The following scraps all feature the same "mad scientist" character.
His solitude was not a personal decision so much as it was thrust upon him. As someone who seemed to exist on the border of sanity and madness, he tended to be shunned by others. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately, depending on from whose perspective you wished to consider the matter—he hadn't a mind to be concerned with societal judgment. Rather, he delighted in the unfettered freedom his seclusion provided, permitting him to unabashedly dance upon the edge of reason.
(The mad scientist has taken on an assistant.)
"What on Earth are you doing professor?"
"Trying to fix it."
"Fix it? It was working perfectly."
"Indeed it was. Up until I started hitting it with a hammer."
"What!? Why did you do that?"
"Well I can't very well fix it if it isn't broken."
"But it didn't need fixing!"
"Yes, that was precisely the problem."
"But why would you not just leave it be if it was working perfectly?"
"Look, even if it's working just fine today, that's no guarantee it will still be working well tomorrow. All things eventually break down and need repairs. I merely sought to speed up the process."
"But why not just wait for it to break down naturally and repair it then?"
"Because I had free time now. I may not have free time later. Best to take care of these things when you can so they don't become an emergency in the future."
"Professor, are you still awake?"
"Indeed. I must complete my review of the results of the day's experiment."
"But aren't you tired? It's the middle of the night."
"Nonsense. It's still two in the afternoon. See the clock?"
"...Professor, that clock broke when your experiment exploded. It's stopped."
"So it is. But even a stopped clock is right twice a day. And as a new day has not yet begun, there's still an opportunity for it to be correct once more. Who's to say whether that time is now?"
"But even if that were the case, that would make it two in the morning. Of a new day."
"Well if it were that early, then would be too late to be worried about how late it is. And if it were indeed morning, then you should be making my morning coffee. Chop chop! Time's a wasting!"
The following scraps have nothing to do with each other, nor the mad scientist from the previous section.
The old man flicked off the radio. He wasn't particularly listening to it to begin with, and in fact didn't even speak the language of that particular station. He simply liked having the patter of the talk show hosts to act as background noise while he stared off into the horizon.
Today, however, he wanted to reminisce in silence. For today would mark the fifth anniversary of his wife's passing, and, as he had done every year previous, he would spend much of his evening in recollection of how blessed was their time together.
And take all the remaining evening it would; sixty years is substantial time to create memories in abundance.
From their first awkward meeting, to their first date. That trip they took to commemorate their first year together. How nervous he was to ask her to marry him, and how elated he was when she said yes. Buying their first house together. The patter of little feet when their children took their first steps. The first baseball game they watched as a family. Watching their children grow up and go on to start families of their own. The adventures they would go on to have as time marched on.
Some years their children would join him, and they would share stories together, each finding new memories in the process. This year found him alone, and that was also fine; everyone would remember in their own way.
He promised himself that those memories would certainly remain alive for as long as he did.
The problem with being the city's sole superhero, was that it was somehow always his fault when troublemakers got away with trouble-making. It felt like no one ever blamed the supervillains for being supervillains in the first place, as though villainy was just a fact of life. No, it was somehow entirely his own failing as The Hero, should the villains not be adequately thwarted.
Honestly, the lack of gratitude was enough to make him ponder whether it was worth the trouble hero-ing at all. The city had a police force, and they actually get paid! Why should he continue to sacrifice himself for free when no one appreciated his efforts?
How lamentable, he thought, that being a "hero" should have all the glamour of doing tech support for family.
It seemed the biggest roadblock to writing was actually having something to write about. Indeed, he felt it was not entirely accurate to even call himself a writer when so little of his time was spent actually *writing*, but he couldn't think of another equally concise term for "one who spends most of their time staring at the ceiling instead of doing what they intended to be doing".
He suspected the Germans were in possession of the word he was looking for.
He tried to compute precisely how much time was wasted in the not-writing phase of the writing process—fully aware of the irony—and could not decide whether the results annoyed or depressed him.
Either way, it would not do to waste even more time dwelling on it. But what if he were to expand the definition of "not-writing"?
Yes... yes that was better. It was still not-writing, but time spent reading and researching would ultimately pay off when the writing did happen. Or at least it had damn well better.
With that thought in mind, he picked up one of the books he was using for reference, and patiently awaited the end of his creative drought.
"Ohmygod I'm so sorry it's my fault I panicked..."
"But are you all right?"
"I didn't see them trying to pass me when I changed lanes..."
"Never mind that now. Are you all right?"
"I tried to swerve back but steered too far..."
"Hey! I'm asking are you all right?"
"I'll pay for it I'll work as much as it takes..."
"It doesn't matter! Listen to me! Are you all right?"
"I'll do whatever I swear I'm so sorry..."
"I don't care about the fucking car! It can be replaced! You! Can't!"
"...!"
"Are. You. All right?"