Tag: Fiction

A collection of book parts, mostly unused.

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Why Imperfection Can Boost Project Delivery

Neil Carruthers had a suit that fit like it was made for someone slightly more successful. He was mid-thirties, agile with spreadsheets, cautious with opinions. A contractor. Six-month rolling gig. Billing at £700 a day to help “transform delivery culture” at a bloated infrastructure firm called Eaglenex Systems — the kind of company that wrote press releases about internal memos and hired two project managers for every engineer.

At Eaglenex, perfection wasn’t a goal. It was a paralysis.

The Monday incident happened in Meeting Room 4C. A long rectangle of glass and resentment.

Everyone was there — Delivery, PMO, Compliance, a junior from Legal who blinked like he was learning to see. The project was three months overdue and twenty-seven pages into a colour-coded Excel workbook that still hadn’t had a single task marked “Complete.”

The Director of Delivery, a woman called Mariana, sharp-suited and permanently under-caffeinated, pointed at the Gantt chart on the wall and snapped, “We cannot release Phase 1 until QA signs off on every single scenario. We have a reputation.”

Neil, for reasons unclear even to himself, cleared his throat and said, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing poorly.”

The silence hit like a power cut.

A full three seconds passed before Mariana turned, eyes narrowing.

“Excuse me?”

Neil blinked. Thought about walking it back. Thought about smiling, chuckling, pretending he was joking. But something inside him — maybe the ghost of his teenage self, or maybe just the spreadsheet open on his second monitor — pushed him on.

He said, “I just mean… we’ve got three modules ready. They’re not perfect. But they work. Waiting for the full gold-plated rollout means nobody gets anything. If it’s worth doing — delivering, in this case — then it’s worth doing now. Even if it’s not pristine. Even if it’s a bit rough. Doing it poorly is better than not doing it at all.”

Someone coughed. Someone else bit back a laugh.

Mariana stared. “We are not in the business of doing things poorly, Mr Carruthers.”

Neil said, “With respect, we’re currently in the business of not doing anything at all.”

Later that day, he expected a call from HR. Instead, he got an invite from the COO.

“You said something odd in the meeting,” the COO said, pouring himself an espresso like a man who preferred gin. “Something about doing things poorly.”

Neil braced himself. “I was making a point about over-perfection killing momentum.”

The COO sat back. “My daughter’s a sculptor. She said something similar. Art isn’t finished, it’s abandoned.” He sipped. “Maybe we’ve been trying to finish too many things that should have just been shipped.”

By Friday, they were running a pilot — releasing a trimmed-down version of Phase 1 to one region. The devs were horrified. The PMO issued disclaimers longer than the user guide. But it worked. Customers could finally use the tool. Feedback came in. Bugs were fixed. Real progress began.

Three weeks later, Mariana called another meeting. Same room. Same chart. But this time, three tasks were marked done.

She looked at Neil. “I don’t like your phrase. But I admit, it shook something loose.”

Neil shrugged. “I’ll trademark it if you like.”

Mariana smiled, just once. “No need. I’ve already stolen it.”

By the end of the quarter, Eaglenex had a new internal slogan on the walls: Start Small. Ship Fast. Iterate Better. It was basically Neil’s philosophy, run through a sanitiser. The phrase itself — the original heresy — was never spoken aloud again. But in corners of the business, whispered like a secret, people started to say it.

“If it’s worth doing…”

“…it’s worth doing poorly.”

And the wisdom was this: The fear of imperfection is a luxury companies can’t afford. The cost of not delivering is higher than the cost of delivering imperfectly. And sometimes, the person who dares to do it badly is the only one who gets anything done at all.

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The Unlikely Hero: How a Boy Changed the Game

A tale of justice, clever thinking, and a boy who ran faster than the wind (but only if you asked him nicely).

At the very edge of the town, beyond the blackberry hedges and the slightly sulky donkeys, stood Bumblefield School for the Fairly Normal but Occasionally Marvellous. It had four classes, two playgrounds, and one pigeon who regularly attended assemblies. The school’s football team, the Bumblefield Badgers, were… well, not exactly champions.

They had never won a match. Not once. Not ever. Their mascot (a deflated badger balloon) hadn’t stood up properly in three years. Their motto was “Try Your Best, But Remember: It’s Only a Game.” Even so, they had high hopes for the coming Friday — the Grand School Tournament.

And then, on Tuesday, he arrived.

He was quiet. He was thin. He wore odd glasses with one blue lens and one clear, and his boots — oh, his boots! — were ancient, battered things tied with purple string. He said his name was Theo. He didn’t say much else.

At breaktime, when the Badgers practised corner kicks, Theo stood on the sidelines and watched. He didn’t cheer. He didn’t groan. He just stood there, hands behind his back like he was guarding a secret.

“Nice boots,” said Archie, the team captain, smirking.

“They look like something out of Granny’s Attic Weekly,” giggled Maisie.

“Do they even have soles?” said someone else.

Theo just smiled and looked down at his laces. “They whisper when I run,” he said softly. “But only when I’m needed.”

No one quite knew what to say to that.

By Thursday, the teasing had got worse. Theo still hadn’t played, and Archie had made sure of it.

“We don’t need him,” he told the others. “We’ve got Jake in defence and Ella on the wing. Theo’s just odd.”

“But what if he’s really good?” asked a quiet voice — it was Lily, the smallest on the team, and the only one who’d noticed Theo drawing match diagrams in his notebook.

Archie rolled his eyes. “Weird boots don’t win matches.”

Friday came like a firework — all fizz and nerves. The tournament was fierce. In the first match, Bumblefield lost 3–1. In the second, they lost 2–0. The third match was in ten minutes, and Archie had started blaming everyone — the ball, the sun, even the referee’s moustache.

That’s when Lily did something unthinkable. She walked up to the coach and said, “Can Theo play?”

There was a pause. A silence, deep as a well.

Coach Thompson, who was never quite awake, looked over his glasses. “That lad with the stringy boots?”

Lily nodded. “He hasn’t had a turn. And it’s only fair.”

Coach Thompson scratched his head, then shrugged. “Why not? Let’s have some fun.”

Theo stood. He tied his boots properly for the first time that week. Then he whispered to them — yes, actually whispered. Nobody heard what he said, but a strange breeze ruffled the corner of the pitch, even though the air was still.

Then he ran.

He ran like he’d borrowed the wind’s legs.

He dribbled past one, two, three players like they were standing still. He kicked the ball with such elegance it sang. He passed with perfect aim. And when the moment came, just before the whistle, he curved the ball into the net like he was writing his name in cursive across the sky.

The Bumblefield Badgers won.

Afterwards, in the glow of orange squash and jammy biscuits, Archie stood in front of the team.

“I got it wrong,” he mumbled. “About Theo. About the boots. About… everything.”

Theo patted him gently on the shoulder. “Happens to everyone,” he said. “Even badgers.”

From that day on, the team always made sure everyone got a turn. Even the ones with whispering boots and quiet smiles. Because sometimes, justice isn’t loud or bossy. Sometimes, it’s just someone small asking a brave question:

“Is that fair?”

And sometimes, that question is all it takes to change the game.

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The Adventure of X, Y, Z: A Treasure Hunt Story

One day in the tiny town of Gridville, two brothers, Jonathan and Christopher, were exploring their grandad’s attic when they found something exciting—an old treasure map!

The map had three mysterious lines marked X, Y, and Z, with a scribbled note:

“Follow these axes, and you’ll find the treasure. But beware! Confusion will leave you in a tangle!”

Christopher frowned. “Axes? Like pirate axes? Or tree-chopping axes?”

Jonathan, who was always quick to figure things out, nodded thoughtfully. “I bet it’s real treasure! Maybe even buried by a pirate!”

Grandad chuckled. “Not those kinds of axes, lads. These are the magic lines that help you find things in space!”

“Space?! Like rockets and aliens?” Christopher gasped.

“No, no, just the space around you! Look, I’ll show you.”

The Case of the Missing Parrot

Grandad placed a toy parrot, Captain Squawk, on the kitchen table.

“Let’s say Captain Squawk here is lost. How do we tell someone exactly where to find him?”

“Umm… ‘on the table’?” Jonathan guessed.

“Good start, but what if the table was as big as a football pitch? We’d need to be more precise!”

Grandad grabbed a piece of string and laid it straight across the table.

“This is the X-axis! It tells us how far left or right something is. Think of it like skating on ice—too far left, and whoops! You slide away!”

Christopher wobbled dramatically. “AHH! I’m sliding into the fridge!”

Jonathan grinned and said, “X to the side we slide!”

Grandad then stretched another string from the front to the back of the table.

“Now, this is the Y-axis! It tells us how far forward or backward something is. Like a pirate running across the deck—too far back, and SPLASH!”

Christopher ran on the spot, then pretended to fall overboard. “BLUB BLUB! The sea monster got me!”

Jonathan laughed and said, “Y steps front and back!”

Finally, Grandad took a balloon, tied it to the toy parrot, and let it float above the table.

“And THIS is the Z-axis! It tells us how high or low something is. Like a yo-yo going up and down!”

Christopher jumped, pretending to float. “I’m a balloon! Wheee!”

Jonathan grinned. “Z rises high or sinks low!”

The Treasure Hunt Begins


Armed with their new knowledge, the boys examined the treasure map. It read:

“Walk X = 3 steps to the right, Y = 2 steps forward, and dig Z = 1 spade deep.”

Jonathan counted carefully. “One, two, three to the right… one, two forward!”

Christopher grabbed a toy shovel and dug into the garden. CLUNK!

Their eyes widened. They pulled out a dusty old box and opened it to find…

“Cookies! This is the best treasure ever!” Christopher cheered, already stuffing one in his mouth.

Grandad grinned. “And now you’ll never forget your axes, will you?”

Jonathan smirked. “Nope! We’ll always know where to look!”

Then together, the brothers chanted:

“X to the side we slide,
Y steps front and back,
Z rises high or sinks low—
That’s the treasure-finding way to go!”

And from that day on, whenever someone in Gridville got confused about X, Y, and Z, the brothers would share their rhyme—sometimes while munching on a cookie.

The End.

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How Morning Breath Turns Into Morning Bliss

The first rays of sunlight crept through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the rumpled bed. A young woman, tangled in the duvet like a recently shipwrecked survivor, stretched her arms above her head and let out an unguarded yawn. She blinked, still groggy, and ran a hand through her tousled hair.

Beside her, a man—handsome, annoyingly alert, and looking entirely too pleased with the new day—sat up and smiled. His hair was charmingly dishevelled, the kind that took no effort and would probably fall into place with a single pass of his fingers. He turned to her with the unmistakable look of a man about to do something deeply affectionate and entirely unwelcome at this hour.

He leaned in.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he murmured, his lips pursing for a kiss.

Panic flared in her eyes. She took a rapid step back, nearly tripping over the bedside rug. “Morning breath!” she blurted, holding up both hands in warning.

The words hung in the air for half a second before he beamed.

“Morning wonderful!” he corrected, eyes full of adoration.

Before she could protest further, he swooped in, cradling her face with both hands and planting a kiss—no, a whopping great kiss—full on her lips. It was the kiss that belonged in films, backed by swelling orchestral music, not in a bedroom still thick with the remnants of sleep and questionable breath.

Her eyes flew open in horror.

She had expected restraint. She had expected respect for the delicate social contract that governed mornings. But instead, she found herself locked in a kiss so deep, so passionate, that for a brief moment, she forgot her original objection.

Then reality crashed back.

She broke away, staring at him with the urgency of someone who had just swallowed a spider. He grinned, completely oblivious.

“You—” she stammered. “You really—You just—”

“Best way to start the day,” he declared, stretching his arms victoriously, as if he had just accomplished something noble.

She wiped her lips dramatically, narrowing her eyes. “You are too much of a morning person.”

“And you,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist, “are too cute when you’re flustered.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I need coffee. And mouthwash. Preferably in that order.”

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

As he walked off, whistling cheerfully, she shook her head, muttering to herself.

“I swear, one of these days, I’ll just wake up before him and weaponise this.”

But she knew, deep down, she’d probably let him get away with it again tomorrow.

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Walking in the Rain

The rain came down in steady waves, a cool, cleansing presence that wrapped around him like an old companion. It drummed against his hat, cascading in rivulets off the brim, pattering onto his shoulders and rolling harmlessly down the waxed canvas of his coat. Beneath its protective weight, he remained dry, warm, untouched—yet he welcomed the stray drops that found their way to his face. They streaked down his cheeks like fleeting ghosts of memory, cold against his skin, tasting of the city, of earth, of something distant and unplaceable.

The air smelled of wet pavement, of damp leaves and distant chimney smoke curling into the night. The scent stirred something in him, a whisper of autumns past, of bonfires and old flannel shirts that smelled of woodsmoke long after the fire had burned out. He inhaled deeply, as if drawing the moment into himself, keeping it safe.

The streets glistened under the streetlights, rain pooling in the cracks of the pavement, distorting reflections of passing headlights into liquid gold and silver. A car rushed by, sending up a spray that caught in the wind, but he didn’t step aside. Let it come. He was already part of the rain, already lost in it.

His boots struck the pavement in slow, measured steps, the rhythm comforting. The world had shrunk to this—just him, the falling rain, and the silence beneath it. There were no voices calling his name, no hurried footsteps approaching, no obligations waiting for him beyond this walk. And for once, that didn’t feel lonely.

The thought of his brother arrived as naturally as the mist curling through the air. It always did when he walked in the rain.

Ten years. A decade without the phone calls, the barbecues, the good-natured insults slung across the table over pints of beer. A decade without the late-night talks where everything and nothing were discussed, where they argued over politics and football but never once questioned the certainty that they would always have each other.

He heard his brother’s voice from the past, rough with laughter.

“You’d never survive without me,” his brother had teased once, flipping a burger on the grill, smoke curling into the twilight.

And yet, here he was. Surviving.

He hadn’t been to a barbecue since. Hadn’t stood in a garden with a beer in hand, pretending to care about who won the latest match, or watched his brother smirk as he told some exaggerated story that got bigger with each passing year. The invitations had dwindled, then disappeared. Friends had families, had lives that no longer revolved around the past. He understood. He never reached out either.

Still, he missed it. Not just his brother, but the ease of it all—the way things had simply been, without effort, without the need to try.

His parents had gone before that, leaving the world in the slow, inevitable way that parents do, shrinking down to quiet goodbyes and neatly packed boxes of things no one knew what to do with. He had sorted through it all, holding onto little but remembering everything. Their house had been sold. The place where he and his brother had grown up, where their mother had called them in for dinner, where their father had sat in the same worn chair reading the newspaper every evening—it belonged to someone else now.

And yet, the rain made it all feel close again.

Somehow, standing here in the downpour, he didn’t feel sad. The memories weren’t weights pressing down on him; they were simply there, part of the night, part of the rain-soaked world around him. He let them come and go as they pleased.

A gust of wind swept through the street, rustling the wet branches overhead, sending a fresh spray of droplets into his face. He exhaled, smiling faintly, and pulled his coat tighter. The warmth of it settled around him, a shield against the chill.

The rain was his tonight.

It softened the world, blurred the edges, washed everything clean. It didn’t ask anything of him, didn’t demand explanations or force him to move ahead. It simply existed, falling endlessly, whispering its secrets to anyone willing to listen.

And so, he walked on, alone but not lonely, disappearing into the rhythm of the storm. The rain was his companion. It was enough.

It was more than enough.

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Family Fun: The Ultimate Sibling Rivalry on the Football Field

A story about fun, family, and a little bit of sibling rivalry

The sun was shining, the grass was soft, and the whole family had gathered at the park for a big football match.

Jonathan stood tall in goal, bouncing on his toes. He was ready for anything! Across the pitch, his little brother Christopher stood proudly as the striker for his team. He was nearly five years old (his birthday was just two weeks away!), and today, he had one big mission: score a goal!

“I won’t let you score,” Jonathan called.

Christopher grinned. “Oh yes, I will!”

Their mum, dad, aunties, uncles, and cousins spread out across the field. Even Grandad was playing—although he said he would be “the manager” and mostly stood on the sidelines, offering wise football advice like, “Kick the ball the right way!”

Then, just as the match was about to start, someone new appeared on the pitch.

It was Daniel, their eleven-year-old cousin. But he wasn’t playing for a team—he was dressed in black and holding a whistle.

“I’m the referee,” Daniel announced. “And I have a secret game plan!”

Everyone gasped.

“What secret game plan?” Jonathan asked.

Daniel shook his head. “It’s a secret!” he said, winking.

Christopher giggled. This was going to be fun!

Kick-Off!

The game began with a big kick-off. Christopher’s team ran forward, passing the ball to each other as they moved towards Jonathan’s goal.

Christopher got the ball and dribbled forward, carefully concentrating. He lined up his shot, swung his foot back, and…

WHOOSH!

A sudden gust of wind rolled the ball away!

“Hey!” Christopher laughed, running after it. “That didn’t count!”

The family laughed as he caught up to the ball and tried again.

The Wobbly Penalty

A few minutes later, Christopher’s team won a penalty! Everyone cheered.

Christopher carefully placed the ball on the grass. He took a deep breath, got ready to shoot, and…

WHOOSH!

His shoe flew off instead of the ball!

It soared through the air and landed right next to Jonathan, who quickly picked it up and held it like a trophy.

“I saved it!” Jonathan declared.

The family burst into laughter, and even Daniel, the referee, had to smile.

“The secret game plan is working,” he muttered to himself.

Christopher put his shoe back on, narrowed his eyes at Jonathan, and said, “Next time, I’m kicking the ball, not my shoe!”

The Impossible Save

Christopher had another chance! He dribbled towards the goal, dodging past Mum, swerving around Auntie Gemma, and racing towards Jonathan.

Jonathan crouched low. He was ready!

Christopher struck the ball with all his might. It zoomed towards the goal.

Jonathan dived like a superhero. He stretched out his arms, reached with his fingers, and…

SMACK!

He just managed to push the ball away!

The crowd (mostly family members) erupted in cheers—some for Christopher’s brilliant shot, some for Jonathan’s amazing save.

“I told you I wouldn’t let you score!” Jonathan teased.

Christopher crossed his arms. “I’ll get one past you soon!”

A Little Help from the Dog

Just as Christopher got the ball again, ready for another shot, something unexpected happened.

BARK BARK BARK!

A friends dog, Benny, came racing onto the pitch! His tail wagged wildly as he charged straight at the ball.

CHOMP!

He grabbed it in his mouth and ran off, zooming around the field with the ball held tight.

“Benny!” Christopher shouted, running after him.

Soon, the whole family was chasing Benny, laughing as he zig-zagged across the grass. Eventually, Grandad held up a dog treat, and Benny dropped the ball right at Christopher’s feet.

Christopher grinned. “Thanks, Benny! But I still need to score a real goal!”

The Sibling Showdown

Time was running out. It was now or never!

Christopher’s team made one final push. The ball was passed to him, and he ran towards the goal. Jonathan was ready.

Christopher faked left. Jonathan moved left.
Christopher faked right. Jonathan moved right.
Then—suddenly—Christopher did something unexpected…

He stopped!

Jonathan froze. “What’s he doing?”

Then—BAM! Christopher tapped the ball gently to the side and sprinted around Jonathan!

Before Jonathan could turn back, Christopher kicked the ball into the net!

GOOOAAALLL!

Christopher jumped in the air with excitement!

Jonathan stared, then smiled. “Okay, that was a great goal.”

The Big Celebration

The whole family cheered.

Jonathan and Christopher shook hands.

Then—before anyone could stop them—they broke into a tickle fight!

As everyone laughed, Daniel the referee blew his whistle. “And now… it’s time for my final announcement!”

“What is it?” Jonathan and Christopher asked.

Daniel grinned. “The secret game plan… was to make sure we all had as much fun as possible!”

Jonathan and Christopher looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Well, that worked!” said Christopher.

And so, the family match ended, not with winners or losers, but with laughter, teamwork, and the best game ever played.

And, of course…

a trip to get ice cream. 🍦

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The Floating Feather Race: A Magical Bedtime Story

A Bedtime Story

1. The Whispering Feathers

One evening, as the sun dipped below the hills, a special contest was announced in the little town of Featherwick. But this was no ordinary race—no running, no jumping, no rushing about.

It was the Floating Feather Race.

The challenge? Keep a feather floating in the air for as long as possible—without touching it! The only thing the racers could use was their breath.

Jonathan, Christopher, and Daniel each picked a feather from the soft pile at the starting line. Some feathers were white like snow, some golden like sunshine, and some shimmered with a hint of blue, like the evening sky.

A wise old owl, the race’s referee, fluffed up his own feathers and hooted:

“A feather floats, so soft, so light,
Lift it gently, keep it in flight.
A breath so slow, a breeze so small,
Let the feather never fall.”

The race was about to begin…

2. The First Puff

Jonathan took a deep breath and blew gently. His feather wobbled, then lifted, drifting lazily upward.

Christopher let out a tiny puff of air—his feather bobbed in place, floating just above his hands.

Daniel, the eldest, tried a strong gust. But whoosh! His feather shot straight up, twirled, and tumbled to the ground. The owl chuckled.

“Not too strong and not too fast,
Feathers need a breath that lasts.
Gentle, steady, soft and slow,
This is how the feathers go.”

So Daniel tried again, this time blowing softly, watching as his feather danced in the air, twirling like a leaf in the wind.

3. The Rising Breeze

The race grew more exciting as the feathers floated higher. Some drifted like tiny clouds, others spun slowly, twinkling in the golden evening light.

A small breeze arrived, lifting the feathers even further. But the owl reminded them:

“Breathe with care, feel the air,
Let the feather float up there.
Not too high and not too low,
Just a gentle breath to go.”

Jonathan and Christopher giggled as their feathers hovered above their heads. Daniel, now focused, kept his feather perfectly balanced in the air.

4. The Final Drift

As the last rays of sunlight touched the treetops, the owl called out:

“One more breath, light as air,
Drift your feather here and there.
Slow and soft, let it be,
Floating high so gracefully.”

The children gave their feathers one last, soft puff… and watched them drift, slowly, softly, gently down—landing without a sound.

The race had no losers—only quiet champions of the wind.

“Beautiful!” hooted the owl. “You’ve learned the secret of the Floating Feather Race—patience, breath, and calm.”

The children smiled, feeling peaceful and warm. The air still carried the soft dance of their feathers, and they knew…

Tonight, they would sleep as gently as their floating feathers.

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Ollie and the Moonlight Train

A Bedtime Story

1. The Whisper of the Tracks

Ollie was a little boy who loved bedtime stories, but some nights, sleep just wouldn’t come. He would toss and turn, his mind full of adventures that refused to quiet down.

One evening, as he lay in bed, he heard a gentle chuff-chuff sound outside his window. It was soft at first, like the whisper of a dream, but soon it grew clearer.

When he peeked outside, there it was—a shimmering silver train with a glowing moon painted on its engine. A warm voice called out:

“All aboard the Moonlight Train,
Rolling softly down the lane,
Close your eyes and drift away,
Dreams will meet you on the way.”

Ollie’s eyes widened with excitement. Could this be real? Before he knew it, he found himself standing at the little platform outside his house, the train doors swinging open just for him.

2. The Pillow Car

Inside, the train was nothing like an ordinary one. The first carriage was filled with clouds—at least, that’s what it looked like!

“Welcome to the Pillow Car,” said a gentle old conductor with a twinkle in his eye. “Here, you can find the softest place to rest your head.”

Ollie sank into the fluffiest pillows he had ever touched. Each one smelled of lavender and warm cocoa. A sleepy bear was already curled up in the corner, snoring softly.

A tiny rabbit, wrapped in a blanket, whispered, “Close your eyes and take a deep breath. The softer you breathe, the comfier the pillows feel.”

Ollie tried it, breathing slowly in… and out… and the pillows felt even cosier.

3. The Warm Milk Car

The next carriage was the Warm Milk Car, where a kind old owl poured mugs of the creamiest, warmest milk. The air smelled sweet, like honey and vanilla.

“This is no ordinary milk,” the owl said with a wink. “One sip, and your worries float away like bubbles in the sky.”

Ollie took a small sip. Instantly, he felt warm and safe, as if he were wrapped in a big, cosy hug. The little bubbles floating above his head whispered dreams of flying over golden fields and resting under a sky full of stars.

4. The Story Car

The last carriage was Ollie’s favourite—the Story Car. Books lined every wall, their covers glowing gently. An old fox with round spectacles sat in a rocking chair, reading softly.

“These books are special,” the fox said, tapping the cover of one. “They don’t just tell stories… they sing them to your dreams.”

Ollie picked up a small blue book, and as he opened it, a lullaby floated from its pages:

“Nighttime whispers, soft and slow,
Close your eyes, let dreams now flow.
Through the stars and over the sea,
Sleepy winds will carry thee.”

The words wrapped around him like a warm blanket, and his eyelids grew heavier.

5. Dreamland Station

The train rocked gently, like a cradle in the wind. Ollie yawned, his head resting against a soft pillow. The train slowed as it reached a place called Dreamland Station.

The conductor whispered, “Time to sleep, dear traveller. The Moonlight Train will be back again when you need it.”

Ollie felt himself floating, weightless, as if he were drifting through the stars. The last thing he heard before slipping into dreams was the soft chuff-chuff of the train rolling away…

And in his mind, he hummed the little song:

“All aboard the Moonlight Train,
Rolling softly down the lane,
Close your eyes and drift away,
Dreams will meet you on the way.”

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A Quirky Dialogue: Harold and the Poopy Bag

“Harold? Harold! Where are you Harold?” screeched the old crone.
“Here dear, at your service,” the gentle old man softly croaked. “To what illustrious duty do you wish to chain me?”
“Harold! It’s time to take the dogs for a walk. Get on with it.”
“Yes dear, of course. They’re waiting in the yard—I just came in to collect the poopy bag.”
“Poopy bag?” the old crone enquired.
As Harold began to explain, “Yes dear, I use it to—” her mouth slackened and her eyes fluttered like butterflies. Her pale face began to rise, causing Harold to brace himself for either a fist to the nose or a harsh slap.
Instead, she merely said, “Why just the one bag? Those two giant hounds out there will produce a stack of hot steamy canine goo that would make a cow proud!”
Relieved at avoiding physical punishment, Harold carefully rendered his reply: “In times of economy, we must be prepared to accept a little discomfort.” Then, with quick inspiration, he added, “And I’ll continue to the river so I may clean the bag out for use again tomorrow!”
“Well bloody get on with it then,” said the old crone as she waddled her bulk 180 degrees and shuffled towards the only room in the house with a fire going.
Harold pulled on his wellies and coat, picked up the dog leads from the floor, and gingerly extracted a few larger coins from the small change tin. As he headed out into the cold wintry day, he smiled to himself, thinking how convenient it was that the pub with the large open fire sat right beside the river.

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A Modest Proposal for the Equal and Efficient Distribution of the Living and the Dead

By Thumper O’Lagomorph, Esq.

Preface

It has long been observed by the more reasoned minds of our warren that the natural world suffers from an untenable crisis: a surfeit of the living and an insufficiency of the dead. While all creatures are guaranteed the equal right to exist in this great and bounteous world, it is a truth universally acknowledged that not all lives are of equal worth. The great foxes and wolves must eat; the snakes must coil and consume; the brutal hares must wage their ceaseless wars against badgers. And yet, in their noble pursuit of the natural order, they find themselves hindered by an inefficiency most lamentable: the unstructured, chaotic proliferation of the small and meek.

Chief among the burdens of our age is the matter of the rabbits, my own species, whose unchecked population growth has long threatened to destabilise the ecosystem. Our prolific breeding has led to overcrowding, disputes over territory, and—most grievously—a dangerous shortage of edible rabbits for the foxes and wolves. Furthermore, our brethren, in their misguided insistence on survival, have resisted their natural obligation to provide themselves as sustenance for their betters, leading to distressing incidents in which our noble predators have been reduced to devouring lesser meats such as voles, shrews, and, on occasion, their own kind.

To this end, I humbly submit a practical and benevolent solution: the centralisation and redistribution of rabbits as a shared planetary resource, ensuring that no fox, wolf, or snake need ever go hungry again. This plan, while radical, is perfectly in line with our longstanding policy of sharing resources, particularly in the realm of space exploration, wherein the great powers have so graciously agreed that no one nation may claim celestial bodies for themselves—despite, of course, their continued mining operations on the Moon and asteroids, undertaken solely for the betterment of all.

This paper shall outline the principles of my modest proposal, which I believe will be embraced with the enthusiasm of reason and the warmth of self-interest.

Chapter One: The Burden of the Meek

It is a common grievance among foxes that the modern rabbit has become insufferably individualistic. Where once they roamed in docile herds, happily bounding into the jaws of their natural masters, today’s rabbit exhibits a regrettable tendency toward self-preservation. They burrow, they scatter, they even—most disgracefully—form alliances with their natural predators in the form of deceitful trade agreements. Many a wolf has been left gnawing on the dry sinew of a badger carcass, while an enterprising rabbit sells its kin to the mice in exchange for shelter or surplus grain.

The mice, of course, play their own pitiful role in this tragicomedy. Ever eager to serve, they scurry at the heels of the rats, mistaking their tyranny for wisdom. The rats, in turn, are clever enough to avoid the foxes’ teeth, preferring to whisper in the ears of their lupine overlords, advocating for policies that ensure their own survival. It is the mice who praise the system, who laud the generosity of their superiors, and who eagerly cast ballots in favour of their own extermination, provided they believe it is a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.

The badgers, meanwhile, are too engaged in their endless skirmishes with the brutal hares to contribute meaningfully to the conversation. The hares, with their great bulk and powerful hind legs, refuse to acknowledge their relation to the common rabbit, considering themselves a superior breed—an aristocracy of sorts. They slaughter badgers by the dozens, proclaiming it a noble and necessary act, and, when questioned, simply declare that they have always been at war with the badgers and that it would be a great injustice to cease now.

Thus, it falls upon the rational minds of the rabbit intelligentsia to offer an elegant solution, one that satisfies all parties except, of course, those for whom satisfaction is irrelevant.

Chapter Two: A Solution Both Just and Practical

It is, as has been observed, a matter of utmost urgency that we tackle the issue of predatory hunger. The foxes, wolves, and snakes—our most esteemed and noble figures—must not be permitted to suffer in silence. And yet, to date, no system has been devised that ensures a consistent and adequate supply of rabbits for consumption. It is, hence, my modest proposal that all rabbits be registered at birth and categorised according to their eventual contribution to society.

Those of us who prove useful—either through bureaucratic service, entertainment, or skilled labour—may be granted an extension of life, provided we do not burden the system with excessive reproduction. The remainder, however, must be allocated accordingly. A portion will be designated for immediate consumption, ensuring that no fox goes to bed hungry. Others will be kept in reserve, their bodies maintained at optimal weight and tenderness, to be dispatched as needed during times of scarcity.

Naturally, some among us will object, claiming that to surrender ourselves so willingly is an affront to nature. But I say to them: what is nature, if not the very system that has placed us at the mercy of the fox? What is progress, if not the rational acceptance of our station? And what is fairness, if not the equal opportunity for all rabbits to be eaten in due course?

Moreover, should our policy prove successful, there is no reason we cannot expand the programme beyond rabbits. The mice, after all, are of even lesser worth and could be rendered into a most agreeable paste. The badgers, while coarse, may yet be of use in emergencies. And the brutal hares—though they will object most violently—may, in the end, be persuaded to see reason.

Chapter Three: The Objections of the Weak

It is inevitable that some will resist. Already, whispers circulate among the warren, suggesting that this plan serves not the common rabbit but rather the foxes and their insatiable appetites. Others claim that the policy of sharing must be applied with equity—that is to say, that the foxes, too, must be made to share of themselves, to offer their own as meat when times grow lean.

This, of course, is absurd. To suggest that the foxes be consumed as they consume us is to deny the fundamental structure of our world. The fox is not merely another creature; he is an institution. To disrupt him is to unravel the very fabric of society, to risk plunging us into anarchy. Besides, were we to consider such a proposal, we would immediately find ourselves at the mercy of the wolves, who would take great offence at such an impertinent suggestion and swiftly put an end to the matter.

There will be, too, the sentimentalists—those who insist that life, even the life of a rabbit, has intrinsic value. These creatures, in their delusion, fail to see the beauty of the system: the perfect, unbroken chain of necessity that binds us all. To be consumed is not a tragedy but an honour. It is the only truly equitable solution.

Conclusion: The Dawn of a New Era

I leave it to the wise and reasonable minds of the warren to implement this policy as they see fit. The foxes, I have no doubt, will welcome it with enthusiasm. The wolves will offer their approval. The snakes will, as always, observe in silence, waiting for their turn to partake. And the mice—dear, foolish mice—will cheer, believing that they have won.

As for the rabbits, they will do as they have always done: they will multiply. And when the time comes, they will fulfil their purpose.

For the good of all.