Poetry

Swing

On the old wooden swing at the park’s quiet corner, the seat hums a soft, familiar groan— a lullaby in creaking timbers, the kind that fills the quiet Sunday mornings, as the breeze

Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels

Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels In the bruise‑red dawn of South London’s grit, a rusty truck, a shifter’s curse, a case of “lock‑up” tricks. Jack and his rag‑tag crew, all armed for

The Wild Robot

The Wild Robot On a mist‑fallen dawn she landed — a silver husk, a quiet codger of circuits and cold steel, Roz, the lonely lift that drifted the ocean’s ire into a blue‑green arm. She

Barry Lyndon

Barry Lyndon In a time draped in lace‑rimmed streets and the soft hum of eighteenth‑century parlours, a lad of rough coat and quick wit set his eyes on fortune’s green‑stained promise. He began in

V for Vendetta

Echoes of the Veiled Mask In the cold haze of midnight, a figure drifts through the city’s veins, A torch‑sheathed silhouette against the soot‑scarred glass. Sporting a Guy Fawkes face in crisp neon

• The Friday Fun British Test
• Dilbert Archives