QWERTY

“Speak to me, Muse!” the writer willed through ink and quill in a passion that burned only to be kept aflame.

It came in swift visions at night, pictures worth the wait in words. The writer glanced as the creature’s hind legs more than cleared the jump over a sleeping dog. The soft pounce of its paws in the brush behind caused the dog to turn its head and show the writer that its eyes had been open the whole time.

It felt important. It felt distinct and in a language that differed from the usual mental banter. It felt true and worth writing down. Perhaps it would stir the story up and out of the writer, stuck wordless and flustered by the experience of unmet expectations. The writer was low on ink and without motivation to pursue more. A spear-loaded loin-clothed non-hunter of life.

Ahead of their time with ideas not meant for the pre-digital age, the writer could see a clear path evolving from the primitive use of writing tools to advanced technology in a world where everyone wrote and not even hands were required, much less a brain. Just get the words out. Visions flashed like flipbooks with small changes that ignited motion.

It looked like a revolution. Like a well-blended spectrum of color that linked the quill in the writer’s hand to a machine that could mimic their mind. Synthetic intelligence, nay, artificial, in an era when scholars would argue whether penned words held the same worth as typed.

It came again that night in a dream. Fast-paced fox paws ran full speed at the dog, which now rolled on its side like a meaty drumstick, begging to be bitten and swallowed. The writer watched from the other side of the brush, fearful and begging to wake.

The trouble came from knowing they were on the right path. They knew it supernaturally, the way you know things you can’t explain with logic, but the right path was leading them nowhere. They were tired of teaching schoolhouse children the basics of holding a pen, that less fragile product of manufactured steel, signaling technology’s growth. It bored them to the edge of death, begging to be something more.

What was once so clear now threatened to fade if the writer could not see it through. A single lyric sung by their muse had catapulted them onto this path of invisible signs and unspeakable feelings. They burned to know its purpose. What was the point of staring at the newfangled typewriter, knowing even it was holding them back. Simultaneously, it limited and necessitated what the writer could do with a tool.

Writers don’t need tools. Writers are tools. The words are all that speak.

That night, the writer dreamed a softer version of the ongoing tale. They woke inside their sleep upon a fox fur pillow the color of chocolate milk. The fox woke, too. It stood on all fours, face to face with the one who was trying to conjure its meaning.

“Speak,” said the writer, “and tell me what all of this means.”

The fox looked around, laid eyes upon the lazy mutt by the brush then swept its glance back to the writer.

“Speak!” said the writer, “and tell me what words I must say.”

Without warning, the fox full speed ran to the mutt and leaped over it with the ease of a four-legged grand tour jeté.

It paused, unphased by its swiftness.

“Speak!” said the writer, “and tell me how to fulfill my purpose!”

But the fox didn’t care. It only knew swiftness and cunning. Still, it had not the heart to ignore.

“Write what you see,” said the fox, and no more.

The writer woke with tremors that demanded they wrap a pen in hand, so they did, translating visions into manic scrawl. Revolution blazed from somewhere inside the act, in emergence. Without understanding, with only their fire, the writer let the words out.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.