Old Joke

He sliced some bread and then opened the fridge and scanned the contents.
It was imperative that he made a sandwich and it needed to be the greatest sandwich of all time.
There were an awful lot of bottled beers in there - almost half the fridge was full of varying craft ales that had cost him upwards of £2 a bottle.
He found some ham and some blue cheese that were still in date. There was lettuce that hadn't quite begun to turn and a tomato that was possibly a little too soft, but would suffice. There was a jar of mustard and some mayo too. This sandwich was going to kick all other sandwiches' arses.
What had he forgotten?
Butter!
The butter dish should really have been left out, but he knew that a few seconds in the microwave would enhance its spreadability.
He took the lid off the dish and saw an indentation in the butter. It looked like a huge footprint of some kind.
He hadn't seen the elephant behind him and he soiled himself as it trumpeted in an unexpected manner.

Post Office

I followed the young couple down the street towards town. They were both wearing jogging suits that needed to be washed. She was pushing a pushchair that looked like a third generation hand-me-down.
The man kept sneezing. He wasn't covering his nose or mouth and as I drew closer I could feel the spray from it lightly hitting my face.
They entered the post office, the same place I was going.
She stood to one side and he joined the queue.
He continued to sneeze and as I stood there I noticed that he stank of dope. Clearly he'd had at least one massive joint for breakfast. Not exactly one of your five a day.
As he was being served I went to the window next to him. I sent the letters I needed to send and listened to him babbling incoherently.
I headed for the door and saw his girlfriend or wife staring vacantly out of the window.
At that point I noticed the pushchair. It didn't contain a baby, but a doll.
I hurried out of there, away from the madness.

Selfie

The man stood at the front of the room. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and a black tie. He'd clearly been crying and it was understandable.
"Thank you all so much for coming," he said to the hundred or so others sitting in the hall.
"It's such a tragic loss at such a young age."
He turned and looked at the coffin which was covered with flowers.
"Why, Katie? Why?" He was addressing the coffin.
"You had your whole life in front of you. You were almost finished at university. You were engaged to Jackson. Your life was great."
He began to cry and his brother stepped up to console him. After a few minutes he felt composed enough to continue.
"It would all have been different if you hadn't gone to the coast that day. The signs said you shouldn't get too close to the cliff edge." He was still talking to his daughter's coffin.
"But you had to take a fucking picture of yourselves, didn't you?"
He marched towards the exit at the rear of the room.
"Stupid. Fucking stupid," he yelled as he pushed the door open.

Dog's Dinner

She sat on the kitchen floor, looking up at the cupboard and polishing the floor with her rapidly-wagging tail.
She knew the surplus biscuits were kept in the cupboard. Her masters thought she was stupid, but she wasn't.
She thought about the biscuits within and imagined the door opening to reveal them. She thought hard.
The door flew open.
The big box of biscuits was visible on the top shelf.
She imagined the box falling on to the laminate floor and scattering its contents all across the kitchen.
The box wobbled slightly, but didn't fall.
She thought harder. Her head hurt and a droplet of blood trickled from her nose. She let out a high-pitched whine.
The biscuit box rocked back and forth and then dropped down to her level. It hit the floor and burst open, showering treats all across the room.
She spent the whole day eating biscuits.
It was the greatest day of her life, or should that be the greatest week?

Centenary

He sat in the ten metre by ten metre space of office C and worked quietly.

He counted the pennies and the pounds all day, trying to balance the sheet and he was reaching boiling point.

Where was his reward? Where was his letter from the Queen?

Like Dolly he would work from nine to five. Scores were kept by his boss, Mr Benjamin.

It would never end, not for this operator.

The job wasn't perfect. It wasn't even semi-perfect, but it kept him in the lifestyle which he thought he deserved and due to this he counted his blessings.

Charge

Her phone was down to just 15% battery.
She knew it would last about another fifteen minutes before it started to drain itself even quicker by informing her that she had a low battery every twenty seconds.
Why didn't the bus have electrical sockets? It was an outrage and possibly a violation of her human rights.
She stared at the screen.
13%.
She sighed. If she could just wait until the bus got there without looking at her phone she would be ok. But she couldn't, could she? She swiped the screen and checked her email.
No new messages.
10%.
YOU HAVE A LOW BATTERY.
No shit, Sherlock.
She sent a quick text to her friend, telling her she might soon be incommunicado.
8%.
YOU HAVE A LOW BATTERY.
The bus sped along, still almost half an hour from her destination.
The phone decided to emit a loud bleep to accompany the panic-laden message.
YOU HAVE A LOW BATTERY.
6%.
It became impossible to do anything without receiving that damned message. She put the phone in her bag and looked around her.
All the other passengers were busy with their mobile phones. Playing games, interacting on social media, reading news, listening to music.
She felt sad and stared out of the window.

Amnesia

He woke up and looked around.

Where am I? he thought.

Nothing about the surroundings was familiar in any way. He didn't remember how he'd ended up there, in fact he remembered nothing. Literally nothing.

He couldn't remember his name, where he lived or where he worked. He had no memories of being younger either. No memory of his parents or where he went to school.

He was in a bed in a room with white walls and no windows. He was strapped to the bed with some sort of restraining belt.

There was a click and a previously unseen door which was camouflaged by the room's whiteness opened.

A tall man dressed in black entered.

"Who are you?" asked the man in the bed.

"I am the one who will save you," said the man in black.

The tall man produced a syringe and stuck it into the other man's arm.

He felt pain and then immense pleasure as drugs coursed around his body. And he felt memories, lots of memories. He felt as if he were swimming and he drifted towards unconsciousness. 

Then the dreams came. They felt so real and it was as if he was floating.

The dreams began to recede and the memories became less vivid. The picture began to fade.

"I don't know if we can bring him back," he heard the man in black say.

Pizza

Smith loved pizza. He would probably eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day if he could.
The one he'd ordered for his Friday evening movie marathon was unrivalled though. It had every ingredient on the menu and they'd promised him some 'special surprises' too. He was quite excited. He spent hundreds of pounds every year in this particular pizzeria and they always looked after him well.
He waited expectantly, pacing up and down in his hall until the doorbell eventually rang.
He practically tore the door off its hinges.
"Hello, Mr Smith," the usual Friday delivery guy said with a smile.
"I can't wait for this!"
"You'll enjoy this one. Trust me." The driver winked as he walked away.
Smith sat down in his living room and opened the box. It smelt heavenly. The pizza was an explosion of colour and he grabbed a slice.
He could taste ham, salami, mushroom, peppers, prawns and...what was that? It was crunchy, but not in a good way.
He pulled the offending article from his mouth. It appeared to be a fingernail. Not a clipping, an actual whole nail.
Upon closer inspection he could see the outline of what looked like a finger on the next slice. Cheese was melted over the top, but there was no mistaking what it was.
Should he phone and complain?
Smith thought for a few seconds and then shrugged. He ate the entire piza.

Horoscope

Today is your lucky day. The number 16 is very important and can lead to a life-changing situation.
Jake thought horoscopes were a load of bollocks, but he read his every morning while he ate breakfast.
He knew that if it were to be believed that 1/12 of the population would now be expecting good fortune centred around the number 16. And how likely was it really? He was no mathemetician, but he guessed the odds were high and the chances were low.
Jake left the house and turned on to the street. It was a short walk to the bus stop and he had plenty of time.
"Morning," called Mr Hope from across the road.
"Morning," Jake called back, offering a slight wave as he did so.
He wasn't focused on where he was walking as a result and he tripped over a loose paving stone. An expletive was muttered as he was sent sprawling over the pavement.
The first thing he noticed in his horizontal state was a twenty pound note just sitting there, right in front of his face.
He grabbed the money, stood up and dusted himself down. He was less sceptical about the horoscope now. A twenty quid windfall was far from the worst start to a day he'd had that week. Or most weeks.
Jake reached the main road and waited at the bus stop. He stood with his back to the oncoming traffic as he made small talk with a man who worked in the same building as he did, but whose name he didn't know.
"Look out!" somebody yelled.
Jake turned just in time to see a bus being driven by a man who seemed to be unconscious mount the kerb a few feet away from him.
He and the man he was talking to were crushed against a wall.
It wasn't the bus they'd hoped to catch. It was the number 16.

Biscuits

There was only one packet of digestive biscuits left on the shelf and both women reached for it at the same time.
Their hands both grabbed the packet and there was a minor tug-o-war for a few seconds. This stopped and they settled on simply holding on to the biscuits and hoping that the other one gave up.
After an hour a crowd was forming. It wasn't much of a battle to watch. The two customers were having a pleasant conversation and there was no animosity between them. They just both wanted the digestives.
A team from the local news programme turned up soon after and filmed them, presumably for a witty 'and finally' item.
After three and a half hours there was no sign of the deadlock being broken.
A member of store staff fought his way through those who were watching. He had in his hands a large box.
"Look," he said as he placed the box on the floor and cut the tape along its top.
He pulled out a packet of digestive biscuits.
"We've just had a delivery. There's enough biscuits for you both!"
The crowd began to drift away, realising the situation was resolved.
The two women looked at each other.
"No, it's ok. I want this packet," said the first one.
"Me too," said the second.

Lust

"It's better than sex," she said.
Her friend looked confused. Had she really heard her correctly? Did she really think that Victoria sandwiches were better than sex? How absurd. It wasn't even the best cake you could buy. Not even in the Top 10 of Cakes. Everyone knew that, surely?
The two women shared a flat and they often had late night discussions that were a little off the wall, but this was ridiculous.
"Anyway, err, I'm of to bed," said the cake lover.
The other sat in the living room and watched some boring late night TV before throwing in the towel and heading for bed.
As she walked past her flatmate's bedroom she heard a groaning sound. She stood by the door and listened for a while.
The door was ever so slightly ajar and she pushed it open to see what was happening, having a fairly good idea anyway.
What she saw was most unexpected.
"Oh my God!" she screamed.
"What are you doing here? Get out!" her shocked friend shouted back.
There was no way of unseeing what had just happened. The woman in the bed was covered in cake and was writhing around, crumbs, jam and cream everywhere.
The property to let listings looked very attractive the following morning.

Vacuum

It was time to hoover. Why did they say that? he wondered. Nobody ever dysoned or mieled the carpet as far as he knew. He was thinking the bizarre thought in an attempt to put off doing a job he hated.
His vacuum cleaner actually was a Hoover, so the verb was justified in this case.
He plugged it into the wall and powered up. Almost immediately he realised that it wasn't picking up properly and he did what most people would do in that situation: he stared exasperatedly into the end of the pipe, looking for an obvious blockage.
The machine had more power than he expected and it sucked him in.
One uncomfortably tight journey later and he was wedged into a tightly-packed bag full of dust, hair and spiders.
This sucks, he thought and guffawed loudly.
The vacuum cleaner continued to run. Eventually the bag became overfull and burst, catapulting him back into his living room in a shower of dust and plastic Hoover parts.

Elixir

The bottle opened. Nobody had touched it; the top just flew off. Nothing remarkable about that. It had probably been shaken up a bit and perhaps the top wasn't on too securely anyway.
The next bit was truly remarkable. Liquid arced out of the bottle and into the glass on the kitchen table a good twenty feet away.
The orange juice in the glass was marginally diluted by the liquid, which stopped arcing after two seconds.
The woman hadn't seen it happen.
She took a mouthful of juice and thought that it tasted funny. It didn't stop her finishing the whole thing though.
Within a few minutes she was floating above the table, both literally and figuratively.
It lasted for about a minute and then she crashed to the floor, instantly losing consciousness. She came to 17 hours later and had a hangover that lasted for almost a week.
The bottle sat on the worktop, unnoticed by the woman, who remembered nothing of the incident.

Monopoly

“Mayfair? With four houses?” Dave was dragging out the announcement. He wished there was a drum roll to accompany this moment.

“Yes?” asked an exasperated Paul.

“That's £1700.” He smiled a wide smile.

“I don't have that!” Paul protested.

“Not my problem.”

Paul stood from the table and punched his brother straight in the mouth. “Now that's your problem,” he spat as his brother held his bleeding lips.

“What on earth is happening in here?” their mother asked as she barged into the boys' bedroom.

Bomb

He opened the back of the unit with great care. It looked like there was a pretzel of twisted, colourful wires inside.
"What do you see?" crackled the voice through his radio.
"More than expected," he replied.
"Ok." a pause. "Have you got a green wire?"
"There's light green; dark green; green and white; and green and yellow."
"Just a second."
Time was running out and  'just a second' never means just a second.
Two minutes passed.
"We think it's the dark green."
"You think?"
A bead of sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eye.
"We're 99% sure."
He sighed and positioned his cutters around the wire. He paused, thinking about his wife and daughter - would he ever see them again?
He couldn't look as he clipped the wire. SNIP! Nothing.
His radio crackled.
"Are you still there?"
He didn't answer. He was shaking, the adrenaline coursing through his body.
"Can you hear me?"
This time he answered. "Yes," he croaked.
"Whatever you do, don't cut the green wi..."

Mistaken

Joe said that today was going to be the day. He knew that he'd made this foolish claim all too many times before. He looked at his face in the mirror and sighed. No, today wasn't going to be the day.

He returned to bed and slept, knowing tomorow wouldn't be the day either.

Afternoon Delight

She tuts at an advert for life insurance as she crunches a biscuit and reaches for another.

She looks every one of her 70 years. Her hair is grey and her face wrinkled. Unlike some people her age she has eschewed the sun during her retirement years and doesn't resemble an old leather chair. Iinstead she has a healthier, rosy-cheeked look. Her glasses rest on the end of her nose. Despite her having had them for several months she still hasn't got the hang of bifocals.

The programme starts and she makes a contented sound – a whispered “ahhh!” that she doesn't even realise she does. Her favourite character is talking and she smiles. The smile disappears when his bitch of a girlfriend appears on the screen. She soaks up the dialogue between the two. It's typical daytime TV fare with little substance, but she's transfixed. Her favourite character slaps his bitch of a girlfriend across the face. Another whispered “ahhh!”

Drinkers

Nobody had ever died whilst trying to improve themselves. What an absolute crock of nonsense, they must have done.

Del didn't really know how to approach this new chapter of his life, but now he stood with a door in front of him – an actual, literal door. All roads had led to this place – a church hall of all places. As a devout atheist he had a bit of a problem with the setting. He was unsure whether to knock and he hesitated. Two seconds later he was stepping into the vast room as a small group sitting in a circle of uncomfortable, plastic chairs all stared at him.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said as he ambled towards them, attempting to look casual and probably failing.

“Glad you could come,” said a skinny man with a moustache who was standing. “Welcome to Alcoholics Anonymous.”

There was a ripple of applause from those who were seated. Del looked around the group and smiled. He didn't think he was in as bad a state as most of them. They all looked like down and outs, but not him. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror that was leaning against the wall next to a pile of spare chairs. The mirror was perfectly placed for him to realise that no, he actually did look like a down and out.

Del's face flushed as he sat down, realising more than ever that he needed help.

“Why don't you introduce yourself?” the skinny man suggested.

Del's chair scraped backwards as he stood up, his face reddening yet further. He looked all around, deliberately making eye contact with nobody. “My name is Del,” he said. “And I'm an alcoholic.”

There was heavy applause – heavier than you'd expect from a group of umpteen people.

Del had never wanted a drink as much as he did at that point.

Science

The man sitting in the far corner of the canteen with the thick-rimmed black spectacles and slicked back hair looked like many of the others sitting there eating the sub-standard food that wouldn't have been out of place in most primary school dining rooms. He was wearing a white lab coat and everyone assumed he was just another scientist taking a break.

If you looked closely at the photo ID he had on a lanyard around his neck you would see that it wasn't even his. And if he rolled up the sleeves of the lab coat you would see splashes of blood on his forearms that weren't his.

The man ate in silence.

"Oh my God!" shouted someone who raced into the room. "Professor Park is dead!"

The man stood and wiped his mouth with a serviette. He grinned to himself as he exited the canteen and then the facilty.

Siblings

The two brothers both loved to write.

John wrote at home, the silence enabling him to effortlessly scribble words in one of the many pads he kept by the side of his favourite armchair. He spent hours each day documenting his thoughts and ideas in lengthy paragraphs. When each book was full it was placed in the dresser next to the fireplace. He had no idea how many completed notebooks were in there, but there had to be hundreds.

Jeff preferred a more extreme approach to writing. He was sitting on the top deck of bus that raced along narrow country lanes, hitting every pothole as he punched the keys of his laptop happily. He saved all the documents to memory sticks and he had a drawer full of the things at home.

Only one of them produced any writing of any real quality, much to the chagrin of the other. This was why the brothers hadn't spoken in years.

Old Rage

“Yes, Mabel, it's totally true.”

She was talking on the phone to her best friend. Her best friend was really her least-worst friend and she simply tolerated her as it was better than being alone.

“No, it was the bloody Spanish. They took all our fish.”

She'd reached the stage many years previously where her racism had moved from casual to formal.

“They did!”

Mabel clearly didn't agree with her and she was becoming more agitated.

“Yeah? Well that's because you're probably a lover of the fucking Spanish, Mabel. They sleep all afternoon, you know? I bet you think the Common Market was a good idea too.”

She slammed the phone down and switched on the television.

Marathon Man

He crossed the finish line and stretched his arms skywards in celebration. He checked his wristwatch and saw that he'd beaten his personal best yet again. What a day!

There was no time for warming down or exchanging tales and small talk with the other marathon participants. He wandered away from the area where more and more were arriving and found his wife sitting in their old, red Ford Escort.

“Take me home,” he said.

She said nothing and pulled into traffic.

“Stop off at the drive through on the way, will you?”

Again she said nothing and switched lanes to take a right at the next roundabout.

He ate his burger and fries in silence as they neared home.

He walked like a robot thanks to his stiff post-run legs from the car to the house. Once inside he flopped on the sofa and grabbed the remote control. He was stretched out with one arm up in the air, wrist angled to point the zapper straight at the TV, his finger hitting the 'up' button every five seconds or so.

“Do you fancy going to that new pub by the canal?” his wife asked.

He mulled this over for a few seconds whilst frowning.

“I can't be arsed,” he said.

Tardy

Donna sat and waited. She was furious that her friend was late. She glanced up at the large clock on the wall of the coffee shop next to the platform. Its hands told her that it was now seven minutes since they'd arranged to meet. Her pulse had quickened and she knew the involuntary teeth-grinding would start soon. Why did her friend do this to her every time they made plans?

Donna's face was becoming redder as she seethed. Her face was so red, in fact, that it wouldn't have looked out of place in a cartoon, complete with the sound of a whistle and steam blowing out of her ears. She ran a hand through her greasy, blond hair – another involuntary action.

Tardiness was like fingernails down a blackboard to Donna and now it was ten minutes since the agreed meeting time. She jiggled her left leg up and down rapidly and turned her head to look up and then down the platform which was filling up with people. The train they were meant to catch would soon arrive.

She reached into her bag and found the small tub of tablets, took one out and dry-swallowed it. In a few minutes she would be calm again.

Afternoon

I'm sitting here, waiting for my programme to start. I've got all I need on my little wheelie-table in front of me. There's a can of Fanta – the kind without sugar, because I like to at least attempt to fool myself that I'm healthy. This is balanced by the packet of custard creams that I'll probably have finished before the first commercial break. Actually, no. Damn it! The biscuits are still in the kitchen.

I have “mobility issues”. I've deliberately put that in quotes because it's one of their buzzwords. Why don't they just call it what it is? I'm disabled. It's not even allowed to call it handicapped any more. But a handicap is what it is. I can't bloody walk around my own flat. I'd say that was a pretty big handicap. Every time I get up it takes a lot of effort. Sure, I've got my two sticks, but it takes it out of me.

Anyway, my programme is about to start and I'd normally be crunching away on my third biscuit by now. I wish I hadn't left them on the worktop. I'll get them in the break.

I can't concentrate on the programme knowing the custard creams are calling my name. I'm going to get them now – to hell with my programme. I've seen it before anyway. I might even get that big bar of Fruit and Nut out of the fridge too.

Night Out

Not for the first time, Jack found himself standing in the street watching the last bus depart.

It happened with the kind of regularity you could set your watch by. It was the third Saturday night in a row he'd dawdled in the pub and missed the bus.

He checked his pockets. There wasn't much more than £2 in assorted change, he determined with a quick glance. It wasn't enough for a taxi back to the village.

He was going to have to walk. Again.

Jack pointed himself toward the village and began walking briskly. It was going to take him an hour and a half and it was starting to rain. As he got to the outskirts of the town he started to regret his choice of footwear. The fancy Italian shoes he'd spent a week's wages on were surely great on the streets of Milan, but country lanes caked in mud in northern England weren't the place for them.

He had walked for fifteen minutes along a lane which had no lights or footpath when a car raced around the corner ahead, heading straight at him and blinding him with its headlights. Jack shielded his eyes from the brightness and realised that the car was really heading straight for him. He dived into the hedge at the side of the road.

The driver gave him a blast of the horn for his troubles.

Shocked, soaked to the skin and now with pieces of foliage stuck in his hair, Jack exited the bush. Something on the road caught his eye. It looked like a purse.

He bent down and picked it up.

A Dog's Life

I see him in the park, walking his dog. Well, it's more like hobbling really – probably a war-wound from the pub battlefield he frequents. He doesn't iron his clothes and despite the fact the once-black t-shirts he wears are now all a light shade of grey, I don't think he washes them too often either. The cloud of smell that follows him around tells me he doesn't have a particularly great relationship with soap, but he has a much stronger one with supermarket brand scotch. The strain his belly places on the waistband of the dirty-coloured shorts he always wears, whatever the weather, acts as his badge of honour for services to the Nag's Head. He appears to not have had a good night's sleep in forever, his eyes “like pissholes in the snow” as his father would have said. His father had been a heavy drinker too – in fact it was something of a family tradition. He always looks like it's been three days since he last shaved – he's neither bearded nor clean-shaven and I don't think 'designer stubble' is still a thing.

Despite seemingly being down on his luck, he always smiles and greets me. “Now then,” he slurs, spit spraying the front of his t-shirt. I think his overweight labrador wishes he would walk him further. He looks at me with sad, pleading, wanting-a-biscuit eyes.

The man looks at his watch with wanting-a-drink eyes and his super-computer alco-brain instantly informs him how long each of the town's pubs have left until closing time.

He hobbles away, dragging his dog to the nearest pub. The labrador has a spring in his step as he recognises where they are heading.

The Cobbler's, thinks the dog. They've got the best crisps.

Answers?

The man was waiting to cross the busy road. He was only fifty yards from a proper crossing, but he had elected to cross without assistance.
He glanced down and saw a chicken waiting next to him. It looked up at him.
"Alright, mate," it said.
"You can talk?"
"Well, duh!"
The man thought he was hallucinating. He looked right and then left. There was a heavy volume of traffic moving in both directions.
"What are you doing?" the man asked.
"Waiting to cross the road, just like you."
A lightbulb went off above the man's head, figuratively speaking.
"And why are you crossing the road?" he asked.
The chicken looked up at him and smiled.
"Wouldn't you like to know!" it said.
With that, the chicken raced out into the road and was struck by a bus. It died pretty much instantly.
"Now I'll never know," muttered the man.
He looked right and then left. The traffic wasn't easing. He saw something on the kerb opposite him that caught his attention.
"What the..."
It was an egg with small arms and legs protruding from it. It waved at him.

World Record

The final domino was in place. The whole warehouse was now full of them. It was going to create a spectacular TV event and they'd get themselves in The Book.
Three months of hard work, laying a huge new floor and ensuring it was level; assembling several structures to house dominoes as part of the display; and of course standing hundreds of thousands of dominoes on their ends had all been worth it.
"Ready?" asked John.
The director gave a thumbs up.
"Here we go then," John enthused as he pushed over the first domino.
There was  nothing to be heard but the clacking of fallinfg dominoes as fan upon fan of colour spread out actross the warehouse. It was thought that the whole show would last for around twenty minutes, give or take.
Thirty seconds in and everything was plunged into darkness.
"Put 50p in the meter," quipped someone who clearly didn't understand the implications of what was happening.
The power wasn't restored and the clacking eventually stopped.
An hour later the lights came on and John was found in the corner of the warehouse, sobbing.

Wordsmith

Tim sat and typed.
He wondered if this would be the story that got him his break.
Probably not, he thought and deleted the last chapter he'd spent two hours typing.
This was the routine - type, delete, type, delete.
He'd been working on his novel for almost a year now and there was little more than 2,000 words that had survived each cull. He wasn't sure he'd keep those either. He estimated that he might actually finish writing his story if he lived to be around 200.
He sat for the rest of the afternoon alternating between staring blankly at his screen and staring blankly out of the window.
Something peculiar hapened at around 4 o'clock. Tim felt sleepy, which wasn't that unusual, but he began to type. As he did this his eyes rolled back in his head and his fingers moved faster and faster over the keys.
He woke up the following morning in his chair. His hands hurt. He looked at the screen of his laptop. Apparently he'd typed over 100,000 words while he was asleep or in a trance or whatever it was.
He started to read what he'd managed to produce.
For once he didn't have an urge to delete any of it.

Solitude

He'd been on this planet for nine months now, completely alone.
That's why he'd signed up to become an astronaut. He just wanted to be by himself.
He'd travelled out here as part of a team of six. It had taken almost a year to get there. Once everything was set up, the other five had buggered off and he was quite glad.
He'd "accidentally" disabled all means of communication pretty much immediately. They couldn't see what he was doing and none of the data they hoped to gain had been recorded. He'd just shut it all down and lived alone, peacefully.
There was a roar. He stood in front of the base that was his home and looked to the sky. Two crafts were approaching.
He always knew this day would come. Still, he's had a blissful nine months.
He went inside and took a gun from its hiding place - although it was a mystery who he'd hidden it from.
He swallowed a bullet.