When I Google “tear in the space-time continuum” AI tells me it’s a popular science fiction concept however theoretical physics does not support literal tears. The closest thing is the “singularity” found at the centre of a black hole. In its simplest terms “singularity” means being unique. So next time I feel like the world is closing in and I am my own black hole, I’m going to focus on my own singularity, rise out of the darkness and allow that black hole to close in on i

He looked out over the vibrant green fields and as far as he could see there was bright green wheat, not yet ready for harvest but swaying gently in the breeze. It was mesmerising. Small hills and valleys covered in wheat. It was relaxing. Calming. Quickly the sky started to darken. Low clouds of dark grey. So low they looked like they were touching the wheat tops. His wife Diana brought him a cup of hot steaming tea in a delicate Royal Albert cup and saucer. It was left

From the ridge, Bonn watches the battle between four prowling crankycats and a bunch of junior green moosespiders. Being so young, they cannot hope to defend themselves. The adult black moosespiders hear the screams and gallop to their rescue but not before two are killed and dragged off. A second cluster trap them in a ravine, killing the crankycats and recovering the baby’s carcasses. Bonn witnesses an amazing sight of the two-day mourning-ceremony of green and black

We have an almost total lack of descriptors for smell in English. The word ‘petrichor’ to describe the smell of rain hitting dry soil was deliberately coined in 1964, but surprisingly few targeted descriptors exist. Instead we rely on generic terms like ‘fusty’, ‘pungent’, ‘redolent’, or ‘sweet’, which barely say anything at all. It is never too late for reform. To start the ball rolling, here are four new submissions for the OED: · The smell of falling snow when ther

He stood in the rain, his too-big-for-him clothes weighed down with water and sadness. I stopped the car and bipped the horn. He took a few steps back, puzzled, as if he had never seen a car before. This was going to be harder than I thought. Stepping out of the car, I spoke in my calmest of voices. “I’ve come to take you home. You’re getting wet out here.” “Home,” he said. “It’s that way,” pointing in the opposite direction to home. “Come on, jump in. I’ll take you

This planet does not have rain like Bonn’s ancient homeworld. Mother shares historical documentaries of weather systems with clouds, rain, rainforests, savannahs; lightning and thunder. Here has aquifers, lakes and morning fogs to replenish the water needs of the flora and fauna. Mother has redesigned and enhanced the technology of air-plants, epiphytes and mosses expanding their collective abilities to greatly increase their plant-based hydrogelic capacities; developing th

If you’re an online influencer there’s no respite from the tyranny of posting. Every situation dissolves into a potential source of content. You can never stop stoking that fitful flame of public interest. Stop posting and the followers die down, and so does your income. How many ways can you film your budgie? How many recipes with rage-bait mistakes can you make? How many clothes can you ‘style’ before you start losing your mind and wearing three skirts at once: one as a ski

Bonn is restless with isolation. They survive on a smallish planet on the outskirts of a galaxy known as Via Lactea, Silver River, Odin’s Way, White Mare’s Tail or (most commonly) Milky Way. On rare nights of darkness, he sees it streaming across the sky. His need to belong, to be part of his surroundings, grows. Mother helps him look through archives of names and places so he may ‘own’ his surroundings. Through thousands of words in ancient tongues, he finds one that means

‘Oooo there’s a pot belly stove!’ ‘Oooo how cool.’ They both jumped around in excitement. ‘Let’s get it on. It’s freezing here’, said Frannie. ‘Ok’ said Hanna opening the stove’s little door with the confidence of someone who’s an old hand at this. ‘Right so we put the wood in.’ ‘No, it’s called timber. Wood is on trees.’ ‘Oh ok.’ Their exuberance was a plenty. They selected twigs and logs and newspaper. Stuffed it in without too much care or experience and set it ablaze. The

It is Bonn’s job to prepare his meals, with help from Puter, who has 10,000 recipes stored and the skills of old-world Michelin Chefs. Bonn always wears a mask when preparing BlueMelons and is heavily discouraged from eating more than a quarter daily. He has found Budda-finger Lemon look-alikes that, when dried, have a crisp umami flavour. They are carnivorous fruit-plants that drag small reptiles in with their tentacle fingers. The meat is often ScareyCat roasted in a pe

T’is the season to be jolly and for George and his other tree dwellers. He usually looked forward to this time, but quite frankly, they had started their cultish ways again and were raising their eyes skyward, in the hope of a blood moon. All he wanted to do was to get nice and fat…and yellow…and juicy. It’s lemon season! Hurrah! George saw this as an opportunity to cull some of the cult…no, no he meant the crop. Could lemons get more ridiculous in their beliefs. All he wante