I wrote this piece for a competition, the prompt word was Unexplained.
The Lost Treasure
After months of not being able to write a thing the floodgates suddenly opened. Words poured out, my fingers almost bled from typing sitting in front of the screen, for hours, possibly days, on end. A Rumplestiltskin author, spinning language into story gold. My novel, The Treasue of Vandalay, would soon be complete, its plot twisting around Earth-shattering events and emotional scenes of stunning originality; my main character, the infinitely likeable and resourceful Troy Manuka, practically wrote himself, simply breezing across the page – there wasn’t a book out there like it. I have a printed copy here… at least, I did have. Searching through my stacks of papers I found only red-letter bills and scraps with illegible, hand-written scrawl. The computer couldn’t print another manuscript because the file wouldn’t open. Corrupted. I had made copies, hadn’t I? The stupid memory stick sat unused in its packet. My will to live drained away until… salvation appeared, framed enigmatically by the window: Troy Manuka.
‘I’ve mislaid my story, your story: no hard copy, no files, no back-ups. It’s all gone.’
Troy considered the problem. ‘Don’t worry. When writing, stuff like this happens all the time because…’ and he vanished.
I think the nightmare scenario of losing work somewhere in the digital ether has happened to us all. I reckon it’s not really lost, it’s merely being read and appreciated in a different dimension.