A story by Sebastian Pearce based on the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt:
The waiting room smelled of lavender and lies.
I’d filled out the DreamWork questionnaire three times now—once on my phone whilst waiting for the bus, once on my laptop at home, and now here, on their glossy tablet, my thumbs cramping against the glass. The questions were always the same. What fulfils you? What would you do if money were no object? Describe your ideal Tuesday.
“Just ensuring consistency,” the receptionist had said, her smile too wide, too constant. “The algorithm needs multiple data points to find your perfect fit.”
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manchester’s drizzle painted grey streaks down the smart-glass. I’d been made redundant six weeks ago—middle management at a logistics firm, the sort of job that paid the mortgage but hollowed you out from the inside. When DreamWork’s advert appeared in my feed (Neural Career Matching: Find Your Purpose in 48 Hours), I’d dismissed it as Silicon Valley bollocks. But the testimonials were compelling. People who’d been baristas now doing marine biology. Former accountants running dog sanctuaries. All of them describing the same thing: finally feeling right.
The assessment centre occupied the top floor of a converted warehouse in Ancoats. Everything was white and clean and softly lit, designed to feel like stepping into a better future. My reflection in the window looked tired. I’d stopped sleeping well after the redundancy. Dreams of being somewhere else, doing something that mattered, then waking to my empty calendar.
“Mr. Henshaw?” A woman in a charcoal suit appeared. Her ID badge read Dr. Yates – Neural Consultant. “We’re ready for you.”
The scanning room reminded me of those private MRI suites—all curved edges and ambient sound, a massage chair positioned beneath a chrome halo.
“The process is entirely non-invasive,” Dr. Yates explained, lowering the halo around my head. “We’re simply mapping your neural pleasure responses whilst you imagine different scenarios. By tomorrow morning, we’ll have identified your optimal career path and matched you with employers seeking exactly your profile.”
“And people actually hire based on this?”
“Our placement rate is ninety-seven percent.” She tapped something on her tablet. “Close your eyes. I’m going to describe situations. Don’t think, just feel.”
The scenarios came in whispers. You’re solving a complex problem. You’re teaching children. You’re working with your hands, creating something beautiful. The halo hummed, warm against my scalp. My thoughts drifted, untethered. There was something familiar about Dr. Yates’s voice, the precise cadence of her words, as if I’d heard this exact script before—
“All done.” The halo lifted. “Results tomorrow, nine AM. Get some rest, Mr. Henshaw. You’ll need to be sharp.”
I blinked at the window. The drizzle had stopped. When had that happened?
That night, I dreamt I was a lighthouse keeper.
The tower stood on a rock twenty miles offshore, waves crashing against barnacled stone. I climbed the spiral stairs, my hands knowing every rail, every step worn smooth by my feet. At the top, I cleaned the great lens, checked the mechanism, wrote in the logbook with handwriting that wasn’t quite mine. The solitude felt like coming home.
I woke with salt on my lips.
“Congratulations, Mr. Henshaw.” Dr. Yates slid the results across her desk. “You’re a perfect match.”
The document was dense with neural graphs and compatibility scores, but one line stood out: Coastal Heritage Programme – Lighthouse Restoration & Maintenance. Contract Duration: 18 months. Location: St. Ildas Rock, Cornwall.
“I don’t understand,” I said, though something in my chest was already saying yes. “I’ve never… I mean, I don’t know anything about lighthouses.”
“Your neural profile indicates optimal satisfaction in isolated, responsibility-focused environments with tangible outcomes. The solitude won’t bother you—in fact, you’ll thrive.” She smiled. “The Heritage Programme provides full training. You’d start in three weeks.”
Three weeks. I thought about my flat, my few remaining friends, the jobseeker meetings. None of it felt real anymore.
“Where do I sign?”
The training passed in a blur. I learned about Fresnel lenses and tide tables, emergency procedures and weather patterns. The other trainees seemed distant, their voices muffled, as if I were already on my rock, already separate. I’d wake sometimes in my hotel room, confused about where I was, tasting salt that shouldn’t be there.
On my last day of shore leave, I walked past DreamWork’s Manchester office. Through the window, I saw the white waiting room, the receptionist with her too-wide smile. A man sat filling out forms on a tablet. I wondered what his dream was. Whether it would hollow him out the way logistics had hollowed me.
My phone buzzed. Transport to St. Ildas departs 0600. Bring only essentials.
I owned very few essentials anymore. Everything else had been sold, donated, simplified. Ready for the lighthouse. Ready for purpose.
The tower was exactly as I’d dreamt it.
Every rail I’d imagined, every worn step. The logbook sat open on the keeper’s desk, and when I picked up the pen, my handwriting flowed onto the page in a script that was mine but wasn’t. The previous entry was dated six months ago, signed T. Henshaw.
I stared at my own surname.
In the corner, a small plaque: DreamWork Coastal Heritage Programme – Giving Purpose Through Placement.
The radio crackled. Dr. Yates’s voice, tinny but precise: “Status check, Mr. Henshaw. How are you settling in?”
“There’s been a mistake,” I said slowly. “The logbook—”
“Yes, your predecessor completed his contract. Same optimal profile as you. Returned to shore yesterday for reassessment.”
“Reassessment?”
“The beauty of neural matching is its flexibility. People’s dreams evolve. We help them find their next perfect fit.”
Through the window, waves crashed against the rock. I thought about the questionnaire I’d filled out three times. The dreams that had started before my assessment. The way my hands had known these stairs.
“How many times have I been here?” I asked.
A pause. Static on the line.
“DreamWork’s privacy policy prevents me from discussing previous placements. What matters is that you’re fulfilling your purpose now, Mr. Henshaw. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
I looked at the logbook, at all the entries in handwriting that was almost mine. Different inks, different dates, same words. All systems functional. No vessels sighted. Solitude optimal.
“I don’t remember signing up,” I whispered.
“You signed the consent forms at your first assessment. Standard practice—allows us to re-match you as your needs change. You were so unhappy in logistics, remember? We helped you find purpose.”
I tried to remember the logistics firm. My manager’s name. The colour of my office walls. The memories felt like someone else’s stock photographs, generic and unconvincing.
“What was I before logistics?”
“That’s not relevant to your current placement, Mr. Henshaw. Now, I need you to confirm: does this position still feel right? If not, we can schedule a reassessment—”
“Yes,” I said, the word automatic. “It feels right.”
“Excellent. Enjoy your solitude. We’ll check in next week.”
The radio went silent.
I stood at the top of the tower, looking at the endless grey sea, and tried to remember what I’d wanted. What my dreams had been before DreamWork showed me better ones. Whether I’d ever really existed outside these perfect fits, these optimal placements, these purposes assigned and reassigned until nothing remained of whoever had first sat in that lavender-scented waiting room and believed they were choosing freedom.
The lamp needed cleaning. I picked up the cloth, my hands knowing exactly how, and thought: perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps purpose was enough, even if it came with forgetting everything you’d been before.
The waves crashed below. Somewhere on shore, another candidate was filling out their questionnaire, answering questions about fulfilment and ideal Tuesdays, dreaming themselves into their perfect fit.
I wrote in the logbook, my handwriting smooth and practised: All systems functional. No vessels sighted. Purpose optimal.
And meant it. Or had been made to mean it.
By tomorrow, I probably wouldn’t remember the difference.
Sebastian Pearce - Flash Fiction and Sports Betting. What can go wrong? 
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