My fingers gently caress random letters upon the keyboard for mere seconds. The tactile depression signals the requisite time has passed and they move on to the next random keys.

They perform an awkward dance not unlike a fat kid upon a broken down Dance Dance Revolution machine. The macabre flitter causes characters to race across the screen in a flash of Courier, occasionally broken up by spaces, turning mere characters into living, breathing words. A supernatural paragraph marker springs into existence creating a semi-coherent thought from the smattering of letters, spaces, and punctuation.

I begin to read over my condensed story. I am struck by fear as I realize my ficlet is complete and utter crap. How could this be? The process, the dance, was magical. My mind and fingers working in perfect unison to create something of extraordinary measure, reads like the incoherent ramblings of a 2 AM myspace post.

The Backspace key calls out to me. No one ever need know, John. Erase it. Thank god for Backspace.