She sits in front of the computer, slender fingers flying across the keyboard, looking like spiders. A typo here and there, but nothing that little pinky doesn’t leap up to the backspace and fixes. Her fingernails have remnants of red nail polish on them, out of laziness to not take them off or put it back on.

She stops to take a sip of Dr. Pepper with vanilla syrup poured in it out of a wine glass and take a bite of pâté en croûte meurtri out of the tin. She yawns, having just woke up, and goes back to sending her fingers flying across the keyboard at 62 wpm, not bad for an eleven year old.

She looks at her finished Ficlet, changes some sentences so that they smile at her, gives the Ficlet a title, and, satisfied, clicks publish.