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by a..b
Rated: E · Short Story · Dark · #2220483
Supremely short
You know how you think that everything you write is going to be a best seller? I mean who doesn't think that? But as I sit here waiting on a bench outside a library closed by the disease, I don't think that. I think why would anyone want to read my writing? It isn't any good. Do I know all my tenses, have my twenty four or six with variations come to light by the skill of a juggler? No. Dare I consider that my use of sarcasm or wit shall slay the witless that dawdle about my floor? Nay. Should I hold volume in serious facts till the scoffers crash to the floor in exhaustion, needing a nap to give their cobwebs of useless hate a greater breadth that others might notice them? I think not. No, I am not good at these things. What excellence doth I might possess within this virtual quest of being good at that which cannot be touched, but only eaten, that being those words written?

There I sat, as I watched the dusk come forth. The newspapers glowing their typed keys in darkened spaces, only less bright than the gamer bundle, less movement than the hackers who grumbled their evil spells of programmed learning. And I just watched and typed, waiting for authority to come, to remove me from this place, terrified themselves of a disease that overtakes. For the disease got to everyone's ears, caused the fall of pride through death, then others by fear. The thieves behind their computer screens, enjoyed their thievery like it was new sport. The thieves saw the disease as the Finals competition, competing with thieves throughout the whole world. The serious trappers using OpenBSD finally had the same complaints as the hobby trappers on other, more common operating systems, those complaints being that nobody wanted to listen. There was so much damage control going on, chasing thieves became a complete waste of time, so the trappers all sighed. They tracked and traced and kept good notes. They printed them out, and read them over. Then sighed again knowing nothing was to be done. There was too much damage, to many fires to put out, catching the thieves was not a priority. People were dying by the day. Millions diseased, and still the disease spread more every day.

Here I typed quite furiously, failing emotionally. Wondering if my words had any effect. Then I saw a friendly sort of cat. This cat looked tired, it came for a pet. We had a wonderful discussion, me and it. Then as I nearly headed home, this beautiful cat sneezed a few times. My keyboard needed to be wiped, my hands a little bit, as I scratched my face. Two weeks later, my work was famous. It was a wonderful thing.

Too bad a week later I had been lowered into the grave.
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