NightMaiden sat at her computer, completely agog at its stubbornness; she was sure that if the damnable machine could smile, it would be gloating at her, laced with clouds of complacency.

Then again, it might not have been the poor thing’s fault – on the other hand, it did not allow her to access her account at all.

She cringed when she heard her parents calling her up to bed, and finally made the decision to write a badly masked Ficlet about why she wasn’t writing on her real account.

It wasn’t because she had abandoned Ficlets.

Heavens, no. That would never happen.

In fact, the cogs in NightMaiden’s noggin had been whirring so horribly fast the past few days that she thought her head was going to burst from the ideas.

And she’s sitting forlornly, somewhere in the Mediterranean region, hoping that her online friends will not think she’s a fake.

(As a side note, Aidan would kill me if I tried to plagiarize her, but I’m not really another person, so I couldn’t do that…oh, this is too confusing.)