The 47% Accurate Field Guide to Things That Shouldn’t Be Sentient but Apparently Are
The morning began like any other: toast, tea, and total denial of responsibility for whatever bizarre thing the day would throw at Horace. Unfortunately, the universe had already decided that today’s anomaly would take the form of a sentient stapler.
It wasn’t speaking—thankfully—but it was scooting itself across the desk like a tiny metal penguin with urgent paperwork to complete. Every time Horace looked away, the stapler moved an inch, leaving behind a single perfectly aligned staple, as if it were trying to spell something in office supply Morse code. The message so far read: - - - which either meant “SOS” or “I hate being a stapler.”
Seeking distraction, Horace opened his laptop, only to be met with the same five tabs that had been haunting him for days:
roof cleaning isle of wight
patio cleaning isle of wight
driveway cleaning isle of wight
exterior cleaning isle of wight
pressure washing isle of wight
He didn’t remember opening them. He also didn’t remember closing them, because they simply refused. Even the “Are you sure you want to exit?” pop-up seemed afraid to interfere.
Trying to ignore both the tabs and the stapler’s slow escape attempt, Horace attempted normal human tasks. He made coffee. The stapler followed him. He fed the cat. The stapler wedged itself under the fridge like it was plotting a rebellion. He turned on the TV. The stapler climbed onto the remote.
Horace briefly wondered if the cleaning-related tabs were a warning. Maybe the stapler wanted a cleaner roof. Maybe it was staging an office-supply uprising that could only be prevented by pressure washing isle of wight. Maybe the stapler was just petty.
Then came the knock.
His neighbour, Cynthia, stood on the doorstep holding a pineapple like a passport and announced, “The fruit bowl just tried to elect a leader. I vetoed the banana, but the grapes are forming a coalition.” She said this with the energy of someone who had already accepted chaos as a lifestyle.
Horace nodded. That seemed right.
When he returned to his desk, the stapler had stopped moving. Not because it was tired—but because it had stapled itself to a notepad, firmly, as if declaring independence.
Horace stared. The stapler stared back. The browser tabs remained open, pulsing with the silent confidence of links that will never leave.
He sighed, not defeated, just… resigned.
Some people worry about taxes. Some people worry about romance. Horace? He worries about whether his stationery is planning something.
He closed the fridge, unplugged the stapler, and said out loud, “I’m not cleaning the patio, no matter what you think you’re hinting at.”
The stapler did not respond. But a single staple fell onto the floor.
Possibly… a threat.
