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Author: Sturmovik
Author's Comments

Another short piece I wrote in the "Bob Universe" in March, 2001.

The author typed furiously at his keyboard, sweat running down his face as he gasped for air. Finally the last few sentences of his newest transformation story were finished and he hit return to send it off to the publisher the author slumped down and fell off his chair unconscious. A few hours later he awoke in his own drool and dried sweat and staggered off to the bathroom. He relieved himself for almost a full ten minutes before the flow of waste and fluids abated and he was free to crawl into the kitchen. The author threw open the refrigerator door and pulled out a half full tin of cold Boston Market stew that had been delivered the day before and not even bothering with utensils, he began to cram fistfuls of it into his mouth.

The author hated his life, but it hadn’t always been this way. He had had a real life once with a job and friends. When he got his new computer and an Internet connection he fond some places online that catered to people like him, people with an interest in transformations. He joined some mailing lists and although he had never written anything before and wasn’t really that creative he found time most evenings, after he got off of work, to write some short transformational works. There wasn’t anything really new, creative or even that good about his stories. They were sort of formulaic and nobody ever commented, but the author had fun writing them. Then, one day, a day that changed his life forever, the author thought up Bob.

He had been just sitting down to watch football when he had an amazing idea for a story about a guy named Bob who kept getting transformed. He literally ran to his computer and began to pound out the story. By the time he was finished his fingertips were beat red and his whole hand hurt, but he was staring at the best story he had ever written. It didn’t even need to be proofread. He e-mailed it to his lists and went to bed only to be awoken the next morning with another Bob story firmly in mind. He was dead tired and his eyes were nothing but big black circles, but he couldn’t stop himself from turning on his computer and pounding out another Bob story. When he was finished he realized that he was 4 hours late for work.

The author had gotten to his job, given a lame excuse and went to work at the furniture factory in the wood storage room, but three hours into his shift he got the urge again. He had been promptly fired when the boss caught him writing on the walls with a lumber crayon and a burly co-worker had to throw him in the back of a van and dump him at his home, his arms flailing wildly as they traced letters in the air. Over the next three days the author had thought he was going to die as the food ran low and he barely had enough time to sleep or eat. The stories struck at random and he was compelled to write 2-4 each day taking 3-5 hours each. We was even scared to leave his house due to the possibility of an attack catching him without a writing tool. He feared that someone would see him and cart him off to an asylum and he had no idea what to do when the money ran out. Any hope of the curse simply ending itself went away when the author saw himself typing that Bob had found a way to control the transformations on his own.

The author sighed as he guzzled down a half-gallon or orange juice. Had it not been for the publishing company that had seen his work and offered to pay him to publish his storied in a monthly digest, the author would have been granted a merciful death by starvation, but alas he was trapped in this hellish state of equilibrium. He barely had time to do anything beyond tending to his basic physical needs. He was a prisoner in his own home having everything delivered and all work contracted out. He was making nice money, but he couldn’t go out to spend it. Suddenly, as the author reapplied the bandages and ointment to his bleeding raw fingertips the front door rang. The author realized that it must be day, having earlier sealed every crack and window with cardboard.

“Slide it through the slot or put it in the hole,” yelled the Author, always dreading having to expose a delivery man to his dirty stinking self.

He saw an envelope slide under the door and he ran to pick it up. He looked at the cover and quickly tore it open. In his hand lay what could prove to be his salvation. You see, a short time ago the author had discovered that this Bob wasn’t a fictional character, but a real person who’s life he was being forced to chronicle. He now had this “Bob’s” phone number and as the author dialed the phone he was confident that, upon hearing his story, this “Bob” would surely subjecting him to this living hell. The number rung 4 times and a rich male voice answered.

“Hello, Bob here.”

“Um, Mr. Bob-I mean Smith. Smith, Bob Smith. Now please, I don’t want to alarm you, but I know about your seceret...your ability to transform. I-I’m not some spy, just a writer and every time you transform I am compelled by some force to write about it. I-I-I can’t prevent it. I can’t stop writing! You’ve gotta stop transforming, it-it’s killing me!”

“Oh, so you’re The Writer. I was wondering how my life’s story was making it to bookstore shelves. You write very nicely. I’m really quite flattered.”

“Can you please stop transforming or at least cut back? I-I-I can’t take much more of this.”

“ see Mr. Writer I’ve always an average nobody blending into life’s background, but then one day I started to transform and the next thing you know my story is being read by thousands of people across this country and Canada. I’m sorry Mr. Writer, that’s not something I’m about to give up. You know, all this talk has really given me the urge to transform. How about an Eagle today Mr. Writer? Get it comes.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” screamed the author as the line went dead. The next thing he knew he had dropped the phone and was running to his computer. He continued to scream and wail as his thoughts filled with images of feathers and soaring.

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