A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Banter is the last thing I want from a coffee machine. Yet here we are.'

I’m halfway through recon patrol at the abandoned Argos warehouse when the ambush comes. Something heavy, propelling itself from the high shelves above, hits me square on the shoulder, knocking me to the floor. I hear the CRACK of my collarbone breaking and feel an instant hot needle of pain. As I roll to my side and pull my Taser up to fire, I see my assailant—a mini-fridge on wheels, its door yawning open like the jaw of a great beast, rushing towards me to deliver the final blow. I pull the trigger, hit the fridge. It crackles and sparks, then falls to the floor. I’ve survived, as I have done many times before. But what now? I try to lift myself to my feet, but the pain is excruciating. I’m stuck. “Oh dear,” comes a voice from next to me, “Looks like someone needs a shot of the old java.” I turn, see on the shelf beside me a coffee machine. Most other devices infected with the sentient machine virus pose at least some kind of threat, but a coffee machine. Harmless. “What’ll it be, chief? Latte to go? Give me the word and I’ll bean you up good.” Harmless, but unbelievably annoying. “Stick your bean juice up your circuits,” I growl, “And shut your lipless trap.” I need to think. Where the mini-fridge came from, there are likely more. I have to just lay low, regain my strength, and try and work up to crawling out of here. “Huh,” says the coffee machine, “Someone’s cranky. Seems to me like a pick-my-up is exactly what you need right now.” It gives a short, sarcastic laugh. “Fuck you, and fuck your coffee,” I tell it. Too late I realize my mistake. Behind the coffee machine I see for the first time the loudhailer. “You could have just said yes to a latte,” says the machine. Then it begins to grind, the sound flowing through the megaphone, reverberating around the vast warehouse. A siren call. I hear the sound of scuttling wheels approaching and my trembling hand raises the Taser. The smell of coffee fills my nostrils. Smells like death.

#61: Coffee Machine

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Banter is the last thing I want from a coffee machine. Yet here we are.'

I’m halfway through recon patrol at the abandoned Argos warehouse when the ambush comes. Something heavy, propelling itself from the high shelves above, hits me square on the shoulder, knocking me to the floor. I hear the CRACK of my collarbone breaking and feel an instant hot needle of pain. As I roll to my side and pull my Taser up to fire, I see my assailant—a mini-fridge on wheels, its door yawning open like the jaw of a great beast, rushing towards me to deliver the final blow. I pull the trigger, hit the fridge. It crackles and sparks, then falls to the floor. I’ve survived, as I have done many times before. But what now? I try to lift myself to my feet, but the pain is excruciating. I’m stuck. “Oh dear,” comes a voice from next to me, “Looks like someone needs a shot of the old java.” I turn, see on the shelf beside me a coffee machine. Most other devices infected with the sentient machine virus pose at least some kind of threat, but a coffee machine. Harmless. “What’ll it be, chief? Latte to go? Give me the word and I’ll bean you up good.” Harmless, but unbelievably annoying. “Stick your bean juice up your circuits,” I growl, “And shut your lipless trap.” I need to think. Where the mini-fridge came from, there are likely more. I have to just lay low, regain my strength, and try and work up to crawling out of here. “Huh,” says the coffee machine, “Someone’s cranky. Seems to me like a pick-my-up is exactly what you need right now.” It gives a short, sarcastic laugh. “Fuck you, and fuck your coffee,” I tell it. Too late I realize my mistake. Behind the coffee machine I see for the first time the loudhailer. “You could have just said yes to a latte,” says the machine. Then it begins to grind, the sound flowing through the megaphone, reverberating around the vast warehouse. A siren call. I hear the sound of scuttling wheels approaching and my trembling hand raises the Taser. The smell of coffee fills my nostrils. Smells like death.

#61: Coffee Machine

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I tried to do a press-up - and had an existential crisis'

When I first had the accident—a motorcycle crash on the M5 near Smethwick—it plunged me into a fog of despair. To lose one arm would have been traumatic; to lose both simultaneously felt like the end of the world. So to find a donor within days was like a miracle. Recovery from the transplant was a long road. At times it felt like I was a child again, learning how to feed myself, write my own name. But over the months and years of physio, I felt myself gradually growing stronger. In some ways I even felt improved. The arms, though never feeling like they were quite my own had a strength and dexterity that I had never experienced before. I often wondered about my donor; who he had been, what those arms had felt. One day last week, I began to get answers. I began a new morning regimen, including for the first time since my accident, press-ups. As I assumed the position on the living-room floor and began to bend my elbows, a torrent of images suddenly began to flood my mind. Below me, looking up into my own face, the terrified faces of others; men and women, old and younge each face riddled with fear and pain. I knew, instinctively, that I was seeing what the owner of the arms had seen. I knew too, that those glimpses of fear and pain had sparked a fervour in me. Research online led me to identify my donor—a middle-aged sawmill worker named Pennington. As I scrolled the details of his fatal accident, my hands took on a life of their own, typing in a new search term—The Slicer. Serial killer. Eighteen murders over the last ten years. Each victim pinned to the ground and penetrated through the torso by a series of blades. Perpetrator never found. Tonight in the workshop, I let my hands lead the way. From leather and sawblades they sew and glue the chest harness that I will wear. At the chime of each hour I fall to the ground and practice my press-ups. A new face will soon watch me in fear as I lower myself upon them. I take it slow, savouring each moment.

#60: Press-up

A screengrab of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Rose's Lime Marmalade? Gone. Dark chocolate Bounty? No more. But what about their heartbroken fans?'

The Tournament first began in 1989, five years after the bomb which destroyed our government and led to the permanent closing of the UK’s borders. Cut off from the wider world our country fell into alternating spasms of violent street riots and brutal authoritarian crackdowns. In order to provide the populace with some alternative method of release for their pent-up frustrations, The Tournament was begun. The Tournament would see televised contests between specially chosen contestants, to take place in repurposed football grounds fitted out with a selection of assault course obstacles. Allowed a limited choice of weaponry, the contestants would have to stalk and kill their opponents, all under the watchful eyes of multiple BBC live broadcast cameras. In the decades since its inception, The Tournament has only grown in viciousness, brutality and viewership. Now in its 38th year, it is the biggest cultural event of each week. Its combatants are each adopted by a corporate sponsor, taking on that sponsor’s brand identity—a government initiative to promote economic growth. Which is how I find myself here, in the bowels of the West Midlands Murderdome (formerly The Hawthorns), waiting to face the deadly hands of Spangles, the current champion, who has so far today defeated all-comers. Rose’s Lime Marmalade? Reduced to a bloody pulp. Dark Chocolate Bounty? Cleaved in two by Spangles’ gleaming blade. I can hear their supporters howling their disapproval above me, and know that the atmosphere I will ascend into will be a veritable powderkeg. If I should somehow defeat Spangles, I could perhaps become their new hero. If I fail, only death awaits. The announcement comes: “Salt ‘n’ Shake to the arena”. I tighten my blue tunic, taste the sweat on my top lip and feel the vibrations of their stomping feet above me. The next few minutes will decide my fate; hero for a day or dead for eternity. I climb the twelve steps to the pitch and hear their feral roar. It feeds me.

#59: Gone

A screengrab of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Rose's Lime Marmalade? Gone. Dark chocolate Bounty? No more. But what about their heartbroken fans?'

The Tournament first began in 1989, five years after the bomb which destroyed our government and led to the permanent closing of the UK’s borders. Cut off from the wider world our country fell into alternating spasms of violent street riots and brutal authoritarian crackdowns. In order to provide the populace with some alternative method of release for their pent-up frustrations, The Tournament was begun. The Tournament would see televised contests between specially chosen contestants, to take place in repurposed football grounds fitted out with a selection of assault course obstacles. Allowed a limited choice of weaponry, the contestants would have to stalk and kill their opponents, all under the watchful eyes of multiple BBC live broadcast cameras. In the decades since its inception, The Tournament has only grown in viciousness, brutality and viewership. Now in its 38th year, it is the biggest cultural event of each week. Its combatants are each adopted by a corporate sponsor, taking on that sponsor’s brand identity—a government initiative to promote economic growth. Which is how I find myself here, in the bowels of the West Midlands Murderdome (formerly The Hawthorns), waiting to face the deadly hands of Spangles, the current champion, who has so far today defeated all-comers. Rose’s Lime Marmalade? Reduced to a bloody pulp. Dark Chocolate Bounty? Cleaved in two by Spangles’ gleaming blade. I can hear their supporters howling their disapproval above me, and know that the atmosphere I will ascend into will be a veritable powderkeg. If I should somehow defeat Spangles, I could perhaps become their new hero. If I fail, only death awaits. The announcement comes: “Salt ‘n’ Shake to the arena”. I tighten my blue tunic, taste the sweat on my top lip and feel the vibrations of their stomping feet above me. The next few minutes will decide my fate; hero for a day or dead for eternity. I climb the twelve steps to the pitch and hear their feral roar. It feeds me.

#59: Gone

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I need to declutter my life. But I can't even give my stuff away.'

When I first built The Machine, my goals were quite modest: to create a single alternate dimension, closely modelled on our own, but apart from our own in some key difference, in which I—or more precisely an Alternate I—could adventure. You see, I had grown bored with the mundanity of my own universe and longed for something more. I succeeded, beyond my wildest dreams. And saw those dreams become nightmares. The Machine, when it creates an alternate dimension and places the Alternate I within it, creates a psionic bond between the Alternate and myself—I see what the Alternate sees, feel what he feels—which at first was a stimulating novelty. But as I began to expand The Machine’s capabilities, allowing it to create not just one, but a host of alternate realities, the experience became addictive. I soon found myself psionically linked to host of Alternates spread across time and space. I experienced joy, fear, pain, exultation—and thrived on it. But it soon became too much. A number of my Alternates began to die, and to my horror I found that even after death, my psionic link with those host realities did not break. Instead, I would experience the slow decay of their bodies and minds and feel like a part of myself was dying. I began to contemplate turning off The Machine, but feared what that would do to me. With my consciousness splintered across scores of realities, would the dissolving of those realities splinter my own mind too? Desperate, I sought help. I reasoned that if I could somehow offload even a small number of those alternate realities to the mind of another, to swap my psionic link for theirs, I could at least gain some respite. I asked friends, family, colleagues, but there were no takers. In fact, most just inquired after my mental health. And so The Machine churns on, creating new reality after new reality, and my Alternates and I live great and terrible lives within them. And each day I fear another great and terrible death

#58: Declutter

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I need to declutter my life. But I can't even give my stuff away.'

When I first built The Machine, my goals were quite modest: to create a single alternate dimension, closely modelled on our own, but apart from our own in some key difference, in which I—or more precisely an Alternate I—could adventure. You see, I had grown bored with the mundanity of my own universe and longed for something more. I succeeded, beyond my wildest dreams. And saw those dreams become nightmares. The Machine, when it creates an alternate dimension and places the Alternate I within it, creates a psionic bond between the Alternate and myself—I see what the Alternate sees, feel what he feels—which at first was a stimulating novelty. But as I began to expand The Machine’s capabilities, allowing it to create not just one, but a host of alternate realities, the experience became addictive. I soon found myself psionically linked to host of Alternates spread across time and space. I experienced joy, fear, pain, exultation—and thrived on it. But it soon became too much. A number of my Alternates began to die, and to my horror I found that even after death, my psionic link with those host realities did not break. Instead, I would experience the slow decay of their bodies and minds and feel like a part of myself was dying. I began to contemplate turning off The Machine, but feared what that would do to me. With my consciousness splintered across scores of realities, would the dissolving of those realities splinter my own mind too? Desperate, I sought help. I reasoned that if I could somehow offload even a small number of those alternate realities to the mind of another, to swap my psionic link for theirs, I could at least gain some respite. I asked friends, family, colleagues, but there were no takers. In fact, most just inquired after my mental health. And so The Machine churns on, creating new reality after new reality, and my Alternates and I live great and terrible lives within them. And each day I fear another great and terrible death

#58: Declutter

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: 'I thought my cuckoo clock was amazing, but it's got nothing on my statue of Bert the cheery chef.'

After the terrible business with Trevor and Diane I decided that a change of scenery was in order and so made a beeline for the coast where, I hoped, I would find the peace and quiet that my agitated mind so sorely required. I settled in a small village in North Yorkshire, renting a flat above a disused haberdashers, and found for the first time in many years, a modicum of peace. I began once again to indulge in my long-neglected hobbies, purchasing paints, canvases and a large quantity of sculptor’s clay. The first few weeks were bliss, the only little sour note being provided by a small bird who set up home in the building’s eves, and whose incessant trilling was like an ice-pick in my skull (though I soon found a remedy). After a month or so, I discovered that the haberdashers had been leased to a new tenant, and was to be converted into a boutique fine-dining establishment. The proprietor and head chef—an avuncular Cockney who introduced himself to me as ‘Bert’—apologised in advance for the noise of the refurbishment, and promised me a complementary meal on opening night as compensation. I was soon to discover that this would not suffice. Banging, knocking, drilling, sawing and the raucous voices of tradesmen assailed my ears from dawn till dusk, making it impossible to concentrate. As the weeks passed, I felt the old itch reappear in the back of my brain and I knew that I had to either move—a last resort—or take drastic action. And so I invited Bert up to my kitchen/studio one night, in order to show him what I was working on. As a fellow creative, I knew he could scarcely refuse. The clock on the wall has just chirped 5am. I put down my tools and look at my work. Clay-covered enough to obscure his features (and the long slit my knife made in his throat), but refined enough for display, Bert will be the centrepiece of my next solo show. With arms outstretched and a big grin on his motionless face, he is my greatest creation. Perfect. Lifelike. And silent.

#57: Bert

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: 'I thought my cuckoo clock was amazing, but it's got nothing on my statue of Bert the cheery chef.'

After the terrible business with Trevor and Diane I decided that a change of scenery was in order and so made a beeline for the coast where, I hoped, I would find the peace and quiet that my agitated mind so sorely required. I settled in a small village in North Yorkshire, renting a flat above a disused haberdashers, and found for the first time in many years, a modicum of peace. I began once again to indulge in my long-neglected hobbies, purchasing paints, canvases and a large quantity of sculptor’s clay. The first few weeks were bliss, the only little sour note being provided by a small bird who set up home in the building’s eves, and whose incessant trilling was like an ice-pick in my skull (though I soon found a remedy). After a month or so, I discovered that the haberdashers had been leased to a new tenant, and was to be converted into a boutique fine-dining establishment. The proprietor and head chef—an avuncular Cockney who introduced himself to me as ‘Bert’—apologised in advance for the noise of the refurbishment, and promised me a complementary meal on opening night as compensation. I was soon to discover that this would not suffice. Banging, knocking, drilling, sawing and the raucous voices of tradesmen assailed my ears from dawn till dusk, making it impossible to concentrate. As the weeks passed, I felt the old itch reappear in the back of my brain and I knew that I had to either move—a last resort—or take drastic action. And so I invited Bert up to my kitchen/studio one night, in order to show him what I was working on. As a fellow creative, I knew he could scarcely refuse. The clock on the wall has just chirped 5am. I put down my tools and look at my work. Clay-covered enough to obscure his features (and the long slit my knife made in his throat), but refined enough for display, Bert will be the centrepiece of my next solo show. With arms outstretched and a big grin on his motionless face, he is my greatest creation. Perfect. Lifelike. And silent.

#57: Bert

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads 'I thought my pigeon curse was lifting. Then it took a darker turn.'

Peterson, My Friend I cannot explain all that has occurred since our last correspondence—I can barely explain it to myself—but I must let you know that our battle against Professor Deacon, The Black Mage has taken a cruel and unexpected turn, and for us to continue in our fight, time is now of the essence. My confrontation with Deacon in the town of Runcorn did not go as planned—his eldritch powers were too strong, and my knowledge of the Dark Arts proved woefully inadequate. I soon found myself at his mercy and had begun to prepare myself for death’s warm embrace. But Deacon is not only evil and power-hungry, he is too a sadist, and instead of granting me a swift death, he enacted on me a spell of transmogrification. I felt my bones begin to dissolve and liquefy at the same time as my flesh began to constrict. My skull itself broke apart beneath my skin and reformed into a new, terrible shape. My eyes—in untold agony—migrated to the left and right. At the same time my limbs were changing too, taking on an inhuman cast. Grey feathers began to grow across my body. In a matter of minutes I had been changed from man to bird. With Deacon’s pitiless laughter ringing in my lobeless ears, I clumsily took flight, seeking a nearby rooftop for refuge. Though my body was bird, my mind was man, a condition I hoped to maintain while I worked on a way to reverse his spell. It took months, but eventually through sheer willpower and faith, and my hazy recollection of some ancient text glimpsed long ago in a grimoire, I was able to free myself—mostly—from pigeon form. I began this letter in the hope that my transformation back to man would continue. But the feathers on my writing hand are re-emerging, and my bare feet against these floorboards grip with clawed, pink toes. I can feel too, my mind begin to slip, to dream of open skies and food scraps. Dispatching this letter will likely be my last act as a human. Please, my friend, find me and help me—or else all is lost. A

#56: Pigeon Curse

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. it reads 'I didn't know how much I needed work until I lost it. But now I've learned to love Mondays again.'

When I first arrived at The Waystation—I was given the option to either move on to one of a number of blissful eternities, or instead, to join the administrative team. Having always had a strong work ethic I opted for the latter. So, after a short training period, I became a probationary Soul Gatherer (Reaper Second Class). My first job was in Natural Disasters: Volcano Deaths, a fairly low-density (though high-intensity) post, which allowed me to get a good grip on the reaping process. After that I was moved on to Entertainment: Circus Accidents, which had a similar small magnitude of applicable souls to gather, though with a far greater variety. After a brief stint in Transport: Canal Boats, I landed my dream job in Gardening: Domestic. It was mostly weekend work which really suited me—I’d always loved gardening when I was alive. Oftentimes I would arrive for my appointment a little ahead of time and, in my incorporeal form, peruse the flower beds at my leisure. All went well for a number of decades—I was in my element and enjoying my work. Unfortunately, as is often the case, a lack of challenge can lead to complacency. During one ill-fated collection I was distracted by a particularly fine example of a Boscobel rose and didn’t realise that I had filled in my Expiry Method data sheet incorrectly, wrongly coding both means and volume. So it was that in August 2012, 435 people across Nottinghamshire were violently bisected by lawnmower blades on the same day. I was immediately put on administrative leave. The next few years were torture for me. I felt like I was in limbo (which, technically, I was) and began contemplating seriously for the first time the option of Eternal Bliss. Then, a few years ago, circumstances required a big recruitment push in the department and I was encouraged to again take up my role. Now, as Deputy Head of Workplace Accidents, I treasure each Monday (our busiest day) as it comes. And I make sure that my paperwork is absolutely flawless.

#55: Work

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads 'I thought my pigeon curse was lifting. Then it took a darker turn.'

Peterson, My Friend I cannot explain all that has occurred since our last correspondence—I can barely explain it to myself—but I must let you know that our battle against Professor Deacon, The Black Mage has taken a cruel and unexpected turn, and for us to continue in our fight, time is now of the essence. My confrontation with Deacon in the town of Runcorn did not go as planned—his eldritch powers were too strong, and my knowledge of the Dark Arts proved woefully inadequate. I soon found myself at his mercy and had begun to prepare myself for death’s warm embrace. But Deacon is not only evil and power-hungry, he is too a sadist, and instead of granting me a swift death, he enacted on me a spell of transmogrification. I felt my bones begin to dissolve and liquefy at the same time as my flesh began to constrict. My skull itself broke apart beneath my skin and reformed into a new, terrible shape. My eyes—in untold agony—migrated to the left and right. At the same time my limbs were changing too, taking on an inhuman cast. Grey feathers began to grow across my body. In a matter of minutes I had been changed from man to bird. With Deacon’s pitiless laughter ringing in my lobeless ears, I clumsily took flight, seeking a nearby rooftop for refuge. Though my body was bird, my mind was man, a condition I hoped to maintain while I worked on a way to reverse his spell. It took months, but eventually through sheer willpower and faith, and my hazy recollection of some ancient text glimpsed long ago in a grimoire, I was able to free myself—mostly—from pigeon form. I began this letter in the hope that my transformation back to man would continue. But the feathers on my writing hand are re-emerging, and my bare feet against these floorboards grip with clawed, pink toes. I can feel too, my mind begin to slip, to dream of open skies and food scraps. Dispatching this letter will likely be my last act as a human. Please, my friend, find me and help me—or else all is lost. A

#56: Pigeon Curse

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. it reads 'I didn't know how much I needed work until I lost it. But now I've learned to love Mondays again.'

When I first arrived at The Waystation—I was given the option to either move on to one of a number of blissful eternities, or instead, to join the administrative team. Having always had a strong work ethic I opted for the latter. So, after a short training period, I became a probationary Soul Gatherer (Reaper Second Class). My first job was in Natural Disasters: Volcano Deaths, a fairly low-density (though high-intensity) post, which allowed me to get a good grip on the reaping process. After that I was moved on to Entertainment: Circus Accidents, which had a similar small magnitude of applicable souls to gather, though with a far greater variety. After a brief stint in Transport: Canal Boats, I landed my dream job in Gardening: Domestic. It was mostly weekend work which really suited me—I’d always loved gardening when I was alive. Oftentimes I would arrive for my appointment a little ahead of time and, in my incorporeal form, peruse the flower beds at my leisure. All went well for a number of decades—I was in my element and enjoying my work. Unfortunately, as is often the case, a lack of challenge can lead to complacency. During one ill-fated collection I was distracted by a particularly fine example of a Boscobel rose and didn’t realise that I had filled in my Expiry Method data sheet incorrectly, wrongly coding both means and volume. So it was that in August 2012, 435 people across Nottinghamshire were violently bisected by lawnmower blades on the same day. I was immediately put on administrative leave. The next few years were torture for me. I felt like I was in limbo (which, technically, I was) and began contemplating seriously for the first time the option of Eternal Bliss. Then, a few years ago, circumstances required a big recruitment push in the department and I was encouraged to again take up my role. Now, as Deputy Head of Workplace Accidents, I treasure each Monday (our busiest day) as it comes. And I make sure that my paperwork is absolutely flawless.

#55: Work

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I'll never forget the day I tasted roast chicken crisps - it changed my life forever'.

When Barnevelder, our sacred sage and scribe, fell ill a pall fell over our small village. A meeting of the Council Elders was convened and it was decided that I, the strongest of us, would leave to seek help. It was a journey never before attempted by any of us, but Barnevelder’s needs outweighed our deep-held desire for isolation. The path through the woods was long and arduous—my tunic and winged cloak were soon torn and dirtied by the grasping arms of the thorn bushes which had long protected us. But after a few days the the going became easier, and I began to make good time. On the eighth day, on the edge of despair, my supplies long exhausted, the coldness of the nights having deeply penetrated even my usually warm and downy skin, I heard a mighty roar from just beyond the edge of the field through which I was passing. I ran to it and found a black pathway, dotted with white-painted lines whose meaning I could not discern and, on the other side of it, what looked like an inn. Inside the building ,behind a long counter I saw a man in the most peculiar garb, beardless and balding, who gave out a loud laugh at my approach. “Bloody hell - circus in town is it?” Before I could respond, I fell to the ground, exhausted. When I woke, the bald man was at my side . As my eyes opened he handed me a bag, bright orange in colour, indicating foodstuffs within. “Here, get those down you. You looked famished.” I took a handful of the slices within and gobbled them hungrily. The taste was unusual. I asked the man what the flavour was. “You never had roast chicken before lad?” Horror overwhelmed me. I had broken the worst taboo - I had eaten of the flesh of our ancestors, the sacred birds from whose loins we all had sprung. A red mist enveloped me. I let out a loud ‘BAWK-AH!’ and laid waste to the inn and all its inhabitants, my beak flooding with the stench of their blood. I had failed the village, and Barnevelder. What lay before me was the life of an outcast.

#54: Crisps

A screengrab of a headline for a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'The AI assistant was offering me any help I needed. All I wanted was a living, breathing human.'

Cyrille was with me from the start, from the moment I first dug up the immense horned skull in the corner of the garden where I’d planned to put the carp pond. Sounds like quite the discovery! It could belong to several creatures. Let’s try to narrow it down: Cattle or bull Goat Remnant of an ancient pre-human race, possibly mystical in origin. He was there too when I began to remodel the spare room into a Summoning Pool, in preparation for carrying out the Ritual of Ta’arth, which would bring about The Great Renewing Of The Flesh. Turning a spare room into a Summoning Pool is possible, but it requires careful planning. Here’s a summary of what’s involved: Check structural capacity Waterproof the room Acquire 50-60kg of beef tallow to aid in The Slithering Of The Path. He also had some great advice when Jen and the kids had left for her mum’s and I needed to contact work to let them know that I was taking a leave of absence. Sure! Here’s a professional but honest letter you could send to your boss: Dear Andy I am chosen! I am divine! I am midwife to the coming cataclysm of the human race, whereby the True Inheritors Of The Earth will rise again! I appreciate your understanding in this matter. I thought we were partners, I thought we had an understanding. I just don’t get what problem he’s having with this final part. Luring a human to your house in order to sacrifice them to the ravenous maw of the Ur-Beast to facilitate The Great Renewing? I’m afraid that seems like it might cause harm, and be illegal. I’m afraid I can’t assist with that at this time. I don’t know. Maybe I just need to find a different way of asking.

#53: AI

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I'll never forget the day I tasted roast chicken crisps - it changed my life forever'.

When Barnevelder, our sacred sage and scribe, fell ill a pall fell over our small village. A meeting of the Council Elders was convened and it was decided that I, the strongest of us, would leave to seek help. It was a journey never before attempted by any of us, but Barnevelder’s needs outweighed our deep-held desire for isolation. The path through the woods was long and arduous—my tunic and winged cloak were soon torn and dirtied by the grasping arms of the thorn bushes which had long protected us. But after a few days the the going became easier, and I began to make good time. On the eighth day, on the edge of despair, my supplies long exhausted, the coldness of the nights having deeply penetrated even my usually warm and downy skin, I heard a mighty roar from just beyond the edge of the field through which I was passing. I ran to it and found a black pathway, dotted with white-painted lines whose meaning I could not discern and, on the other side of it, what looked like an inn. Inside the building ,behind a long counter I saw a man in the most peculiar garb, beardless and balding, who gave out a loud laugh at my approach. “Bloody hell - circus in town is it?” Before I could respond, I fell to the ground, exhausted. When I woke, the bald man was at my side . As my eyes opened he handed me a bag, bright orange in colour, indicating foodstuffs within. “Here, get those down you. You looked famished.” I took a handful of the slices within and gobbled them hungrily. The taste was unusual. I asked the man what the flavour was. “You never had roast chicken before lad?” Horror overwhelmed me. I had broken the worst taboo - I had eaten of the flesh of our ancestors, the sacred birds from whose loins we all had sprung. A red mist enveloped me. I let out a loud ‘BAWK-AH!’ and laid waste to the inn and all its inhabitants, my beak flooding with the stench of their blood. I had failed the village, and Barnevelder. What lay before me was the life of an outcast.

#54: Crisps

A screengrab of a headline for a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'The AI assistant was offering me any help I needed. All I wanted was a living, breathing human.'

Cyrille was with me from the start, from the moment I first dug up the immense horned skull in the corner of the garden where I’d planned to put the carp pond. Sounds like quite the discovery! It could belong to several creatures. Let’s try to narrow it down: Cattle or bull Goat Remnant of an ancient pre-human race, possibly mystical in origin. He was there too when I began to remodel the spare room into a Summoning Pool, in preparation for carrying out the Ritual of Ta’arth, which would bring about The Great Renewing Of The Flesh. Turning a spare room into a Summoning Pool is possible, but it requires careful planning. Here’s a summary of what’s involved: Check structural capacity Waterproof the room Acquire 50-60kg of beef tallow to aid in The Slithering Of The Path. He also had some great advice when Jen and the kids had left for her mum’s and I needed to contact work to let them know that I was taking a leave of absence. Sure! Here’s a professional but honest letter you could send to your boss: Dear Andy I am chosen! I am divine! I am midwife to the coming cataclysm of the human race, whereby the True Inheritors Of The Earth will rise again! I appreciate your understanding in this matter. I thought we were partners, I thought we had an understanding. I just don’t get what problem he’s having with this final part. Luring a human to your house in order to sacrifice them to the ravenous maw of the Ur-Beast to facilitate The Great Renewing? I’m afraid that seems like it might cause harm, and be illegal. I’m afraid I can’t assist with that at this time. I don’t know. Maybe I just need to find a different way of asking.

#53: AI

A screenshot of a Guardian headline for a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads "I wanted an oven with a knob. Instead I got a world of pain."

The box arrived on my doorstep one morning completely out of nowhere. It was a cube, about 4 inches square, made from a very dark wood and each face of it was inscribed with the same phrase: “Your heart’s desire…”. At first I thought it was just the Amazon driver messing up again. When I picked up the box it fitted perfectly into my palm —felt like it belonged there—so I ended up taking it inside with me. If it was actually for next door I was pretty sure I’d hear about it soon enough. I went to put some eggs on for breakfast, but as I lit the gas, the knob came off in my hand, fell to the floor, bounced off my slipper and rolled somewhere—I couldn’t immediately see where. I wish I knew where that went, I said to myself. That very instant the image of the oven knob lying six inches under the vegetable rack popped into my head. I looked down at the box that was still in my hand. The inscription on one side of the cube had disappeared, leaving the surface blank. Well, I’ll be…I thought. The next six months were the best of my life. I was careful and pragmatic with my remaining wishes, making sure to avoid all the traditional pitfalls, and so quickly attained a level of unshowy, comfortable, sustainable wealth and success that would not be easily lost. As a further precaution, I even used my last wish on something entirely unselfish—that everyone else would be as happy as I was. The minute I made that wish, the last inscription disappeared from the cube. However, a new one now appeared, an unexpected continuation of the previous phrase, “...for your soul’s damnation.” The screams of the tortured and wretched are as endless as they are unbearable. Each time a new rusted hook tears into my shredded flesh I hear my cry echoed a thousandfold from those around me. Each morning my eyes regrow so that I can see their agonies, before being pecked out once more by the dark winged things that gather always above me. I still wonder if that box was meant for next door.

#52: Knob

A screenshot of a Guardian headline for a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads "I wanted an oven with a knob. Instead I got a world of pain."

The box arrived on my doorstep one morning completely out of nowhere. It was a cube, about 4 inches square, made from a very dark wood and each face of it was inscribed with the same phrase: “Your heart’s desire…”. At first I thought it was just the Amazon driver messing up again. When I picked up the box it fitted perfectly into my palm —felt like it belonged there—so I ended up taking it inside with me. If it was actually for next door I was pretty sure I’d hear about it soon enough. I went to put some eggs on for breakfast, but as I lit the gas, the knob came off in my hand, fell to the floor, bounced off my slipper and rolled somewhere—I couldn’t immediately see where. I wish I knew where that went, I said to myself. That very instant the image of the oven knob lying six inches under the vegetable rack popped into my head. I looked down at the box that was still in my hand. The inscription on one side of the cube had disappeared, leaving the surface blank. Well, I’ll be…I thought. The next six months were the best of my life. I was careful and pragmatic with my remaining wishes, making sure to avoid all the traditional pitfalls, and so quickly attained a level of unshowy, comfortable, sustainable wealth and success that would not be easily lost. As a further precaution, I even used my last wish on something entirely unselfish—that everyone else would be as happy as I was. The minute I made that wish, the last inscription disappeared from the cube. However, a new one now appeared, an unexpected continuation of the previous phrase, “...for your soul’s damnation.” The screams of the tortured and wretched are as endless as they are unbearable. Each time a new rusted hook tears into my shredded flesh I hear my cry echoed a thousandfold from those around me. Each morning my eyes regrow so that I can see their agonies, before being pecked out once more by the dark winged things that gather always above me. I still wonder if that box was meant for next door.

#52: Knob

A screengrab of a Guardian headline for a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'My breakdown cover was extortionate - and that taught me an important lesson'.

After 18 full cycles spent stranded, the ship’s hull barely holding together from the damage sustained during our ill-fated sojourn through the meteor storm, and with life support systems perilously close to falling, I made the call I hoped I would never have to make. My deal with with the Balthargians had been the standard shakedown expected for those transporting illicit cargo between the Confederation worlds and the wilds of Free Space—in return for accessing the cloaking tech necessary to avoid the roaming border patrols, they demanded not only a steep fee, but also that if repair or rescue were needed then they would be the ones to provide it, on terms only made explicit at the point of need. On making the deal I had been bullish about our chances of making the trip unscathed—the Myrmidon was a Delta Class Cargo Cruiser, storm-weathered and nimble—but I was soon to find myself, to some cost, proved wrong. When the Balthargain repair shuttle arrived and the terms for their services were outlined, there was nothing I could do but agree. I had long known that humans had been considered a rare and succulent delicacy on Baltharg and so in handing over half of our cargo—two hundred pilgrims from Earth bound for the colony world of New Boston, being transported in stasis—I had no illusions as to what might be their fate. What I didn’t expect was for the Balthargians to insist—on pain of death—that I join them in a celebratory meal before they left the Myrmidon, a table of delicacies cooked up by an expert Balthargian chef—spiced manflank; filet of humanchild with a brain-shavings jus; lungs a l’orange, all to be washed down with an exquisite bloodwine. All I can do is smile, pick up my cutlery and play along. The repairs are now completed, the Balthargians departed. My belly sits full, my tastebuds stimulated beyond all expectations, and I have learnt an important lesson: with 200 pilgrims still aboard, I need not now stop for food supplies for many a long month.

#51: Breakdown

A screengrab of a Guardian headline for a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'My breakdown cover was extortionate - and that taught me an important lesson'.

After 18 full cycles spent stranded, the ship’s hull barely holding together from the damage sustained during our ill-fated sojourn through the meteor storm, and with life support systems perilously close to falling, I made the call I hoped I would never have to make. My deal with with the Balthargians had been the standard shakedown expected for those transporting illicit cargo between the Confederation worlds and the wilds of Free Space—in return for accessing the cloaking tech necessary to avoid the roaming border patrols, they demanded not only a steep fee, but also that if repair or rescue were needed then they would be the ones to provide it, on terms only made explicit at the point of need. On making the deal I had been bullish about our chances of making the trip unscathed—the Myrmidon was a Delta Class Cargo Cruiser, storm-weathered and nimble—but I was soon to find myself, to some cost, proved wrong. When the Balthargain repair shuttle arrived and the terms for their services were outlined, there was nothing I could do but agree. I had long known that humans had been considered a rare and succulent delicacy on Baltharg and so in handing over half of our cargo—two hundred pilgrims from Earth bound for the colony world of New Boston, being transported in stasis—I had no illusions as to what might be their fate. What I didn’t expect was for the Balthargians to insist—on pain of death—that I join them in a celebratory meal before they left the Myrmidon, a table of delicacies cooked up by an expert Balthargian chef—spiced manflank; filet of humanchild with a brain-shavings jus; lungs a l’orange, all to be washed down with an exquisite bloodwine. All I can do is smile, pick up my cutlery and play along. The repairs are now completed, the Balthargians departed. My belly sits full, my tastebuds stimulated beyond all expectations, and I have learnt an important lesson: with 200 pilgrims still aboard, I need not now stop for food supplies for many a long month.

#51: Breakdown

A screenshot of a Guardian headline to a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'At the age of 58, I've bought my first drill. Can it make me a new man?'

After the fire and the funeral, and when the inquest had been satisfactorily concluded, I found myself, nearing sixty, moving in with my older brother Stanley. I anticipated that it would only take a few months for the details of the estate to be settled, at which point I could begin a new chapter in my life, perhaps abroad, but with my former brother-in-law Marcus as sole executor—a man who had, despite my best efforts, never remotely warmed to me—things seemed to slow to a snail’s pace, leaving me marooned indefinitely in fraternal co-habitation. If I had found my marriage to be a trial of perseverance, a regular gauntlet of annoyances to be endured, then life with Stanley was a whole new magnitude of ordeal. The man’s habits were simply unbearable; from his daily pre-dawn exercise routine—fifty army-style press-ups on the living-room rug, each accompanied by an agricultural-sounding grunt—to his diet of the most anemic and flavourless vegetables—”best for a healthy bowel”—to his doting over the flea-laden, slack-jawed, rodent-faced canine—’Miss Pennywhistle’—with whom he shared his bed, everything he did seemed designed to pluck at my already taut nerves. I began to think that I might once again have to resort to the most drastic of actions, until I stumbled across a documentary on one of the lesser-known television channels, detailing the practice and efficacy of the ancient art of trepanning, how, by the careful placement of holes in the skull, the trepanee might find his behaviours and even personality permanently corrected. The very next day I ordered a brand new Black & Decker Cordless, with battery and ten-piece drill bit set—my first ever foray into the world of do-it-yourself—and began to make a plan. In a few hours Stanley and Miss Pennywhistle will settle down for the night and I—having honed my aim on Stanely’s decorative phrenology bust—will get to work on adjusting him, drillhole by drillhole. By morning I’m hoping he’ll be a brand new man.

#50: Drill

The headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Surely potholes were never this bad before?'

In all the old tales of these woods they were known as Scuttlefolk. To my Grandmother, they were Scarryns. To me, they are nothing less than vermin. When my father died last month and I became sole inheritor of the family home, I believed that it was the beginning of a brand new chapter in my life. It couldn’t have happened at a better time—I was being pursued by a number of angry and violently-disposed creditors, and so a remote bolt-hole seemed ideal. How wrong I was. For the first few weeks I busied myself by making a careful inventory of the house’s contents, sorting out any things which might prove of value. Amongst these I was delighted to discover a first edition double volume of Ratclyffe’s Folk Tales Of The Lower Downs, which a quick internet search revealed to be worth thousands. I went to bed happy that night, but was woken past 3am by a sound from the library. On investigation I found one of those cursed miniatures, a scarryn, sat upon the first volume of the Ratclyffe, its clawed hands ripping apart the pages and feeding them between its yellowed, pointed teeth to fatten its grotesque, almost transparently white bulbous belly. Enraged, I grabbed what was closest to hand—a hefty 1926 tome—and squashed the creature dead. Luckily, the subsequent mess left at least one volume of the Ratcliffe intact and I planned the next day to venture into town to make a sale. As I went to start the car that morning however, I found the driveway a pockmarked, cratered, impassable mess, its surface riddled with potholes large and small, from within which came the wittering of the rest of the scarryn brood, a dawn chorus of tiny, gnashing teeth. That was a week ago. My every attempt to leave the grounds since then has been stymied, new holes appearing at pace, my feet subject to vicious attack should I attempt a crossing. Food supplies are low but my determination remains resolute. In the battle between man and miniature, I shall prove myself the victor or die trying.

#49: Potholes

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I'm not fooled by the sun poppin ou t - it's the season of miserable greay'

I know their game. They think that they can lure me out of my hiding place by pretending that things have gone back to the way they were before. But I’m smarter than that.That’s the reason I’ve been able to survive for this long. Right now there’s a circle of light on the floor of the cave, bright summer light, the way it used to be before The Great Cloud descended and covered the earth in a layer of fog so viscous and thick that it clogged up all the systems of living that we had in place, rendering our civilizations at a single touch devastated. The circle is the first sign of light that I’ve had in seven months, the first suggestion that the nightmare might be over. I know that I can’t trust it. With the fog and the ensuing chaos came The Greys. Indistinct forms, a little larger in size than a man, but with the hunched stature of a vulture, they were natives of the fog, brought with it down from the sunless sky, distributed in their thousands across the country. Like vultures, they were scavengers, falling on the bodies of the dead and dying and hungrily consuming them where they lay, their cries, desolate and mournful, ringing out across the misted earth all day and all night, a maddening cacophony. I have only been able to survive by finding this cave, in the woods close to my home, the depths of which the fog cannot penetrate. I leave for just an hour each day, to gather the remnants of corpses on which to feed. Sometimes, standing by my small fire, cooking a discarded leg or arm, I look at my own shadow on the wall and wonder if I’m any better—or any different—from The Greys themselves. But that way of thinking leads only to madness. They seek me, I know that. Sometimes I hear their conspiratorial mutterings through the murk. The sunlight can only be a trap, a way to tempt me from my cave, bring me out into the open where they can rip my body to shreds. I won’t bite. I turn away from the circle, towards the fire, and try to ignore what might be behind me.

#48: Miserable

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I'm not fooled by the sun poppin ou t - it's the season of miserable greay'

I know their game. They think that they can lure me out of my hiding place by pretending that things have gone back to the way they were before. But I’m smarter than that.That’s the reason I’ve been able to survive for this long. Right now there’s a circle of light on the floor of the cave, bright summer light, the way it used to be before The Great Cloud descended and covered the earth in a layer of fog so viscous and thick that it clogged up all the systems of living that we had in place, rendering our civilizations at a single touch devastated. The circle is the first sign of light that I’ve had in seven months, the first suggestion that the nightmare might be over. I know that I can’t trust it. With the fog and the ensuing chaos came The Greys. Indistinct forms, a little larger in size than a man, but with the hunched stature of a vulture, they were natives of the fog, brought with it down from the sunless sky, distributed in their thousands across the country. Like vultures, they were scavengers, falling on the bodies of the dead and dying and hungrily consuming them where they lay, their cries, desolate and mournful, ringing out across the misted earth all day and all night, a maddening cacophony. I have only been able to survive by finding this cave, in the woods close to my home, the depths of which the fog cannot penetrate. I leave for just an hour each day, to gather the remnants of corpses on which to feed. Sometimes, standing by my small fire, cooking a discarded leg or arm, I look at my own shadow on the wall and wonder if I’m any better—or any different—from The Greys themselves. But that way of thinking leads only to madness. They seek me, I know that. Sometimes I hear their conspiratorial mutterings through the murk. The sunlight can only be a trap, a way to tempt me from my cave, bring me out into the open where they can rip my body to shreds. I won’t bite. I turn away from the circle, towards the fire, and try to ignore what might be behind me.

#48: Miserable

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Things reek, stink and pong - but why are there no verbs for describing a delightful odour?'

Come closer. Closer still. Even closer. That’s it. Now shut your eyes and inhale deeply. Let the fragrance I present to you rush into your nostrils, let it flow through you, seeping deep into every cell while I tell you my story. Five years. Five long years I spent apprenticed to the so-called ‘Great Perfumier of Paris’, M. Duran. In that time I created a whole library of fragrances for him; the soft, the sharp, the delicate, the pungent; every type of scent for every type of occasion. And what did I get for my efforts? Nothing but the harshest criticism. “This reeks, begin again.” “What a stench! Work harder.” “Such a stink as I have never before encountered—are you trying to poison me?”, and other such cruel disparagements. And when I succeeded, as each time I did? Durand would take the sole credit, bolstering his already bloated reputation, parading his triumph to the world like a pompous peacock. He was growing rich on the back of my talent. I began to despise him. When at last frustrated by his lack of acknowledgement, I asked to be given the merest appreciation for my work, Durand’s response was one of contempt. “The stinkmonger desires a pat on the back? Pah! You are nothing without Durand, and never will be.” With that I was removed from my position, thrown out of Durand’s workshop and lodgings, left homeless and penniless on the streets, a wretch. Revenge began to burn in me. With ingredients stolen from Durand’s laboratories, I started work on my greatest creation, a perfume so powerful, so intense that it would render those who smell it entirely subject to my will. It would not stink, nor reek, but induce such delights as to wholly intoxicate. It would be such an aroma as to be practically indescribable. So breathe deeply my friend, let this nameless aroma take over you. And let your hand grip tight on the hilt of this knife. Tonight you go to visit Durand, to open him up from belly to throat. Let us see who is the stinkmonger then.

#47: Stink

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Things reek, stink and pong - but why are there no verbs for describing a delightful odour?'

Come closer. Closer still. Even closer. That’s it. Now shut your eyes and inhale deeply. Let the fragrance I present to you rush into your nostrils, let it flow through you, seeping deep into every cell while I tell you my story. Five years. Five long years I spent apprenticed to the so-called ‘Great Perfumier of Paris’, M. Duran. In that time I created a whole library of fragrances for him; the soft, the sharp, the delicate, the pungent; every type of scent for every type of occasion. And what did I get for my efforts? Nothing but the harshest criticism. “This reeks, begin again.” “What a stench! Work harder.” “Such a stink as I have never before encountered—are you trying to poison me?”, and other such cruel disparagements. And when I succeeded, as each time I did? Durand would take the sole credit, bolstering his already bloated reputation, parading his triumph to the world like a pompous peacock. He was growing rich on the back of my talent. I began to despise him. When at last frustrated by his lack of acknowledgement, I asked to be given the merest appreciation for my work, Durand’s response was one of contempt. “The stinkmonger desires a pat on the back? Pah! You are nothing without Durand, and never will be.” With that I was removed from my position, thrown out of Durand’s workshop and lodgings, left homeless and penniless on the streets, a wretch. Revenge began to burn in me. With ingredients stolen from Durand’s laboratories, I started work on my greatest creation, a perfume so powerful, so intense that it would render those who smell it entirely subject to my will. It would not stink, nor reek, but induce such delights as to wholly intoxicate. It would be such an aroma as to be practically indescribable. So breathe deeply my friend, let this nameless aroma take over you. And let your hand grip tight on the hilt of this knife. Tonight you go to visit Durand, to open him up from belly to throat. Let us see who is the stinkmonger then.

#47: Stink

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: I visited Runcorn for the first time this week and was blown away by its magic

My Dearest Peterson If you are reading this letter, it means that I have failed and am most likely either dead or consigned to that hellish realm of half-existence for which the Black Mage has appointed himself gaoler. Do not mourn too long for me—I knew that in confronting Professor Deacon in person I was taking a terrible risk, but I had hoped that in applying all that we have learned about the source of his dark powers I might be able to find a way to defeat him. Alas, it seems that I was mistaken. I write to you from The Prospect Inn, a hostelry in the small town of Runcorn, where I have been residing these past two nights since I departed from our London apartments. Though it pained me immeasurably to leave you, still so wounded and unwell from our last battle with Deacon’s sorcerous acolytes, I knew that I must—word reached me from one of my students that Deacon had moved north and was preparing to carry out a supernatural assault on one of the great industrial cities, a demonstration of his Dark Magics far beyond what either of us have seen before. I knew that this might be our only chance to stop him, a chance which, with all that is at stake, I could not spurn. The moon is now high in the dark winter sky. I will leave this letter with instructions to the landlord to deliver it to you should I not return by morning. I can already feel the inky tendrils of Deacon’s sorcery reaching out through the night to find me and I fear that in the face of his enormous eldritch power my faith and reason may not be enough to survive. I can only hope to take him unawares and destroy his physical body before he should take possession of my soul. I hope you will forgive my leaving, and will understand why I take this risk. Know that I am forever your friend. May God be with us both. A

#46: Magic

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: I visited Runcorn for the first time this week and was blown away by its magic

My Dearest Peterson If you are reading this letter, it means that I have failed and am most likely either dead or consigned to that hellish realm of half-existence for which the Black Mage has appointed himself gaoler. Do not mourn too long for me—I knew that in confronting Professor Deacon in person I was taking a terrible risk, but I had hoped that in applying all that we have learned about the source of his dark powers I might be able to find a way to defeat him. Alas, it seems that I was mistaken. I write to you from The Prospect Inn, a hostelry in the small town of Runcorn, where I have been residing these past two nights since I departed from our London apartments. Though it pained me immeasurably to leave you, still so wounded and unwell from our last battle with Deacon’s sorcerous acolytes, I knew that I must—word reached me from one of my students that Deacon had moved north and was preparing to carry out a supernatural assault on one of the great industrial cities, a demonstration of his Dark Magics far beyond what either of us have seen before. I knew that this might be our only chance to stop him, a chance which, with all that is at stake, I could not spurn. The moon is now high in the dark winter sky. I will leave this letter with instructions to the landlord to deliver it to you should I not return by morning. I can already feel the inky tendrils of Deacon’s sorcery reaching out through the night to find me and I fear that in the face of his enormous eldritch power my faith and reason may not be enough to survive. I can only hope to take him unawares and destroy his physical body before he should take possession of my soul. I hope you will forgive my leaving, and will understand why I take this risk. Know that I am forever your friend. May God be with us both. A

#46: Magic

A screenshot of a Guardian headline to a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: 'I went back to school for a day - and discovered some very unsettling facts about learning.'

I had not set foot on the grounds of Oakland Academy for five years, and walking through the gates I felt a shudder of apprehension. My days as a History teacher at the school had been fraught and, ultimately, debilitating; the children that attended Oakland were a rowdy, rebellious and often violent lot and my mental health had suffered terribly as a result, leading to me taking an extended temporary leave of absence which over time became permanent. The call a week ago from my friend and former colleague Alan—Maths teacher and now Deputy Head of the school—had however piqued my interest. He told me that the school had been taken over by a new Academy Trust and the environment had, as a result, undergone a radical change, especially in terms of behaviour. “I think there’s a role for you here,” he had said. As Alan led me cheerily through the familiar corridors, I could only marvel at the difference to my time there. Students walked silently, in neat lines from classroom to classroom; there were no smartphones, no talking back to teachers.The same was true for the classrooms themselves; each pupil sat fully to attention, listening to the teacher, fully absorbed in the lesson. We walked on. “How is it done?” I asked, “How do you make them so receptive?” “It’s quite simple really,” said Alan, “The boffins who run the Trust discovered that if you want to create model pupils out of feral children, you simply have to find a way to indulge their wild side too. It’s give and take.” “Indulge their wild side?” “Allow them a little violence as a regular treat.” He turned a corner, opened the door to a classroom to allow me to enter. I walked in, and Alan closed the door behind me. I heard the lock click. Too late I saw who populated the room—30 children, cricket bats and bricks in hand, their faces flush with anticipation at the sight of me, their mouths curling in untamed savagery. “Better out than in,” I heard Alan shout as he walked away and the children set upon me.

#45: Learning