A day in the life of an accidental astronaut M a r t h a r a d c l i f f e A day in the life of an Accidental Astronaut Martha Radcliffe Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. 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He yawned so wide it seemed like his jaw might unhinge like some kind of exhausted snake. His gaze drifted to the clock on his nightstand, which blinked the time as though it were mocking him for staying up until 2 AM binge-watching old space documentaries. “Ugh,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes, “I think the coffee’s more exciting than my life today.” He shuffled out of bed, his feet barely scraping the floor, his body longing to return to the blissful ignorance of sleep. But no, John had a schedule, one Martha Radcliffe that had been consistent for the past year, ever since Helen passed away. There was no urgency in his mornings, no cheerful chattering from the kitchen, no plans to make, no places to be. It was just John, the house, and a vague sense of existential dread that clung to him like dust on old furniture. He stumbled to the kitchen, flipping the switch on the coffee machine as though he were performing a ritualistic offering to the gods of caffeine. The pot sputtered and hissed, and he sighed, filling a mug. He took a sip and immediately made a face. It tasted less like espresso and more like liquid regret. “Yeah, that’s about right,” John muttered, staring at the dark sludge in his cup. “Regret... the breakfast of champions.” His cereal sat on the counter, staring at him accusingly from the box. It was some sort of generic off-brand oat and wheat blend—no sugar, no excitement. He didn’t even know why he’d bought it. In fact, he hadn’t even remembered opening the box until now. Maybe Helen had bought it before she left. Maybe she thought it was healthy. Or maybe she just hated him enough to leave him with a lifetime supply of cardboard-flavored misery. A day in the life of an accidental astronaut He poured some milk in, then tried a bite. It was like chewing on damp paper. He spit it out in the sink. “Who thought this was a good idea?” he asked the empty kitchen, as if it would respond. “I can’t even be sad about this cereal. It’s just... sad by default.” The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you feel like you should be doing something, anything, but instead, you just end up questioning every life decision you’d ever made. He glanced at the clock again. Only 9:15 AM. This was going to be a long day. He stared at the wall. For fifteen minutes. He wasn’t even aware of it happening, but when he finally blinked, his head hurt from how long he’d been staring into space, without the fun part of actually being in space. “Maybe today’s the day I do something... extraordinary,” he said out loud, as if speaking to the air would make it more official. It was at that moment, when the idea first struck him, that his life was about to take a very unexpected turn. “Yeah, why not?” he muttered to himself. “Astronaut. I’m going to be an astronaut.” Martha Radcliffe The thought hit him like a thunderbolt. Who cared if he hadn’t been to the moon? Or Mars? Or even, like, the supermarket? He’d done enough grocery shopping to know that he could conquer space. What was the difference? Space was just a bigger, emptier version of the world around him, right? He could handle this. He had to handle this. Because if he didn’t, he’d be stuck in his lonely house forever, making regret-filled coffee and talking to boxes of stale cereal. With a newfound sense of determination, John marched to the garage. He rummaged through the clutter—old tools, forgotten furniture, stacks of broken things ...and then, buried underneath a pile of random junk, he spotted it: the plastic bucket. The one he used to carry toys around in when he was a kid. He grinned to himself. “Perfect.” The bucket wasn’t much, but it was all he had. He dumped out the mismatched spoons that had been abandoned there for years, each one more bizarre and orphaned than the last and then, with all the seriousness of a man who had just decided to change the course of history, he crumpled up tinfoil into a pile. “Astronaut helmet,” John muttered like it was the A day in the life of an accidental astronaut most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll need something to protect my head.” He worked quickly, folding the tinfoil over itself with great precision ...well, what he considered precision—until it was a shiny, misshapen crown that barely fit over his head. It didn’t exactly scream “NASA,” but it covered his hair. That was the important part, right? He was no expert in astronaut gear, but he was sure this would do. As he placed the helmet on his head, he couldn’t help but chuckle. There was something about the absurdity of it that made him feel alive. It was a feeling he hadn’t had in months, maybe even years. “Houston, we have... uh, a problem,” he said to himself, laughing at his own joke. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t even clever. But in the moment, it felt right. Like a man who had finally, finally cracked the code on how to be happy again. Then it hit him. He had no idea how to actually get to space. Or, for that matter, how to become an astronaut. He didn’t even know where to start. There were no space agencies that took walk-ins. And as much as he loved the idea, he wasn’t about to just hop into his car and drive to Cape Canaveral with nothing but tinfoil and hope. Martha Radcliffe He stood there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the window. The ridiculousness of it all was so overwhelming that he burst into a fit of laughter. It wasn’t the dream he’d imagined, but maybe that was the point. Maybe the whole purpose of life wasn’t to conquer the stars. Maybe it was to just take a leap, even if that leap ended with you eating cereal that tasted like disappointment. “Well,” John said aloud, his reflection staring back at him, “if this is as close to space as I get today, at least I look the part.” With that, he felt a sense of contentment settle over him. Maybe he hadn’t figured everything out. Maybe he hadn’t changed the world. But he’d done something. Something other than just existing. And for the first time in a long time, that felt enough. His journey to the stars had officially begun. A day in the life of an accidental astronaut II. John’s first task was a logical one: getting in shape for space travel. He’d seen enough documentaries to know that astronauts had to be in top physical condition. They didn’t just float around eating freeze- dried food and taking naps. They were elite athletes, capable of intense training regimens and surviving in the harshest conditions. John wasn’t sure how any of that applied to him, but the first step was clear: push-ups. A simple, classic exercise that said, “I’m ready for zero gravity.” He grabbed his dusty gym mat, he hadn’t used it in years, but it was sitting there, just waiting for a purpose. He spread it out on the living room floor and assumed the position: hands shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent for support (he wasn’t about to injure himself on day one). Martha Radcliffe He got into the plank position and froze, staring at the floor, mentally preparing. He was about to do something monumental. Something astronauts did every day, without even thinking. And then it happened: his eyes drifted over to the couch. It wasn’t just any couch. It was the couch. The one Helen had insisted was the most comfortable thing on Earth. The one she would sink into every evening with a bowl of popcorn. The one John had spent hours on, binge-watching everything from old sitcoms to NASA documentaries, without realizing he was wasting time. But now, as his body hovered in an unnatural position above the floor, the couch called to him in a way that no mission could. He groaned. “I’ll do push-ups later,” he muttered to no one. “But first... a snack.” His muscles screamed in protest as he collapsed on the couch, but he didn’t care. The couch enveloped him like a warm hug, and for a moment, he forgot about space, gravity, and everything else. He grabbed the peanut butter jar from the kitchen counter, practically spooning it straight into his mouth. It was astronaut fuel, he told himself. Peanut butter was A day in the life of an accidental astronaut sticky and strong—exactly what you needed for zero gravity. It would stick to his insides, giving him the energy to survive... whatever interstellar journey he was about to undertake. He finished the sandwich, but then realized he was still hungry, so he made another. He washed it down with three cups of coffee—because no self- respecting astronaut could go into space without being caffeinated. It was written in the NASA Handbook, somewhere between sections on spacecraft maintenance and the proper technique for floating in a vacuum. With a full stomach and a little too much caffeine in his system, John felt like he could take on the universe—or at least his backyard. Space was still a long way off, but first, he needed to scout the area for potential launch sites. He headed outside, adjusting his makeshift astronaut helmet (which was now starting to itch a bit around the edges), and walked toward the backyard. John’s neighbor, Greg, was outside cutting his grass. He paused the lawnmower when he saw John in full tinfoil astronaut gear, pacing around with a serious expression on his face. It was like watching a mad scientist, if the scientist was also highly confused and perhaps in need of a nap. Martha Radcliffe “John, what are you doing?” Greg called out, squinting. John stopped and stood straight, throwing his chest out as if announcing something epic. “I’m preparing for space travel,” he said with such authority that even he almost believed it. “Right,” Greg replied, narrowing his eyes. “And where’s your spaceship?” John glanced over his shoulder, gesturing vaguely toward the garage. “It’s in the garage. Getting a tune- up. Spacecrafts are high maintenance, you know?” Greg scratched his head, trying to process what John had just said. He glanced at the grass, then back at John, clearly unsure whether to laugh or call for help. “You know, space is kind of a long way away. Might want to think about that.” “I have a plan,” John said confidently, puffing out his chest. “It involves a lot of imagination, duct tape, and this old bike.” He pointed toward the rusted bicycle leaning against the fence. Greg’s eyebrows shot up. “A bike? You’re going to space... on a bike?” A day in the life of an accidental astronaut “Well, not just a bike,” John explained, as though Greg should have known better. “This bike is a spacebike. It’s been modified for intergalactic travel.” He gave the bike a solid pat on the rusty frame. “The wheels have been... calibrated for smooth launch trajectories. Very advanced stuff.” Greg stared at the bike. It had a flat tire. The handlebar was crooked. The seat was barely hanging on. There were no rockets, no engines, and definitely no way in hell it could leave the ground. But John looked at it like it was the Space Shuttle, so Greg didn’t have the heart to burst his bubble. “Good luck with that,” Greg said slowly, clearly still processing the whole thing. “And, uh, don’t crash into my mailbox again.” “Don’t worry, I’m not going to crash,” John said, adjusting his helmet. “I’m an astronaut. Crashing is for amateurs.” Greg shook his head. “Well, I’ll be here if you need help fixing the bike. Or, you know, if you need someone to explain gravity to you again.” John smiled and waved as he grabbed the bike’s handlebars. “You’ll see, Greg. One day, I’ll be the first Martha Radcliffe man to ride a bike into space.” With that, he mounted the bike, which immediately creaked ominously under his weight. Greg didn’t say anything as John began to pedal furiously. He just stood there, trying not to laugh, as John wobbled down the driveway with a look of determination on his face. His legs pumped in a rhythm that seemed far too intense for someone simply trying to reach the neighbor’s driveway. But for John, it felt like the beginning of something monumental. The wind whipped through his hair, and for a split second, he felt like he was flying. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but it didn’t matter. He was on a mission. He wasn’t just a man on a rusty bike. He was an astronaut, an explorer, a pioneer. Who needed a spaceship when you had imagination, peanut butter, and a well-timed caffeine buzz? John kept pedaling, ignoring the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t even notice when he passed Greg’s lawnmower again, still idling on the side of the yard. Instead, he focused on his ultimate goal: a mission to the stars, one pedaled revolution at a time. By the time he reached the neighbor’s driveway, A day in the life of an accidental astronaut about thirty seconds later, John stopped, panting and sweating as if he had actually completed some incredible feat. He pulled over to the curb, feeling an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. “Mission complete,” he announced to no one in particular, as though he had just landed on the moon. “I’ve made it to the first stage of my journey.” Greg was leaning against the fence, shaking his head. “You know, I’d ask if you’re okay, but I think we both know the answer to that.” John, feeling more heroic than ever, gave him a solemn salute. “Thanks for the support, Greg. It means a lot. But this... this is just the beginning.” And with that, John turned around, ready to pedal toward the next stage of his space odyssey— or at least to the end of the block, where he could briefly pretend the sidewalk was a launchpad and the pavement was an alien world. Martha Radcliffe III. By noon, John was covered in grass stains, dirt, and peanut butter remnants. His once pristine “space suit” had become a hybrid of a toddler’s play clothes and an overenthusiastic fast-food worker. The bike— now looking more like a prehistoric relic with its bent frame and crooked handlebars, had failed spectacularly in every attempt to break the sound barrier. The cardboard ramps, though carefully constructed, only succeeded in sending him skidding across the yard like a confused weasel. “Next time,” John muttered to himself, wiping a glob of peanut butter from his cheek, “I’ll hit Mach speed. I can feel it. I’m this close.” He stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, and surveyed the backyard with newfound focus. It wasn’t much, but this was his space station. This was his launchpad. If astronauts could conquer space, surely he could conquer his small suburban lawn. A day in the life of an accidental astronaut He took a deep breath. “This is it,” he whispered. “Today’s the day.” But first—naps. Even astronauts took naps, right? They couldn’t be running around launching bikes into imaginary space all day. He staggered over to the grass, collapsed onto his back with a dramatic flourish, and stared up at the sky. “Space is vast,” he mused, his eyes following the clouds. “But the backyard is surprisingly peaceful. I think... I think I’ve achieved something here today.” He closed his eyes, letting the peace of the moment wash over him. The soft hum of a distant lawnmower was the perfect soundtrack to his deep thoughts about the cosmos. His mission today had not been a total failure. Sure, he hadn’t broken any sound barriers, but he had launched a bike. In his mind, it was practically the same as landing on the moon. Suddenly, a shadow loomed over him, blocking the sun. “John... you okay?” Greg’s voice came from above, skeptical and a little concerned. John squinted up at his neighbor, who had been mowing the lawn earlier but had now paused to Martha Radcliffe witness the unfolding spectacle. “I’m going to space,” John said with an earnestness that could have convinced anyone. “And when I come back, I’ll bring back the secrets of the universe.” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. What, like some new information about crop circles? Or, uh... maybe an alien recipe for dinner?” John’s eyes twinkled. “Aliens. That’s next week’s mission,” he said, winking conspiratorially. “Right now, I’m focusing on the big picture. What’s it like up there? What kind of strange, unfathomable life forms could be out there?” He paused, staring at the sky. “Maybe they’re all made of peanut butter.” Greg blinked, then scratched his head, clearly trying to process the full weight of John’s comment. “Peanut butter? What, like peanut butter aliens? You know, you might be onto something. They’d be a lot easier to digest than the usual kind.” He chuckled to himself, a mix of confusion and amusement. “But seriously, John, are you sure you’re okay? You’re just... lying in your yard, wearing a... well, whatever that thing is on your head.” John adjusted his makeshift helmet—an old kitchen colander, wrapped in tinfoil—and gave Greg