Young Writers Society

The keyboard hammered into my brain as my complacent fingers soared over the strategically placed keys. I felt as though I was invading the spots that they held; each one cursing me as I typed. But in that moment, I was too creative to care, I had too many things that had to be said, had to be stated, had to be written down. My fingers outlined and traced a life that was once my own but now that it was down on the screen in front of me, it was no longer mine to claim. It took on a tactical life of its own and, soon, it had become something I no longer knew, no longer could affiliate with. I was only the typist; I was not the one in the story anymore. Before I could release my fingertips from the enticing letters that drew out a story of heartache, love, mystery, and life, I knew that something was being created … and it was beautiful. The screen mocked me and challenged me to do better but nothing seemed to fit. I tried different words for the same meaning; life, existence, being, time, living, verve, days, weeks, years … but none of them could describe what the electricity was creating. That's what I called it; electricity. My own personal current of time and space and, most importantly, thoughts. The words would form in my mind, move down through my arm like an electric current as it picked out pieces of the story it liked, and bolted from my fingertips to the keys that cursed me as I continued to hammer out the life that I was creating. The life of an atomic bomb, maybe. Or a child who lived in a far away county. Or maybe it was a fairy tale; a beautiful temptress with long flowing hair who tricks her lover into marrying her for his money; wait, that was my mother, not a fairy tale.