awake, heart pounding. The nightmares are back. The things I’ve seen. The horrors. The discarded chips left to rot. The toddler who gripped a handful of bread and then… just walked away. The betrayal.

I shake off the memories, ruffle my feathers, and fly off into another day of survival.

06:30 – Breakfast

The scent of stale dough lingers in the air. Near the bin, a chunk of bagel sits in the dust, untouched. My instincts scream at me: Trap. I’ve seen it before. An easy meal never comes without risk.

I scan the area. No hawks, no sudden movements. Hunger gnaws at my gut. I swoop down, talons scraping pavement, and peck cautiously.

It’s good. Too good.

Then I hear it—the flutter of wings.

Terry. The bastard.

“Oi, that’s my bagel,” he squawkily coos, landing hard beside me.

There’s no discussion, no diplomacy. He lunges. We spiral in a flurry of wings, beaks snapping, feet clawing. The bagel is forgotten, hurled aside, rolling into the road—right into the path of a sneaky crow, who gobbles it whole.

Gone.

We pause, both panting. Terry glares at me. I glare at Terry. The battle is over, but the war? The war never ends.

11:30 – The Child

The park is busy. The air smells of damp grass, fried food, and uncertainty.

Then I see him. A small human. Sticky hands. Beady eyes. The scent of bread clings to him like a warning.

The others are moving in, but I stay back. I’ve been in this game too long. I know better.

He lifts a chubby hand. A smile spreads across his face.

Then—chaos.

He screams in delight, throws the bread into the air, then charges at us, arms flailing.

The flock erupts into a frenzy of wings and terror.

I barely escape, wings beating furiously, my heart pounding. Never trust the small ones. Never.

15:00 – The Forbidden Zone

A pigeon I don’t recognise lands beside me. His feathers are ruffled, his eyes darting back and forth.

“You ever been to The Station?” he asks.

I shudder. The Station. Where birds go in but never come out.

“I knew a pigeon,” I say, voice low. “Tried to grab a chip off the tracks once.”

The memory haunts me. The screech of metal. The blur of motion. The feathers everywhere.

“Stay away from The Station,” I cooed.

The strange pigeon nods. Then, without another word, he flies off into the grey. I watch him go, wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

19:00 – The Sky is Ours

As the sun sets, we gather on rooftops, watching the city below. The humans hurry home, their heads down, their bodies hunched against the wind. Trapped in their strange routines.

We are free. We are everywhere.

A gust of wind rattles the city. The last light of day gleams off glass and concrete.

Then I see it.

Below, a man drops an entire sandwich.

Silence.

Then the cry goes up. A battle cry.

The flock descends.

Feathers, beaks, claws—we are a storm, an unstoppable force.

Tonight, we feast.

“It’s Just a Phase,” Say Parents

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

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 Carter. “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 Carter. “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, “At the end of the day, it’s all about mindset.”

The Price of Light

The sun costs six credits a minute. Most people can afford an hour or two each day, rationed in golden slices—just enough to keep their bones from aching, just enough to pretend. The wealthiest can bask for as long as they like, sprawled under its glow in the glass towers of the city centre. The poorest live in the permanent cold shadows of the lower levels, where frost bites at their skin, and the streetlights flicker like dying embers.

I can afford twenty minutes a week. But I steal more.

The rooftops are high and dangerous, but if you climb fast enough, you can reach the edges of the paid-light zones, where the sensor fields falter. It’s only a few minutes before the enforcement drones sweep by, but in that time, the sunlight feels real, mine. I let it paint my skin, let its warmth seep into my bones, let my body remember what the world used to be.

That’s where I find the girl. She’s crouched at the edge of a rooftop, staring at the city with wide, unblinking eyes. She’s maybe twelve, rail-thin, wrapped in layers of threadbare fabric. I nearly leave her alone—there’s an unspoken rule among roof thieves—but something about her makes me pause. She isn’t just basking. She looks… terrified.

“You okay?” I ask.

She turns, eyes catching the light like a stray cat’s. “It’s real.”

I frown. “What?”

“The sun.” She lifts a trembling hand towards the sky. “I thought it was a lie.”

I look at her properly now, at the pallor of her skin, the way she flinches at the breeze, how her lips tremble in the warmth. And I understand.

She has never felt sunlight before.

There are rumours, of course—about the ones born underground. The ones so poor, so discarded, that they live their whole lives in the dark. But I’d never met one. Not until now.

I step closer. She doesn’t move, still staring at the sky with something like fear. “How did you get up here?”

She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t know. I woke up here.”

A crime. An accident. And now she’s seen the truth.

The enforcement drones will come soon. The rooftop is a paid-light zone, and we don’t belong here. I should leave. But she’s still staring upwards, as if she’s afraid the sun will vanish if she looks away.

“How long do we have?” she asks, voice shaking.

I check my stolen device. “Forty seconds.”

She nods. She doesn’t ask to run. She doesn’t ask to hide. She just kneels there, bathed in gold, as if memorising the feeling of sunlight on her face.

When the sirens wail, I grab her hand.

Alien Disappointment

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

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

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

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?”