Why I Write

I hit "publish" on The Great All-nighter's drafting dashboard and another story is finished, sent off into the world. And not a moment too soon.

Seconds later, Spider kicks in my front door and stomps across my living room. As always with Spider, the threat of violence is unmistakable. I notice he's gotten another arachnid tattoo, a small spiderweb on his left cheek, since I've seen him last. He's tall, so I have to squint to see it. I'm always surprised at how much bigger he is than anyone I've ever met, easily larger than most professional football players.

"Where's the story, Fox?" he demands. He brushes the stubby spikes on one fingerless glove with the thumb from his other hand. "You'd better have a story for me."

"Right over here, Mr. Spider." The man only accepts physical copies, so I gesture to the fresh pages I printed out for him just before posting the story. The giant man hulks over the thin stack.

"What is this, about twelve hundred words?"

"Yeah, right around twelve hundred. Good eye."

Spider snarls at me and snatches the paper from my desk. "I prefer the shorter ones," he says as he fishes reading glasses from out of his black leather vest. The garment is opened to reveal several more spider-related tattoos on his bare torso. He reads the title aloud.

"Your Server Will Be Right With You. This isn't one of those personal stories, is it?"

"Well, kind of," I tell him. "It's-"

"Never mind. I'll read it myself." He folds the papers and stuffs them into the back pocket of his dirty blue jeans. He quietly scans the room as he replaces the reading glasses in his vest. Then, he looks at me with the beady, pale green eyes from my nightmares.

"There had better not be any spelling or grammatical errors," he hisses at me. This is a major concern of his, and I have no idea why. He takes a step closer and cranes over me. I hold my ground, but a shiver rushes through my bones.

"I double-checked. Shouldn't be a problem, sir."

"I hope that you're right," he says. He's so close that I can smell his breath, which reeks of tree bark and window detergent. Tears fill my eyes. However, before I begin weeping, Spider storms out of my apartment, gone just as suddenly as he had barged in less than a minute earlier. I hear the growl of his Harley-Davidson and the subsequent screech of its wheels as Spider speeds off into the night.

I exhale and take a deep breath in my empty apartment, relaxing again as I open up Facebook on my computer. I cut & paste the story's URL on my page and write a short introduction for my readers. But it's all for Spider, expressly posted so I can see whether he "likes" it or not. This is what tells me how much time I have until the next one is due.

It could be any moment from now.