Story...

The little boy sat at his computer desk staring at the screen. He had his cola on one side, his unfinished candy bar on the other, and sat waiting for the inspiration to hit. Having just finished one story he wondered what the next one would be about. For some reason he never knew what was going to come from his fingers till he started typing. As always, when he finished a story, he felt a wave of depression roll over his. The same questions, "Was it good enough? Would anyone like it?" rolled through him until his world centered on them.

The only way he was able to get out of the rut was to force his self to start writing again. Once a new story started, the joy of writing would take over and he would feel as if he were flying. Taking a sip of his coffee he heard the voice that he knew would come, "You know they don't understand." Not looking up he pretended to not hear the voice. It was a game they had played many times before. "No one understands." The voice prodded his as if picking an old wound that would not heal.

"No one understands." He agreed not looking up. "They never do, not even the other writers." Savoring the remaining bar, he looked at the cigarette in the ash try gulping down the receding traces of its smoky flavor and the rush as the nicotine hit his system. Taking another sip of his coke, "can we just say we played the rest of the game and skip it today?" He paused and then added, "I am not up to it anymore."

The voice replied in a childlike voice, "Wadda matter? Liddle writer in the downy dumps?"

The boy looked up to the heavens as if speaking to the gods, "Why is it, everyone gets a helpful muse, while I get one with a twisted sense of humor?" He quickly adds, "Don't answer that." After a while he asks, "Why? Why am I cursed so?"

He could almost feel the gentle touch of a hand stroking his hair as the voice answered, "It is the curse that goes along with your writing abilities. To write you have to put your heart and soul into every word. Nothing held back, no reserve to keep safe; you have to lay your soul open for the words to flow."

Closing his eyes he felt the tears fall, "I'm just so tired. Tired of getting hurt, tired of the hate, the scorn, you're not good enough mindset." He rested his head on his crossed arms in front of the keyboard, "Why can't I just write and be like others. It's not fair damn it."

He could not feel the hand stroking his back but knew it would be there if his muse were real, "Life is not fair, you know that. I wish. . . I wish I could take the pain away. I wish I could make your life where you could write without opening up. But, I can not. We both know that."

Looking up he said, "Ohh I know some will not like, some will not understand and that will make them hate it, while few will enjoy the story." Shaking his head sadly he looked at his hands and said softly, "I just wished they understood."

"I know you do and perhaps one day they will. But, be that as it may, it will not change anything," the voice replied sadly. The voice paused, "No matter what you say or do people will love or hate your work. No one and I mean no one ever has written a story that everyone loved." The voice sighed, "The only way past this is to start writing again." There was a long pause and he thought that the muse had left his to his cup of woe once more. But no it was not to be, "let me help you."

Without any control on his part the boy started typing. It had been over 10 years since the story broke about two brothers making an artificial person that once activated and assimilated into society was indictable from normal humans. Once it was found out that an AP could be made to pass through the world without anyone realizing, they soon flooded the market. It reached the point where you would never know if you were talking to an artificial or flesh and blood human. It is in this world that our story starts.

The voice said, "There, that should help you."

He sat there looking at the words on the screen and in his mind's eye the story unfolded. With a slight smile on his face he started typing, the depression lifting as his spirit once more soared. A few minutes later he said softly, "Thank you" and could almost hear his conscience reply, "Your welcome."