Ctrl+Alt+Delete

He hadn’t written for years and now led a quiet, somewhat grumpy life in Chiang Mai. Once mildly famous for a debut novel in the ‘80s, he’d since produced nothing but half-finished drafts and the occasional smug email.

As a 68-year-old (but only ever admitting to 55), he lived in Chiang Mai, a small city in northern Thailand. Popular with tourists, there was something exciting happening nearly every night of the week. So, his limited writing skills, such as they were, didn’t bother him - as long as his royalty cheque kept arriving. Whenever someone asked what he did, he always replied, “I am a writer.” No one asked for a title to look for. Yet, strangely, he was constantly introduced as one: “This is my friend Graham, he’s a writer,” they’d say.

At the start of 2021, the pandemic began. The roads fell eerily silent, shopping centres closed. It didn’t take long before he realised he would need to reinvent himself. The loneliness of living without friends, events, and cafes was gradually going to suffocate him. One day, in desperation, he finally opened his dusty laptop and was surprised to realise he had regained his writing mojo. Head down, fingers dancing, he searched his old files and came across his most promising manuscript, filed as "Edit_Undo_FINAL2.doc".

As he hesitantly began editing, one of his apps buzzed. A message from his sister mentioned a very sore, swollen knee. She said she was taking it easy for the day.

Graham returned to his dystopian novel, aiming to deepen his characters. He described how the main character now had magical healing hands and began massaging the sore knee of another character. Another notification pinged—a second message from his sister: "Ignore what I said. The pain and swelling have gone. I’m back to feeling wonderful."

"Good," he thought. Then he saw, with horror, a giant cockroach crawling across his floor. He shuddered. He had a real phobia of the skittering insects. Keeping an eye on it, he rang his sister.

“Hi, won’t stop long but …

“Hi, is everything alright”?

“Yes, just checking on your knee”.

“My knee? What about my knee”?

“You said it hurt and was swollen.”

“Not me!”

Exasperated, he apologised and hurried into his kitchen. He looked around for cockroach spray and realised he’d forgotten to buy any.

“Damn”.

He’d always been told that if you saw one cockroach, there were more. Possibly an infestation.

“Yuk”, he thought.

He found no more pests, and the original cockroach had disappeared. Returning to his story, he added a touch more realism and incorporated the MC’s complete fear and loathing of cockroaches. Finally, in the dystopian world he was building, he wrote a scene where all the ‘roaches collapsed and died on impact with a meteor. As he typed the final keystrokes, Graham heard a strange rustling from the kitchen. He rushed in and found the floor covered in dead cockroaches.

'This is just weird,' he muttered.

His best friend’s home country was in Central Europe. A neighbouring nation had recently crossed its borders, and a full-scale war had broken out. Graham and his friend spent long hours on the phone, discussing the horrors of war. As Graham edited, he had a brilliant idea on how to end the conflict and persuade both nations to accept the peace terms, and immediately incorporated this into the manuscript. He was amazed at how quickly he was able to draft the peace deal and halt the war.

“Wow, coffee needed”, he said. “Creating world peace is thirsty work.”

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he opened a news app. His eyes nearly popped out of his head: "Nardia and Drussa Sign Peace Agreement!" read the banner. "Mid-Europe War Over!"

He longed to call his friend and share this excitement, but assumed his friend was probably on the phone with his mother and close family, especially since they hadn’t seen each other for years.

He wandered back to his laptop, blowing on the boiling coffee and stared down at the manuscript.

“This must be just my imagination, but I’ve made three edits, and they’ve all come true. Sister’s knee - fixed; cockroaches - dead; and war - over.” Creepy. He decided it had been a strange afternoon.

He sat and considered what else he might change in the world. Unable to think of anything large-scale, he opted for something minor.

"OK, just for fun, let’s put Thai baht in the MC’s bank account so he can buy a retirement visa."

With a sense of power, Graham happily hummed as he deposited 800,000 baht into the MC’s account.

Then his phone pinged. "Bangkok Bank: Incoming funds: 800,000 baht."

“Oh my god, there's something weird going on,” he whispered. As Graham sat at the table, he wondered what else he needed to improve in his life.

His email pinged. A message from Alice, his ex-wife. She had never gotten over the divorce and regularly sent him unpleasant emails. If he didn’t respond, she would ring. Worse.

He stopped mid-thought. In the manuscript, he added:

"Alice sent a charming email. ‘Just wanted to keep in touch. Divorce shouldn’t mean we can’t be friends.’ The MC felt warm and cherished."

Terrified, he opened the real email, bracing for venom.

"Hello, my favourite divorced husband. How are you, sweetheart? I’ve been missing you. Send me a text?"

This was not the Alice he knew!

That afternoon had gone much better than expected. He had money in the bank, World Peace, and no more cockroaches.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He always went out with "the boys" on Tuesdays. Only a few pubs stayed open during the pandemic. They’d chosen The Nag’s Head months ago — a fake UK pub, with mock beams and undrinkable ale.

But when Graham arrived, flushed with literary success, no one was there.

He rang Ian.

“Where are you?” said Graham.

“Where are you?” said Ian testily.

“At the bar.”

“Which bar?”

“The Nag’s Head….

“Why on earth are you there? We’re at the Queen’s Head!”

Graham stormed over, seething. Why hadn’t they told him they’d changed pubs?

“Ah, here you are,” said Ian, without warmth.

The whole evening felt off. He couldn’t get a word in. The beer was awful. He couldn’t wait to go home and delete them.

At home, he opened the manuscript, prepared to include the boys—and delete them.

"Let’s see how they like being ghosted.”, he muttered between gritted teeth.

But mid-rant, he realised if he deleted his friends, he’d need something better.

Scene: Café del Luna, Chiang Mai — late morning

The MC (Graham) is halfway through a latte, contemplating whether the foam looks like a penis or a seahorse, when she walked in.

Not a woman.

The woman.

Margot Bloody Robbie.

It couldn’t be. Not here. Not ordering a mango smoothie from the bored barista with the rat-tail.

But it was.

And she was looking at him.

She tilted her head, then smiled.

Margot — he was already calling her that in his head — walked straight toward him. Hair in a bun, fresh from yoga. Or a dream.

"Excuse me," she said, in a voice that sounded like sex, mischief, and education reform. "Are you Graham? The writer?"

His heart stopped. His bladder almost gave out.

"Um. Yes?"

"Oh, thank god. I’ve been hoping to run into you. I read your manuscript. I couldn’t put it down."

"You read my...?"

"Edit_Undo_FINAL2. Life-changing."

"You’re even better looking in real life," she whispered. "Rougher. Real."

A small voice inside him shouted: YOU WROTE THIS. BACK AWAY.

But the rest of him — the lonely, male part — leaned in.

He scheduled everything for tomorrow: sleep, shower, a life with Margot. He shut the laptop, almost too excited to wait.

Tomorrow he’d construct a new life: rich, carefree, in love.

>>>>>>>>

He woke in the night to a horrible clicking noise. Thousands of tiny insect feet.

He turned on the light. The floor was alive with cockroaches, crawling into his bed, up the curtains, into his clothes.

"Aaaarrrrhh."

Shaking, he grabbed the laptop.

He typed: "With industrial-strength cockroach poison, I decimated every single one of them."

He shut the laptop. Every cockroach was dead. Bedding, floor, all of them.

He crept downstairs for a broom. But as he approached the bedroom again, he heard it: click-click.

They were back. Crawling over their fallen comrades.

He grabbed the laptop and fled downstairs.

He typed as fast as he could. But the manuscript was resisting. The edits were no longer sticking.

His anxiety rose as the dreadful click, click of cockroaches seemed to be descending from the bedroom.

He furiously typed: “The cockroach skittered under the fridge, smug and believing it was unkillable, having no idea that here it would be trapped forever.”

He ran to the printer. Printed the pages. Ran into the garden. Burned them.

Then, heart still pounding, he formatted the laptop. Erased everything—data, files, Margot Robbie. All of it.

He dressed, ran to the canal, and threw the laptop in. It floated. Then sank.

>>>>>>>>>

"Graham, oh Graham!"

He opened his eyes. Hospital bed. His mum and dad at his side. They looked ancient.

"Nurse, nurse, he’s opened his eyes!"

"What happened?" Graham asked.

"You were on your way to meet the lads when some idiot on a motorbike knocked you over."

"Is the war still over?"

"What war, son?"

"Nardia and Drussa?"

"Never heard of them."

"Do I have a girlfriend called Margot?"

"No idea. Ask the boys. Shall I leave you some cash, son?”

"No need, Dad. I have 800,000 baht in the bank."

"What’s baht, Graham?" His dad looked worried.

"We’ll leave you a £20 note, son. If you need more, just ring."

As Graham turned to say goodbye, he froze.

There, halfway up the curtain, was a cockroach.

It paused.

Turned.

And waved.

Graham closed his eyes.

"Oh, not again."