The managers began negotiating, somewhat callously, in the presence of the players.
Jimmy heard a deafening BANG, and quite simply didn’t know what to do.
He just froze, terrified, as the whole world seemed to explode around him.
The cacophony continued, as did Jimmy’s torment, until...
“Clive! I told you to shut the dog inside before you started setting those things off!”
She had to tell him.
She felt like she would just burst if she didn’t.
The timing was awful, and she was pretty sure of what his reaction would be, but she couldn’t keep it inside any longer.
She composed herself, then:
“Stop the car dad, I need a wee!”
Yet again, Kevin called for help, already knowing that it was in vain.
He was marooned; completely isolated.
No-one could help him. No-one even knew he was there.
He tried desperately to think of a solution, but came up with nothing.
He stared blankly at the empty toilet roll holder.
Rodney was in a slump, but was determined to turn it around.
What better way to start than with a good breakfast?
Pouring out the cornflakes, he saw there was exactly enough for one serving. His luck was changing already!
He covered them with milk...before realising that it was off.
Colin was dying.
He knew it. Everyone else there knew it too.
It would take just one small action from just one of them to keep him alive, if only for a little longer.
But no-one obliged.
Silence reigned.
No-one laughed.
The gong went, and Colin’s stand-up slot was over.
She knew that by pressing one button, she could torture them all.
They were all strapped in place, with no feasible means of escape.
Perhaps most disturbingly of all, she knew that she would actually take enjoyment from it.
Grandma pressed play, and Cliff Richards’ Greatest Hits filled the car.
Sean was surprised that his wife was coming along so enthusiastically.
She was in the car before him, and chattered excitedly on the journey.
However, she inexplicably became irritated when he parked outside Skipper’s Nautical Supplies; even though he had said, from the start, that they were going sail shopping.
Ben had been clean for 13 days, but was now struggling.
He couldn’t stop thinking about his experiences in the past; trying to focus on the morale-crushing come downs, rather than the amazing highs.
He’d vowed to give up, but couldn’t resist anymore.
Ben double clicked the Football Manager shortcut.
Norman had always been confident in his yodelling ability, but wanted to know what others thought.
Now, thanks to the wonders of the internet, his video was viewable to millions.
Day one; zero views.
Day two; zero views.
It continued...
Day 19; a view! And a comment!
“You suck, Norman!”
Rubbing her eyes, Louise picked up the phone.
The conversation was fairly brief, but ended with her insisting: “No, honestly, I’m fine. I’m better off without him!”
Louise put down the phone.
Then, she re-adjusted her duvet, un-paused Bridget Jones, and started on her second tub of Ben and Jerry’s.
Alex knew that, by law, the traffic had to stop when she stepped onto the zebra crossing. She strode out confidently.
Jay knew that he’d been driving too fast. He slammed on the brakes desperately.
Alex knew nothing more. She lay, limply.
Alex’s Mum knew true sorrow. She cried inconsolably.
Michael’s goal had initially seemed unattainable, but had finally been achieved through persistence, knowledge and graft.
The wireless technology was in place.
The system of mirrors was perfect; painstakingly adjusted to the nearest degree.
The dream was set to be realised.
Michael could now play his X-Box from the toilet!
Solitary confinement is what I long for.
But all too regularly, I hear the click of the lock. And he comes in.
He attacks me; beats me all over, with wooden sticks, for hours at a time.
The life of a drum kit isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
He had sacrificed his entire social life for three years, not to mention working up almost fifteen grand of debt, but Jeremy’s efforts were finally bearing fruit.
He had secured that degree, and now here he was in his first real job.
“Do you want fries with that?” he asked.
The dreams were getting worse.
His skin was being completely removed, by a maniac with a knife.
He was being sliced down the middle, and cast into boiling hot water.
And what was worse; when he had these dreams Mrs Potato-Head just kept telling him to go back to sleep.
The interrogation began.
When Clare had the information she needed, the faces that didn’t fit were taken out.
One motion of the index finger, and those no longer required were ruthlessly eliminated.
She smiled dangerously before unleashing the final question.
“Is yours Theo?”
She never ever lost at Guess Who.
He grasped his shotgun.
Having carefully assessed the situation, he knew that all he could do was make a dash for it; all guns blazing, for death or glory.
He tore out of the bunker, firing wildly before...
“Jamie! Your tea’s ready!”
He paused his X-box, and left the room.
“Would you like to sit down?” offered a man, on a busy train.
The woman responded with a tirade of unwarranted abuse.
Apparently, he had affronted her warped version of feminism.
Most eloquently, he responded: “Madam, I didn’t offer because you are a lady, but because I am a gentleman.”
With love in his eyes, Max gazed back towards his best friend.
David could hardly bear to look back at him.
Max knew, instinctively, that something wasn’t right, but had no idea that he had been condemned; sentenced by the one he trusted most.
Solemnly, the vet entered the room.
After reading some mini sagas written by school children, Marc became taken with the idea.
He worked on them, enjoying the disciplined creativity of continually toying with the words to get to that magic number 50.
Some worked; others frustrated. Marc decided to set up a blog; showcasing his work.
