The story that writes itself
Misha sat at her laptop eager to start writing the story. Inspired by her nightmare from the previous night, she was thirsty to put the vivid details on paper. Her first line of the story, "The devil made me do it" she emblazoned in bold script. It was the narrative of the tale she had endured during her slumber. Still gripped by fright of the horrific visions of the night, she positioned the tools of writing by her side. There was coffee, little snacks of chocolate, legal pad for writing random thoughts, pillows propping her back, and her trusty, much loved laptop
With the first paragraph complete telling the start of the story, Misha felt sated. She had finished the paragraph in less than thirty minutes, which was a new record for her writing. She felt good about the descriptive setting and the fast-paced movement of her story.It was as if the story was writing itself. She was reliving the terror, as the words poured onto her page before her eyes.
She indented and typed the first word of her second paragraph, inhaling deeply as she started. Her fingers flew furious across the keyboard. She related details of the coming of the devil to her dream. He appeared in a cloud of dark and foul smelling smoke. The hostility of the action danced across the page. Her laptop emitted a foul smell as she pounded the keys. Misha completed the second paragraph, only to find that it had repeated on the page several times. The copycat images were repeated in a red, bold script, but the words were identical in their expressive form.
Misha was startled by the appearance of the replicated images of her work. She had no knowledge of placing them on the page. She tried to delete the words without success. The script grew scarlet, as the dripping of blood across the screen, with each attempt to erase the saga of her nightmare. She saved the file and closed it down. She reopened the item with multiple ghost folders reappearing in her saved library, containing the same bloody script of the devil's writing.
Seized by the terror of the previous night, she could only stare at the screen in her fear. She held a blanket, wrapping herself like a taco, mesmerized as if a scary movie played on the big screen. Her hands were held clasped together making her knuckles white and pained in cramped rigidity. She bolted upright as new words started crawling across the screen. The keyboard was moving like a Ouija board of its own accord. She threw the laptop across the room, as smoke dark and foul smelling withered from the screen. The typing continued.
Panicked, wanting only to escape her narrative, she moved slowly and cautiously toward the computer. She pulled the plug and powered down her now frightening tool of writing. The words remained lighted and flashing on the screen.
The words flashing on the screen caused her to scream, a curdling scream. Her story had come to life as the devil slithered from the vents of the monitor.,seizing her in a burning and flesh melting grip.
"Our story is just for us to share, Misha. signed Satan."
Word count 528