Author's Note
Welcome to your daily dose of crack – thought of this last night and laughed myself silly when I thought about the topic. Do enjoy! :D It's a threeshot, and I know the title doesn't specify threeshots, but, oh well. Here I go! There may be a temporary break in between the full postage of this piece to fit in other stories/to do the NaNoWriMo, so don't think I've let it go if I don't update it for a little bit. ;)

Super Special Awkward Plot Twist
Part 1/3
The Malfunction

The Ghostwriter was in his massive library home, whiling away yet another day by tapping out stories on his keyboard. It wasn't a particularly bad existence, considering what many other ghosts had gotten landed with, but it still got a bit dull every so often, usually when writer's block showed its ugly face and attempted to crash the party.

Today wasn't a particularly strange day, either; everything was going as normal. There were no visitors, no disturbances, no unexpected happenings, no dimensional warps... it was just a regular day in every way that it could be.

Up until now, at least, when the Ghostwriter had decided to update his library and get the new material stocked up on the shelves. He did it once a month, and it usually added an entire new room to the library. It was a bit like a TARDIS, in this respect – from the outside, it looked like it could only hold a couple of large rooms, but once you were in there, one could get lost in the infinite depths. Even the 'Writer himself had lost track some time ago of exactly how many rooms there were; he guessed there might have been thousands, at the moment, but could have easily placed it at a higher number.

As for how many books there were... there was no way of telling, and counting was out of the question. It'd have taken you years to do it – the ghost was lucky that his keyboard could tell him exactly the route he'd need to take in order to find any book he wanted and where in the room he could find it.

An hourglass appeared on the screen of the Quantum Keyboard in place of a mouse, which made him wonder briefly why he'd chosen Windows XP as his operating system over a Macintosh, but disregarded the thought immediately when it (finally) told him where the new room had appeared. Apparently, it was in the ninety-seventh hall to the left of the main room, which wasn't too bad. It'd been a lot further away, at times. The Ghostwriter proceeded with interest to the new section, wondering what sorts of new reading material had come to life...

Inside, shelves were stacked to the brims with easily over ten thousand books. There were all sorts of things – bits of stories that were never going to be finished, film scripts, fanfiction, instruction manuals... if something could be written and was more than a few pages long, a copy of it always ended up here, in this very library.

The Ghostwriter picked up a particularly heavy book, seemingly at random, and looked over the cover. It was made of glass and it was somehow embossed with gold lettering, which gleamed when the light of the 'Writer's glowing eyes shone on it.

"'The Many Loves of My Life'." the Ghostwriter read, looking at the book sceptically. It was made to look like some sort of special artefact, and that, if dropped, something similar may never crop up again in the entire history of the Earth.

He was neither impressed nor amused. It was blatantly obvious; this was one of those try-hard books that grab your attention with looks rather than a good plot or blurb. In fact, it wasn't even technically a book, the 'Writer discovered when he flicked through the pages – it was, in fact, a script for a television show.

A decidedly idiotic one, at that.

The Ghostwriter proceeded to spend the rest of his day unloading all of the good-looking books from the shelves and placing them on the table in five stacks that were greater than him in height. This month had brought in some decent, if not impressive material, by the looks of things.

Haphazardly, he brought two stacks of books at a time into the main room, so used to doing so that not a single one ever dropped – although the mountains did occasionally wobble. They were placed in a corner with the other dozen-or-so books that hadn't yet been read from last month, to do anything but gather dust. The 'Writer had already been an insanely fast reader, and over the years he'd been able to skim books at a pace that would make most assume he hadn't actually read anything at all.

Unfortunately, the glass book that he'd been looking at earlier was on the bottom of the final stack, and part of the cover cracked when he put it down with much less of a gentle touch than he was originally intending.

The Ghostwriter couldn't have this, no fear. This was a book we were talking about, and, regardless of the content, it was to be retreated with respect and dignity, in his eyes. Even if they were used poorly, they were, after all, a collection of words. It wasn't the first time he'd come across a damaged book, anyway, and fixing them was only a matter of putting them in a special processor attached to the quantum keyboard.

And so that's exactly what he did. It was just a shame the quantum keyboard malfunctioned while it was attempting to fix the book, and it was even more of a shame that the Ghostwriter was standing right in the middle of the keyboard ring when it happened.

There was a faint popping sound, and then, without a trace, the Ghostwriter was gone.


The keyboard began to type...