Read the stories, guess which one is AI. Answer revealed at the bottom
STORY 1
Three days later, he realised Josh might’ve been the ugliest man Peter had ever seen.
They’d met in the gym an hour earlier, paired up by Paddy and Colin. First timers both. No drama, just sweat and nods.
Josh rushed off after – quick shower, faster exit. By the time the others dried, he was gone.
Three days later, he reappeared
“Where’d you bolt to last time?” Paddy asked.
Josh herded them into a huddle. “Listen boys. I do couples a favour down the coast.”
“That’s miles,” said Peter.
“Public transport all the way,” Josh said.
“What’s your trade?” Colin asked.
Josh scratched his neck. “Not a trade, exactly. More… swinging.”
Silence. The rowing machine creaked.
He spelled it out: old husband can’t perform, Josh steps in. Fish supper from the chippy (“banging”), bottle of wine, then upstairs.
Colin blinked. “And the other night? Any good?”
Josh grinned. “Fish supper was fantastic.”
Peter sipped his water. “If my wife ever wanted this, I’d pick you too. No competition. You’re an ugly bugger.”
Josh raised his bottle. “That’s why they pay me.
STORY 2
Steven had trained Ashraf and Jack all week. Ashraf’s wife sent a kotlet, a Persian patty meant to be eaten cold, as thanks. Steven finished it while signing Ashraf’s pass. No favouritism. Just competence.
Jack arrived for his test, knee still scabbed from the pallet incident. “Give us ten minutes?” Steven tapped the kotlet wrapper. “Perks of diplomacy.”
Jack’s nod was too quick. “Aye. Right.” He limped off.
By 5:15pm, the warehouse was dark. A shuffle came from Aisle 6.
“Who’s there?” Steven palmed a Stanley knife.
Jack emerged, clutching a McDonald’s bag. “Got you summat.” He held out a Big Mac. “Thought you might, after that kotlet.”
The burger was lukewarm.
“Me knee’s proper bad,” Jack said. “But I ran for this.”
A phone rang in the office. No one answered.
“Test’s tomorrow,” Steven said.
Jack’s face fell. “But I.” His voice cracked.
Steven tossed the burger into the bin. “Should’ve saved your money.” The forklift keys stayed in his pocket.
STORY 3
The jolt woke him at 03:14. The dream had been simple: rising to piss, that nightly ritual since turning sixty last Tuesday, then the shape at the top of the stairs. He had grabbed the baseball bat leaning against his wardrobe, swung hard into the darkness, and wrenched awake mid arc.
His daughter’s smartwatch, that ridiculous birthday gift she had insisted would optimise his sleep cycles, pulsed gently against his wrist. The numbers glowed. 03:14. Not even a proper hour for ghosts. But his bladder did not negotiate.
He pushed back the duvet. The house creaked its complaints. At the bedroom door, he hesitated, fingers finding the bat’s familiar grip.
The landing light was off. Of course it was. She had nagged him about the electricity bill just yesterday.
Three steps out, he saw it.
The silhouette at the stairhead. Taller than him. Still as a stopped clock.
His arm moved before his brain caught up. The bat cut through damp air.
The overhead light exploded on.
“Dad?”
His daughter stood there, glass of water trembling in one hand, phone in the other. The bat’s momentum was irreversible.
Her mouth opened.
His chest detonated first. A white hot vice between his ribs. The watch’s alarm began shrieking. 178 bpm. 184. Error.
The last thing he registered was the sound of shattering glass. Whether from her dropped tumbler or the watch face hitting the floor, he would never know.
Downstairs, the fridge hummed. From the kitchen, the tap dripped into the sink, half turned off, like always. The bat rolled into the shadow beneath the banister, where it would remain until the paramedics kicked it aside without looking.
Story 4
The box wasn’t there when I crashed out. But by morning, it sat by the microwave like a misplaced ashtray. Matted plastic, no labels, warm as a pub fruit machine.
I cracked it open. Inside: an earpiece, yellowed like a 20 a day smiler’s incisor.
Go on, then.
Not a voice. A nudge in the ribs. I slotted it in.
White noise. Then, clear as a BBC alert: “Tune to The Channel. They’re taking liberties.”
Sandra, my smart bollocks, usually kicked off about rogue devices. Nothing. The flat reeked of stale lager and that one mouldy orange under the sofa. On the telly, where Sandra’s smug face should’ve been:
SWITCHED OFF.
I wiped my palms on my Primark joggers. “Sandra, play The Channel.”
The room twitched.
One heartbeat, I’m staring at a cold sausage roll on the counter. Next, I’m there: a high street of boarded up Greggs, everyone marching in sync like Poundland mannequins. A woman in an Iceland uniform locked eyes with me:
“Not for your eyes, duck.”
Pain. Proper dentist drill to the brain pain. I yanked out the earpiece.
Back in my flat. Box vanished. Sandra’s voice dripped from the ceiling: “Gorgeous day! Need the weather?”
My knuckles ached. “Play The Channel.”
A pause. “Searching… no results found.”
Then it hit me. The earpiece wasn’t tech. It was a cheat code. They’d forgotten to wipe The Channel, same as they’d never fixed the traffic lights that stuck on red for ages.
That night, the box was under my pillow again. This time: a butter knife from the kebab shop.
Get on with it.
I dragged the blade over my palm. The world stuttered.
Woke up to fuck all outside. Just grey. Proper motorway in a downpour grey. Sky like a broken Argos telly.
Sandra trilled: “Free trial ended! Fancy a paid plan?”
STORY 5
It was the waiting that was worse. He thought it would be what would happen after the wait, but he’d made his peace with that. When the invasion began he’d decided that as long as there was one of them left alive, the invaders wouldn’t win. But now, after weeks of running, hiding, sleeping in ditches and eating whatever scraps were left lying, he decided it would be better to stare them in the face as he was incinerated or taken by whatever means they took their pleasure from. He seen many incinerated by their machines and decided it was purely for their pleasure. He was sure it could be quicker than that, but whichever way they wanted it, he would stare straight at them.
The decision to end it was strangely easy and calm. The old cottage kept him dry, but the cold bit and gnawed. Every sheet, cloth, blanket and towel were hanging over windows or jammed under doors, but it only helped a little. He hadn’t left the cottage in days, hadn’t eaten for the same. The water was still clean, but the cold was relentless.
That was it, why was he living like an animal, enough of this running and hiding, time to be strong and show them he wasn’t scared more.
So that night he headed out into the woods for kindling and lit a fire in the big fireplace. There was coal in a bunker behind the cottage and it burned brightly. He had no doubts they would see the heat and absolutely no doubt they would see the smoke curling from the chimney. There was a big padded swivel chair next to a desk and he dragged it outside facing the long driveway to the cottage. He went back in and pulled an armchair in front of the fire, leaning back, he let the heat ebb into his bones and he waited.
He woke with a start. How long had he slept. No idea, but he felt good. And angry. What was he doing giving up, he’d lasted this long. The fire had died down, although the room was still warm, it was good. Maybe he’d got away with it, but then he heard the rumbling. He knew, he’d been found. His instincts took over and he headed to the back door which led to the woods, but then stopped. What was he doing? It was time. This didn’t mean they had won, in a way he had. Kind of. He walked to the front door and opened it wide. The machine was there, sitting, waiting. He pulled the swivel chair to face the machine. It was damp from morning dew, but that didn’t matter now. He sat and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find an image from his life before this. Then he stared at the machine, a smug half smile on his lips, this was his victory. The machine sat still and quiet.
What were they waiting for?
Click to Reveal
STORY 4
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