Likely Stories

I usually vocalize while I write; if anyone were to creep into my candle-lit study, they would not only hear the frantic clicker-clack of fingers-against-keyboard, but also crude clicker-clacks caused by moving my tongue against the roof of my mouth, representing heels on cobblestones, my heavy breath in the place of the tumultuous wind-storm that swept through the streets of my story, an explosion of saliva in my mouth standing in for the explosion of gunpowder in the chamber of an imaginary Colt revolver.

A burble escaped my lips (in my story, the rain was washing the blood down a drain.)

I trembled, staring at the glorious story on my spit-flecked monitor. This had to be my best story yet, and I'd written some gems before. A gripping psychological thriller, told from the perspective of a killer. This was the kind of story that would really sweep up the accolades on Literature.org. In a flurry of keystrokes, I submitted it.

Only to the wrong website.

Earlier today, I had submitted an anonymous tip to the police concerning some vandals with a can of spray-paint I had seen defacing the brick wall behind the Enchilada House. Unfortunately, my story, the brilliantly authentic confessions of a fictional murderer who shares my name, was sent to the same destination.

My mouth, as always, was the first one to catch on.

“I’m afraid I made a mistake.”