Castaway

Cooper walked through the shallow surf, stretching and yawning as he went.

He’d had a broken night of sleep thanks to some strange animal sounds coming from the heavier foliage on the island.

He was off to get some coconuts.

His boat had brought him to the island while he was supposed to be sailing across the Pacific. He had no idea where he was and he didn’t care.

He was enjoying the solitude. His boat was still functional and he could leave any time he wished, but he was going nowhere for the foreseeable future.

It had been three weeks since anyone had heard from him and he was certain people would be worried. He thought he might stay on the island, alone, for the rest of his life.

That afternoon whilst lounging on the beach, Cooper heard an engine. It sounded like a plane and it sounded like it was flying pretty low.

He ran for cover. He didn’t want to be found.

As he dived into some bushes, a small seaplane flew along the beach, no more than fifteen feet from the ground. Clearly they were looking for something. He knew it was him they were looking for.

He hi for almost an hour.

Satisfied the plane wouldn’t return, Cooper stepped back on to the beach.

His heart fell.

His boat.

It was very clearly visible on the beach. Whoever was in the plane would have seen it.

His dream life was ruined.

Party

There is never enough. She realised this as she stood looking at the buffet table she’d laid out a few hours previously.

A dozen 8-year-olds had really done a number on it, resembling one of the plagues of Egypt as they did so.

Mind you, a plague probably wouldn’t end up with chocolate all over its face and jelly up the walls.

The children were now in the other room, playing a game. The game appeared to involve knocking things over whilst shouting.

It was driving her to despair. She went into the kitchen and poured herself four fingers of Mr Smirnoff’s special painkiller.

The noise increased, so she poured herself another. And then another.

Her husband arrived home an hour and a half later.

The living room was trashed. A dozen 8-year-olds with crayons who are full of sugar can do quite a bit of damage. An awful Disney soundtrack was being played at what Spinal Tap would have called 11. He turned it off.

His wife was slumped over the kitchen table, snoring like a cheap motorcycle. He tried to wake her and saw that she was sporting a thick, black crayon moustache.

It was the most absurd thing he’d ever seen. He laughed until he could laugh no more, wondering when his life had turned into a cartoon.

The Holiday

He walked home. Walked was pushing it a bit. Staggered would be more accurate.

He’d put in a double shift yet again and it had been 18 hours since he left his home. It was the fifth double he'd worked in a week.

He was drained but happy, knowing he had three weeks off to come, starting right now.

He contemplated going to the pub or getting a takeaway, but he elected to head straight home. He was shattered and would probably go to bed as soon as he got there, asleep before his head hit the pillow no doubt.

He thought about his plans for the coming days. He was going to go away with his girlfriend for a few days. Some time in a quiet cottage on the coast was just what he needed to recharge his batteries after the hours he’d been putting in lately.

He remembered he would need to pack a bag when he got home, delaying sleep by no more than ten minutes.

He was in a holiday mod now. He magically felt less tired even though he’d been on his feet for what felt like forever.

He crossed the road near his house. He didn’t see the van. He didn’t see the coast with his girlfriend either.

Hostage

“Member of staff to till number 2, please.”

She was in the queue at till number 2. What was happening? She craned her neck to see beyond the man in front of her.

“No barcode on this tin,” said the assistant by way of explanation.

She picked up her three items from the belt, thinking it would be quicker to go to another till.

“What are you doing?” asked a security guard who had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

“I was just…”

“No, you don’t understand how it works,” he said.  “You chose this till and you must stick to it.”

All the other queues diminished until there was only the one at till number 2 remaining.

The missing barcode still hadn’t been found.

“They’re looking it up on the computer,” muttered the assistant.

The shop’s lights dimmed. It was closing time.

She decided she didn’t need what she had intended to purchase that badly and headed for the exit.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked the security guard.  “Get back in line.”

He said it with such menace that she did as she was told.

Darkness fell and they waited. The security guard stared at the queuing customers who all wanted to leave but daren’t.

After two hours she made a run for it. The guard rugby tackled her as she reached the door.

“Nobody leaves until the barcode is found,” he hissed and dragged her back to her place in the line. He drew a gun from the waistband of his trousers.
It would be a long night.

Choices

Norman hadn’t had a drink in almost a year. He was dangerously dehydrated.

That’s not a joke. He was in the Australian Outback where he had been ever since the accident.

The light aircraft had crashed. Norman survived and Shane didn’t. The radio didn’t either, which buggered his chances of being rescued a little bit.

He’d headed in what he thought was the direction of the nearest town. It had been four days and he hadn’t got anywhere close to civilisation.

Now he had a dilemma. In front of him, in the ground, was a can of beer. An unopened can with no rust on it. It was even still in date, he’d checked. The question as to how it got there was irrelevant.

He was a recovering alcoholic, but he was also incredibly thirsty. Norman held the can in his hand and stared at it for fifteen minutes, wishing he’d found a bottle of water or can of lemonade instead.

He hooked his finger under the ring pull, but couldn’t bring himself to complete the action.

He placed the can on the ground and sat down next to it. He stared at his cylindrical nemesis.

Who would ever know? And who would judge him because of it?

He sat with a mouth as dry as, well a desert, and looked at the can. He imagined the taste of the beer and was transported back to his pub days. The good times and the bad times.

Fuck it, Norman thought.

He cracked the can open and lifted it to his mouth. He stopped right before the liquid sloshed out and wet his lips.

Before he knew what was happening he was pouring the can on to the floor.

Norman was found a week later just fifty yards from the empty can.