No one remembers when man and machine became one. For so long have they been conjoined that the notion of a separate existence is considered myth. Little attention is given this antiquated idea until some people-previously thought immune to mortality-suddenly die. Now all of society must finally confront something they thought belonged only to ancient humanity: What happens after death? The furious scratch of pen to paper. Few sounds are as pleasant to a writer's ear. The thoughts that compel this action-those ethereal words-ever pool about the mind, whispering, nudging, sometimes even shouting. The urge to write can be restrained for a time. The obligations of life, especially, are a convenient recourse for abeyance. Yet the words keep accumulating, growing, coalescing into paragraph after paragraph of dialogue and prose, straining at the capacities of memory. Finally, they must be released. Thus pours out a deluge of consciousness. Edicts of grammar are obliterated. Penmanship cast aside as flotsam. The once white paper is now stained in scribbles of ink, scribbles that will become tragedies, comedies, badinage, poetic meanderings. New worlds explored, old worlds made new. Thoughts to ponder and thoughts to scoff. But all of it, every single character and setting and conversation is now real, embossed upon the reader's mind.Are the resulting stories worthy of an audience? An author rarely knows. Only this is certain. The words are again gathering.
