Click. Clack. QUERTY.

This was my entry for Writer's Digest Prose Poetry contest.



Click, click, click. Clickety click. Fingers fast slipping across the keys. Click, clack. Clack, click. Back and forth, forward and backward. Up, down, and all around. This is actually fun--Ding! Onomatopoeia, she whispers, smiling. Left to right, and right to left. Fingers pushing and pulling. QUERTY, her mind utters. Why that now? whispers she again. Like you should still be sighing. This happens all the time--Ding! Fact is, she and her mind are forever talking. Talk about being engaged! Click, clack. Deep in her subconscious too, no doubt. Even when heavily submerged in her REM. Click, clack. Call it constant communication on auto-pilot, while still getting some zzz's--Ding! This endless conversation, this often mindless, mental stream, she's used to it by now. She should be. Clack, clack. Unlike those days when she'd pound herself for what she thought was a self-imposed ADD. Self-diagnosed it was really and entirely not her fault. Click, clack. You wouldn't blame a mind that simply goes on overdrive, would you? Clack, clack. Actually, she deserves a pat on the shoulder. And coffee. Starbucks would be nice. Or chocolate, or both. Sweet caffeine for a hyperactive mind. Or a new book. Even a finely bound classic. Would a tap do?--I'm kidding, her mind teases, more often now, it seems. How in the world did she manage college? I helped you, her mind...clacks, for lack of a better word. But even then, she knew better. She started over--Ding! An AA this time. Click. It was a tough decision, but she took it anyway and did not back out. Even with a BBA--heck, after a BBA!--for crying out loud. Back and forth, forward and backward. Clack. How scary was that, to feel so left behind, as spates of new grads flood the gates, all hoping to till the ground, year after year after year. Clack, clack. To have gone back is to have seriously lagged behind those who stayed, those who were now way ahead. But to have continued in a new direction presented great uncertainties and intimidation. Could one expect anything less than fierce competition? In a creative arena, you've got to be kidding. I warned you, chides her mind. I told you to stay in the path, keep your emotions in check, and watch that passion. Your heart would get you in trouble. Clack. I'm just saying...clack, clack.

But she has long since passed that crossroad and traveled a new road. Click. Her consciousness switches. Click, click. Where did you store that information anyway? Her mind shifts. Typical mental random access mode. Speaking of RAM, as in computer-speak, it's such a common term nowadays. Kind of like Jobs. No, not the workplace stuff. Steve's surname. The apple guy. Besides, workplace jobs are fast becoming extinct these days. But poor Steve... He isn't poor, what are you on? Clack. He's recently rested in peace--honestly, don't you read? Oh...sorry. RIP Steve. Still, such a shame, with all the apple stuff now orphaned...QUERTY. What now? Clack. Wait, she's remembering--Ding!--the convention salesmen used to efficiently type the word, "typewriter", of course! The keys were all conveniently located on the same line. Click. Hence, the potential buyers were impressed--Ding! Thank goodness for Google and Wikipedia for their ever-growing presence to ensure that our source materials are just clicks away. Clack. And to Steve. But I helped too--her mind chimes in--Ding! In fact, I've always helped you. Clack, clack. See, you've written this much already. Wow, sure glad that Writer's Digest has posted this challenge. Or was it Robert Lee Brewer? Remind me to give him a shout-out later on Twitter. Oh, now you need my help?--her mind chatters, as she shifts in her chair. She doesn't mean to ignore it, this integral part of her life. Click, clack. Yet, every now and then, she yearns to call the shots. It must learn to live with her. Her art. Her passion. Her heart. She'd do the same. She's been. I'm really liking this, she says with a grin. Click, click. Same here, if it is indeed prose poetry, her mind yaks. Clack, clack. But there isn't any typewriter in sight. Tap, tap. What's that tapping noise now? What happened to the clicks and the clacks? The ding's gone too. Onomatopoeia. Must have all just been inside her head, and none of it real, she reckons. Of course it is happening inside your head...but why on earth should that mean it is not real?--recalls her mind. Apparently, it's what the greatest wizard who ever lived told the boy who lived at King's Crossing, according to J.K. Rowling. By the way, Rowling initially wrote her stories by hand. With a pen. Burning your eyebrows writing stories with ink on your hands makes you a real deal. Just saying, while tapping on the iPAD.