Whatever Mel wrote became true.

Sitting behind a wide work desk, Mel typed, "Karmosh will die in 10 seconds."  Leaning away from the monitor, Mel looked at the words and then at the round clock on the far wall.  The red seconds hand moved so slowly, it seemed.  Five seconds, six seconds, seven seconds.

Holding a deep breath for what seemed like an eternity, Mel watched as the clock's hand passed the ten-second mark.

The receptionist screamed.  "Oh my God!  Somebody help!  I think Karmosh had a heart attack!"

Karmosh, a rival reporter, was a healthy and athletic 30-year-old man.  His dazzling blond hair, however, had fallen out of place.  A tuft that had usually been tucked behind his left ear covered his right eye.  His right cheek had slammed against the tiled floor.  It lie flush with the rigid surface.  He was dead.

"Please, somebody help!"  Mona, the receptionist, pleaded, shaking.  Her husband was a doctor but she didn't know what to do.  "He's not breathing.  He's not breathing."  She looked up and around with eyes so wide that her entire iris, and the white portion surrounding it, was visible.  It dilated every few seconds, even though the light level in the office remained the same.

Mona's shrieks annoyed Mel.  Why won't she shut up?  

Mel was only ten feet from Mona and the dead man, hidden behind a crowd of worried coworkers, but the yells found their way to Mel's pulsating eardrums.  Mel slowly put both hands back on the keyboard, angered, to shut those shrieks up.

"Mona will die now of a gunshot wound to the head," Mel typed.  "Blood will splatter everyone close to her."

Just as it was written, the wishes became truths.  

Mona dropped to the floor.  A bullet had traveled in through one temple and out the other, burrowing into a nearby wall.

"United States paper money will now start falling from the overhead lights."

And it happened.

The group of coworkers, bloodied and still unsure of where the gunshot came from, lie on the floor with soft paper money falling down on their backs.

"What the hell is going on?"  one of them asked.

"Someone call the police!"  another yelled.

Mel, amused with the entire situation, continued to write.  Mel was the only worker in the small office not cowering on the floor.  "It will now thunder in this office.  Rain will now pour down except for where I sit."

And it happened.

The workers on the floor lie in disbelief.  They all went into the first stages of shock, unsure if what was happening was real.

"The rain will now stop.  Now, fire will burn on the ceiling and in the doorways, and a deep voice from above will say, 'You are all going to hell!'"

And it happened.

Mel stopped writing, pushed away from the keyboard and stood.  The flames rolled along the ceiling like they had heartbeats of their own, warming Mel's smiling face.  

"Mel, get down!  You'll be burned!"

"Someone call for help!  We can't get out of here!"

Mel sat back down.  "The fire on this ceiling will disappear now.  Everyone in this office, except for myself, Karmosh and Mona, will be frogs now."

And it happened.

Seventeen frogs, wet from the recent downpour, hopped about on the floor.  Karmosh and Mona lie completely still.

"Everyone in this office, except for myself, Karmosh and Mona, will now be a rat."

And it happened.

Rats in the office scurried in every direction.  Scared and confused, the rats - not ready for the speed at which they could run - slid into walls and against table legs.  They all made little chirping noises and tried to scuttle for cover.

Mel, however, could not keep track of all the rats.

"The rats in this office are now paralyzed."

And it happened.

Seventeen wet rats, scattered about the tiled floor, stopped at once.  Some underneath desks; some in the open floor space.

Mel got up from the desk again and walked to the bathroom.  Urinating for one minute, Mel's first impulse was to wash those shaking hands.  This is so much fun.

Looking in the mirror, Mel laughed at the reflection.  "I've never been a forty-five-year-old black woman before," she said.  "Look at my boobs.  There so big."

After spending a short while in front of the mirror, appreciating her new assets, Mel entered the hallway, sidestepping stiff rats, and walked to her desk.

Sitting down, bored with being in South Africa, Mel grabbed once again for the keyboard.

"I will go to my home in California now and return to my own body."

And it happened.

Reappearing on her bed, looking as she had before visiting South Africa, Mel stretched out, releasing a happy sigh.

"Mel!  Dinnertime, sweetie," Mel's mom yelled from the kitchen.  "Wash up real good."

Mel climbed down from the bed and walked toward the bathroom.  Like her room, it was upstairs.  Once inside, she stood on a wooden footstool and looked in the mirror just to be sure.  She saw a twelve-year-old white girl with a purple bruise under her right eye and a gash on her forehead looking back.  Pushing on the soap dispenser, Mel lathered her hands and scrubbed until the soot from the office fire was completely gone from underneath her fingernails.

"Let's go, Mel.  Dinner's going to get cold."

Drying her hands off on a green towel, Mel bounced into the hallway and down the stairs.

"Hi, mommy."

"Hi, sweetie.  Did you wash your hands?"

"Yes, mom."

"Good girl.  Did you have a nice nap?"

"Yes, mommy.  I dreamed I went to South Africa."

"You and your imagination, Mel.  What did you do there?"

"First, I went to visit the lions and elephants.  Then I worked at a newspaper."

"Really?  Did you write anything for them, sweetie?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, good.  Now eat your soup before it gets cold."

Mel sopped up the chicken noodle soup with a large, silver spoon.  Because she couldn't fit the entire utensil in her small mouth, she had to slurp up the broth.

"Your father will be home tonight, Mel.  He's done with his work trip.  Is your room clean?"

"Yes, mommy."

"You sure?"

"Yes, mommy!"

"Okay.  You know how mad your father gets when he comes home to a messy house."

The happiness from Mel's face disappeared at the mention of her father.  "I don't like dad, mommy.  He hurt me.  He doesn't love me."

"Melanie Anne Richards, I don't ever want to hear you say that again.  Do you hear me?"

"He doesn't love me, though.  He doesn't!"

"You know your father works a lot of hours for us, and he just gets mad sometimes.  That's all."

"I'm going to tell somebody, mommy.  I hate him."

"Mel, that's it.  Go to your room!"

Mel slammed the shiny spoon on the table and ran for the stairs.  "I hate daddy," she screamed.  "I hate him."

"And no computer!"

Mel ignored her mother's scolding and slammed the door to her room, locking it behind her.  Crying now, she rushed to her small white desk and pushed the power button to her computer.  It buzzed and sputtered and came to life.

Once a text prompt appeared on the screen, she began writing.  "I will now be inside a big tree house in Ireland."

And it happened.

Sitting by herself inside the large tree house, amid a plush forest atop a green Irish hillside, Mel looked all around the inside of the little home high up in the air.  The place was empty.  No tables nor teacups nor toys.  She opened the little red front door and climbed down the boards that were nailed to the thick, barky trunk.  Once to the ground she rummaged for a pointy stick.  Finding a spot on the Earth where there was no green grass, she kneeled down with the short piece of tree branch and wrote on the ground.  "This tree house will now be filled with toys and dolls and dresses and pretty things."

And it happened.

Placing several large handfuls of dirt into the tiny front pockets of her brown corduroys, Mel climbed back up the ladder and to the tree house.  The stick, which she had wedged into her left back pocket, broke when she sat on the newly carpeted floor.

Like she had written, toys and dolls and dresses and pretty things filled the cozy little home.  Smelling the fresh cut flowers arranged on a white shelf in front of her, she bent down and pulled a pink dress over her clothes.  Smoothing out the one wrinkle with both hands, she then decided to play with her shoulder-length blond hair.  Next, she placed a plastic hamburger into the toy oven.

"This will be good, sweetheart," she said to her imaginary husband.  "You worked real hard today and I'm going to feed you."

She took the plastic meat out of the oven and blew on it as if it were hot.  Then she grabbed for a small teacup and poured air into it from a white kettle.

"Drink this, honey.  You have to be thirsty after working hard all day."

She handed the cup to no one.

"I'm going to do dishes now, baby.  You get to relax.  I love you."

She puckered her lips and kissed the air.  "Well, thank you.  I did get a new dress today."

Mel stood up, bent down, and readjusted the buckle on her fancy white shoes.  "Okay, honey.  I'm going to do the dishes now."

She walked to the other end of the tree house and looked out a small window.  She rubbed under her eye and grabbed a small, handled mirror.  Applying fake makeup to her bruise, she whistled the song to the Andy Griffith Show.

"Okay, honey.  Dishes are done.  Can I get you anything, baby?"

There was no reply.

"I think we're all out of beer.  Do you want me to go to the store, honey?"

When a reply did not come, she sat down, crossed her skinny legs, and cried.  Pulling the dress off, she reached into her tiny right pocket and grabbed for a handful of dirt.  Spreading it evenly on the soft patch of carpet in front of her, she wrote with her finger.  The sentence was long, and she had to continually grab for more dirt.  "I will now go to Colorado where it is snowy and be a tall, grown-up boy."

And it happened.  

Appearing on a mountainside sixty miles outside of Denver, Mel looked over the valley and cried some more.  "It's so pretty," he said, his voice deep and steady.

Mel grew cold and grew lonely.  Tears were slowly turning to icicles.  Crouching down in the snow, he wrote, "I will go to my home now in California and return to my own body."

And it happened.

Appearing on her bed, back in her home, Mel stretched out, releasing an unhappy sigh.  She looked at the clock.  It was 8 p.m.  Her father would be home soon.  Sick with worry, she went over the entire room again, looking for anything that might be out of place.  As far as she could tell, the room was perfect -- spotless.  Tick tock.  Tick tock.  The clock continued to change, moving its long hand closer and closer to the "30."  She picked up gray fuzz balls off the carpet, resting her cheek on the floor to span the entire area for anything she might have missed.

Not quite sure whether or not she should go downstairs, Mel turned on a little radio, making certain the volume was low.  The radio station sent love songs to the little box, and Mel hummed along to the ones she knew.

"We hate to interrupt this broadcast but there is a breaking news story out of Peoria, South Africa," a broadcaster over the radio said.  "The Associated Press is reporting that in one of the most mysterious crimes of the year, two people have died and seventeen are missing from a local newspaper -- The Peoria Times, a large daily publication known for its coverage of turmoil in the Middle East.  Officials say that one of the dead, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Karmosh Redding, passed from an unexpected heart attack.  Mona Burbain, a circulation receptionist, has apparently died from a gunshot wound to the head.  Oddly, seventeen paralyzed rats were also found at the scene -- one for each employee that is missing.  Local police officials have yet to comment.  We will update this story at the top of the hour."

Mel heard the report and shook her head.  She had never used her power to kill anyone, and rarely caused anyone grief.  If she could have written her way back in time, she would have.  It was, however, one of the few things she could not make happen.

Feeling sorry for the people she had hurt, Mel heard the front door downstairs open and her mother yell.  "Mel, come down here!  Daddy's home."

Taking another deep breath, Mel turned for the door, unlocked it and opened it slowly, accidentally letting a few drops of pee soak into her pink underwear.

At the front door, Mel's father, Jack, set his briefcase on the floor and loosened his tie.

"It's so good to see you, honey," Mel's mother said to Jack.  "How was your trip?"

"It was okay.  Listen, what's for dinner, Susan?"

"I baked a meatloaf," she said, hugging around his fat neck.  "Do you want to eat now?"

"Yeah.  I have to go use the john."  Jack removed Susan's arms from around his neck, put his suit coat on a hook attached to the back of the front door and walked toward the main floor bathroom.

By now, Mel stood at the foot of the stairs, hugging the banister.  Her dad walked right by her without even so much as patting her on the head.  He'd been gone for over a week.

"Go get washed up, Mel," her mother whispered.  "I shouldn't have to tell you every night."

Mel scurried back up the stairs, turned left and stepped up onto the footstool.  She scrubbed extra hard, then dried both hands -- one at a time -- until no moisture was left.  Folding the towel in half, and then again in half, she slotted the fabric through a gold hoop attached to the wall, and made sure the frays draped on either side matched each other in length.

Looking in the mirror, she noticed that her bruise was turning a little yellow.  That's the part she hated the worst.  It would soon disappear, but be replaced with a new mark on her arm or leg or back.

Smiling as big as she could, showing all her teeth and crooking her head a little to the left, she hopped down from the stool, turned the light off, and crept down the stairs.  Once at the bottom, Mel looked at the dining room table.  Her dad was eating.  He wasn't saying a word.  Neither was her mother.  Dinner was always so uncomfortable for Mel.  When she ate, she was sure her dad could hear her chewing.

"Come sit down, Mel," her father ordered.  "Let me see those hands."

Mel walked toward her father with arms outstretched and palms up.

"Okay.  Sit down.  Eat."

Mel obliged, never again making eye contact with anyone at the table.

"So tell us about your trip, honey," her mother said.

Jack chewed with his mouth open.  A tiny piece of meatloaf stuck to the corner of his lip.  "Not much to tell.  Just another trip."

Mel's mother gave up on conversation.  The remainder of the meal was eaten in silence.  Mel picked at the meatloaf and switched between pushing the peas to the far end of the plate and the carrots.

After fifteen minutes, Jack finished the last bite of his.  He did not thank Susan for the meal.  Instead, he said, "Mel, let's go have a look at that room."

Mel was happy to leave what was left on her plate behind, but was scared of what was about to come.  She knew no matter how clean her room was, her father would find something out of place.  That meant she would have to be beaten.  She was too tired to care this night.  Dinner was usually served at 5 p.m.  Her little body was used to getting ready for bed at this hour.

Once atop the stairs, with Mel following five steps behind, Jack opened the door to the room, flicked on the light, and stood silent for a moment.  He took a few steps in.  Mel took a peek from around the doorway, fearful that she had left a shirt or a dress out.  She'd gone over the place at least fifty times, but she always forgot something.

"What is this, Mel?"  her father asked.  "What the hell is this?"

"What, daddy?"  she asked back, her tiny voice trembling.

"How many times have I told you how to make your bed?"  he asked, his voice deep and loud.  "Look at the top sheet!  It's all wrong!  And your shoes?  I told you to keep them in the closet!  Didn't I tell you that?"

"I don't know, daddy," Mel said.  Her lip started to quiver and she began sucking on her thumb like she did when she was much younger.  "I'm sorry, daddy.  I forget things.  I'm sorry."

"Get over here!  Now!"

Mel took two slow steps forward.

Unhappy with her reluctance to move fast, Jack grabbed her arm and yanked her to the bed.

Mel hit the side of the mattress and fell to the floor, her back facing Jack.

Jack kicked his daughter, square on one of her vertebrates, and then again between her shoulder blades.  "Get up, damn you!  Get up!"

Downstairs, Susan sat quietly at the table.  Drinking from a glass of water, she looked straight ahead, emotionless.  Her body jumped a little each time she heard a yell or a thud.

Upstairs, Mel stood.  Her back ached and tears flooded her face.

Jack sat down on the bed.  "Lay across my knees."

Mel did.  Laying on her stomach, she felt the first of the harsh spankings.  It stung her buttocks and she screamed.  The second slap was worse.  The third worse yet.

Susan got up from the table and walked to the living room.  There, she turned on the stereo.  It played Beethoven.  She turned it up just loud enough that the neighbors couldn't hear the beating upstairs if they were on a walk.

Jack hit Mel again.  Harder and harder.

Mel's buttocks burned, and the small of her back suffered sharp pains when her father missed the little target.

After about twenty lashings, Jack pushed Mel to the ground and walked out into the hallway.

Mel lie, crying and shaking.

Jack went to bed.

Susan walked up the stairs to join him.

Mel crawled to her bedroom door and pushed it shut.  She locked the door and rested her aching back against it.  "I hate him," she whispered, crying without making a sound.  She wanted to write, "Now, my daddy will die."  But she could never write those words.  She knew her mother would find out somehow.  She couldn't stand the thought of her mother not loving her, too.

Crawling over to her little white desk, Mel struggled to sit on the chair.  Once she did, her buttocks hurt so bad that she had to grab a pillow off the bed and set it underneath her.  Still, it didn't help.

The computer was on.  Moving the mouse so that the screensaver disappeared and a text prompt appeared, Mel thought of what to write.  She could go anywhere.  Anywhere she wanted.

Thinking for a minute, done with crying, Mel began typing.  "I will now go to a pretty creek in the mountains and be a pretty, grownup girl."

And it happened.

Mel appeared alongside a creek nestled between two hills full of evergreen trees.  She was now in her thirties and very pretty.  It was still daylight where she was and the sun could be seen just dipping behind the tallest tree.  Excited to see what she looked like, Mel bent over the running water and looked at the swirling reflection.  She saw the most brilliant blue eyes and long blond hair.  She loved looking at the woman staring back at her.  She had never been someone so beautiful.

Still mesmerized with the sight the creek shared, Mel reached down to touch the face staring back at her in the water.  Touching the surface, rippling blemishes disturbed the pretty face.  After a few seconds, the face reappeared and smiled right back at her.

Sitting back on her new buttocks, which had never been spanked or punched, Mel closed her eyes and listened the running water.  It splashed and moved rhythmically over the rocks.  It was so peaceful to her.  Then she took several very deep breaths and smiled.  "I am so pretty.  I will find a very cute husband and we will visit this creek every night after he works hard all day," she said.  "Then he will kiss me and tell me how pretty I am.  And we will play with our dog and have tea with the neighbors."

The thought of staying at the creek that night tempted her dearly.  The sun, however, was slowly disappearing and dusk was scary.  With her finger, she poked the muddy bank.  Then she wrote, "I will now go to a very sunny place and be in this same body."

And it happened.

Mel reappeared as the same beautiful women sitting on a tropical beach.  The sun was directly overhead and she had to squint to appreciate the warmth.  The ocean in front of her spanned as far as she could see.  It was so big she felt again suddenly so small.  Scanning the vast beach in both directions, she grew lonely.  With her right index finger buried an inch in the wet sand, she wrote, "I will go to my home now in California and return to my own body."

And it happened.

Appearing on her bed, back in her home, Mel stretched out, releasing an unhappy sigh.  It was 9:30 p.m.  Her father would be checking on her any minute.

Pulling the covers back, she climbed into the bed still wearing her clothes.  She didn't think she had time to change into pajamas.

After five minutes, Mel heard footsteps nearing her bedroom door.  They sounded heavy.  Act like I'm sleeping.  Act like I'm sleeping.

Jack opened the door to her room, approached Mel's bed, and listened to her breathing.  "I know when you're faking," he said.  "Do you think you're smarter than me?"

Mel didn't know what to say, or if she should now that he knew she was awake.  Her little heart began beating fast.

"I'll give you one more chance, Mel."

"I'm sorry, daddy," she finally said.  "I tried to sleep, but I couldn't.  I'll try harder this time.  I promise."

"Not good enough.  Good girls would be sleeping already.  Now, get up and go get a wooden spoon from the kitchen."

Mel got up as fast as she could and ran around her father, into the hallway and down the stairs.  She took a left once in the dining room and headed into the kitchen.  She then opened a drawer and grabbed a long, wooden spoon.  The spoon stung worse than the hand, she remembered.

Turning back around, Mel saw a notepad and a pen on the kitchen counter.  She stopped, looked at the spoon, and then at the notepad and pen.  She dropped the spoon on the linoleum and grabbed for the pen.  Scared that her father had heard the spoon hit the floor, she wrote quickly.  "I will now be a big, strong man outside of my home in California."

And it happened.

Mel appeared on the porch in front of her home.  She looked at the reflection on the paned glass on the front door and saw a six-foot-five white man wearing a black leather coat.  His long hair was kept off his face with a red bandana.

He rang the doorbell.

Jack, still in Mel's room, heard the noise and rushed downstairs.  "What the hell is this?  Who's visiting this late?"

Reaching the front door, Jack looked outside through the paned glass and saw the burly stranger.  He opened the door, and asked, "Is there a problem?"

Mel didn't say anything for a couple of seconds.  Then he took a step forward.

Jack, a little over six feet tall, tried to slam the door shut.

Mel, however, flung a massive arm between the door and casing, and used his body weight to force the door wide open.

Jack reeled.  "What do you want?  Who are you?"

Again, Mel remained speechless.  He simply walked toward his father.

"Is it money?  What do you want?"  Jack, not speaking in the deep voice he usually used, was cornered.  His back was against a closet.  "Please.  Don't hurt me.  I'll give you anything you want."

Mel, tired of talk, lifted a fist and slammed it hard against his father's nose.

Jack dropped to the floor.

Mel kicked him in the stomach, and then in the head.  "You shouldn't hit little kids, daddy," he finally said.

Jack's nose bled.  His ribs ached.

Mel kicked him two more times, then crouched down and grabbed his father's hair with a massive hand.  He slammed the skull against the floor.  Then again.

Susan, wide-awake now, screamed from atop the staircase.  "Jack!  Jack!  What's going on?"  She didn't receive a reply.

Mel continued slamming his father's head against the hard floor until the body stopped moving.

Susan ran for the master bedroom, closed and locked the door, and called 911.

Mel stood up, looked down at his father, and kicked the head one more time.

Jack was dead.

Mel stood looking at the body for over a minute before hearing police sirens nearing the house.

He climbed the stairs to his room, slowly, dragging his big black boots up and over each step.  Reaching his room, he closed the door and went to the computer.

Sitting down, he wrote, "I will now be in my home in California in my own body."

And it happened.

Where the tall, burly man had just sat, little Mel now did, too.

The police were at the front door, and she heard her mother screaming from the master bedroom.

Without even looking back, Mel began to write the one thing she had always wanted to write: "I will now go to heaven and be with my loving God."

And it happened.

Author Bio

Gabe Semenza has covered nearly every imaginable newspaper beat, having worked for nearly 20 different print and internet publications, none of which interested him less than the Morgan County court beat.  As a sports writer, he has covered Major League Soccer and the U.S.  Men's National Team.  As a 25-year-old, Gabe traveled the country with no more than a duffel bag and $400, to follow in the footsteps of Jack Kerouac and the like.  Through all these experiences, and thousands of stories published in newspapers across the country, he has come to the conclusion that he can't, in fact, write.