Ah, Ms. Smith, I presume! Welcome, welcome, please take a seat. You look stunning. What is that sweet aroma I smell, hmm? Lemon Glace? Vanilla Quartz? Oh…just soap, you say? Regardless, it suits you to a tee. We are overjoyed to have you here with us tonight. I believe we met over the, uh…job finders website, correct? Yes, yes, that site is a little…backstreet, compared to our establishment here, but alas, it is patrons without professions that we find we can cater to the most. I have what I understand to be your account here on the computer…KittenLover2004, correct? Wonderful. I see you are wearing the same shade of lipstick as in your profile picture! How exciting! Come now, there…

“Where are my smoking glasses?” Elizabeth frowned at her father’s request, not having made it one step out of the stuffy, dust-layered hole that was their living room. This was her third attempt at leaving, and once more had the confused man called out for her in that all-too familiar way, voice heavy with contempt. It was the same loveless cadence she recognised from the 40-odd years they had lived in the house together, though the energy behind it was now weak and smouldering, like a fire in need of stoking. She took a moment to consider the question. First the blanket, then the ashtray, now this. It was true that her father had been a rather excessive smoker in…

11:30 am. Dreary. Heartburn. Brain ache. Tired eyes giving way to a dull throbbing, but never drifting closed. We sat in silence around our monitors and typed, when suddenly, the office room silence was pierced by Lola’s break alarm. It blared its flat, electronic tone on repeat a few times until she stood up from her chair. “Which room would you like to visit today?” the hateable robot spoke, emerging from the ceiling. It was a black, spidery thing with a low-hanging body, capable of turning in any direction at will. With a short buzz, it flashed a kaleidoscope of Colour from its circular screen, brilliant blues mixing with vibrant greens and yellows. On and off they blinked, back and…

The homunculus was a thin, flat, disproportionate thing that was too smooth, too round, and seemingly forever dissatisfied with its own ludicrous appearance. The first time I ever laid eyes on it, I had just arrived at my tech job, fresh from a stay of extended medical leave, mind already ablaze with the problems of yesterday’s virtual meetings. A semicircle of young and middle-aged colleagues surrounded and watched in hushed excitement as the thing changed. What I initially recognised as an absent man sporting a brownish complexion was moments later a shaved white girl. Then someone considerably older. Then someone else. It showed no signs of stopping. Blurry, smeared features sank and melted apart, continuously forming anew. Faces were perceivable,…

19:00 Evening at the McManus estate – a postmodern building with large glass windows. The sun is setting and your mother and father are arguing silently in the kitchen. Their mouths open and close, but there is no sound. None but the wind. The couple bicker as they orbit around a fairly nice-looking joint kitchen and garden space. They’re cleaning it up, making it look better, squabbling over what goes where and when. Your mother was always told to marry someone who complimented her extremes, but in some respects, her and her husband’s sensibilities are frustratingly similar. Infectious OCD is one of them. Still, they know their limits with arguments. She shouts a little too loud, or knocks something over,…