She sits there, her arms are rigid, and her fingers are hovering over the keys in way that is reminiscent of vultures circling in the air before BAM! they catch their prey. Her finger movements are rapid, words are flowing onto the screen as thick and as fast as water gushing from a waterfall d yet she seems discontented. Frown line mar an otherwise exquisite face; they seem to flow deep into her skin as though they are a part of her and she is a part of them. A hand removes itself from its resting spot on the keys, suspended in midair as though unsure what to do with itself, until finally settling upon the nape of her neck. An everyday movement, performed by many, pondered by none. And yet here, in this time, in this place, it seems more fervent, more mysterious. The lady's eyes widen and the corners of her mouth crinkle and turn slightly upward. And then, the harsh click of rough, gnawed fingernails against the keyboard resounds again.

She is just another nameless, faceless entity, longing for her story to be told.

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A collection of stories depicting people of all races, ages, religions and walks of life. Please R&R, this is my first original stuff in two years.