I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen, my left hand hovering awkwardly over the keyboard. The half-finished paragraph of my latest erotic romance novel taunted me with its incompleteness. Three weeks had passed since I broke my hand slipping in the shower (while fantasizing about a particularly steamy scene I wanted to write, no less), and I was still struggling to type more than a few sentences an hour.
"Fuck," I muttered, jabbing the backspace key to delete another typo. My right hand, encased in a bulky white cast covered in precisely zero signatures, throbbed in sympathy.
My bank account was on the verge of collapse, and my career was at a standstill. My editor had already granted me one extension, but the deadline for "Midnight Passions" loomed just two weeks away. At this rate, I'd be lucky to finish the crucial climax scene by Christmas. Pun absolutely intended.
I tried again, pecking at the keys with my left index finger.
Cassandra gasped as his fingers traced the curve of her
My mind filled with the image: a strong hand sliding down a woman's naked hip, fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake, the woman arching her back in anticipation as those fingers dipped lower, seeking her most sensitive-
"Focus, Zoey," I scolded myself, feeling my cheeks flush. This was ridiculous. I wrote smut for a living, for crying out loud. I shouldn't be getting distracted by my own imaginary scenarios. But lately, the line between my fiction and my fantasies had been blurring more than usual.
I took a deep breath and tried again.
Cassandra gasped as his fingers traced the curve of her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies pressed together like two perfect puzzle pieces. "I've wanted this," he whispered against her neck, "since the moment I saw you."
Not my best work, but it would have to do. My wrist was already cramping from the awkward angle. I reached for my coffee mug with my good hand, only to find it empty. Again. The fifth time today. Caffeine was the only thing keeping me functional, but the constant bathroom breaks weren't helping my productivity at all.
As I stood to refill my mug, my phone buzzed with a notification. Probably my editor checking in. Or worse, my mother asking if I'd "found a real job" yet. Neither option appealed to me, so I ignored it.
The tiny kitchen in my apartment was barely four steps from my desk, one of the few perks of living in a shoebox. I filled the kettle and flicked it on, leaning against the counter as I waited.
That's when I noticed the strange feeling coming from my fingertips.
"What the hell?" I whispered, raising my hand to eye level. The feeling intensified, spreading from my fingertips up to my wrist. My skin tingled, a sensation like static electricity pulsing through my veins.
Suddenly, a translucent blue rectangle materialized in front of me, hovering in mid-air like some sci-fi hologram.
[System Initializing...] [Registration Complete]
[Class: Telekinetic Scribe (Rare)]
[Abilities Unlocked: Basic Telekinesis, Enhanced Imagination (Passive)]
I blinked, certain I was hallucinating from caffeine overdose. When the floating text remained, I reached out to touch it. My finger passed through the blue letters, causing ripples like disturbed water.
"Player? Class?" I muttered, my heart beginning to race. "What is this, some kind of prank?"
The kettle behind me whistled, making me jump. Without thinking, I spun around and flicked my hand in annoyance. I then watched in shock as the kettle lifted off its base and hovered six inches in the air.
"Holy shit!" I yelped, losing concentration. The kettle crashed down, splashing hot water across the counter. I barely noticed, too busy staring at my hand.
I could move things. With my hand. Well, not literally my hand, but my hand-ughhh! Regardless! I could move things.
My first coherent thought was embarrassingly mundane: I could type with both hands again.
Focusing on my laptop across the room, I extended my hand and concentrated. The computer wobbled, then rose an inch off the desk before clattering back down.
"Okay, okay, gotta be careful," I murmured. A second wave of realization was then forcefully dumped over me as I began jumping up and down like a kid in Disneyland. "Ahaha! I can't believe it!"
My excitement faltered as I remembered my bank account's dismal state. Wait a second. My eyes darted between my still-tingling hand and my laptop.
"Holy shit, I could make money with this," I whispered, a plan forming instantly.
I grabbed my phone, ignoring the earlier notification, and opened the camera app. With trembling fingers, I hit record and positioned myself in frame.
"Um, hi everyone. It's Zoey... you know, that romance writer nobody's heard of?" I laughed nervously. "Something weird just happened to me and... well, it's easier to show you."
I focused on my coffee mug, extending my hand toward it. The mug trembled, then slowly rose into the air. I gasped as I felt the weight of it in my mind, a strange phantom sensation like holding something without touching it. The mug hovered, rotating slowly as I twisted my wrist.
"Holy shit," I whispered, catching my reflection in my darkened phone screen. My eyes, which were normally a boring brown, were glowing an electric blue, the light creating creepy shadows across my face. "Whoa..."
I nearly dropped the mug in shock, managing to set it down with a clatter before leaning closer to the camera. "Did you see that? My eyes... they're freaking blue!" I tilted my head, examining the glow. "That's new."
My mind raced with possibilities. If I were the only person who could do this... If this were somehow real and not some detailed hallucination, I could be set for life. Goodbye, overdue rent notices. Goodbye ramen dinners. Goodbye, writing smutty novels under a pseudonym just to make ends meet.
I cleared my throat, trying to sound more professional. "So, um, as you can see, I appear to have developed telekinetic abilities. Yes, like in the movies." I lifted the mug again, this time with more confidence. "I can move objects with my mind."
The blue glow intensified as I simultaneously raised three pens from my desk, making them move in circles until they clattered back down onto my desk. A giggle escaped my lips. I'm no pro.
"I'm thinking of starting a P*treon," I blurted out, already imagining the donations rolling in. "For, you know, scientific documentation of this phenomenon. Or entertainment. Whatever you want to call it."
I bit my lip, wondering if I should mention the strange "System" message. Better not. That might make me sound crazy.
After demonstrating a few more tricks; floating my phone around the room, opening and closing a cabinet, and turning on my sink faucet, I ended the recording.
My fingers hovered over the share button. Was I really going to do this? What if the government came after me? What if scientists wanted to dissect me?
What if nobody believed me?
My bank app notification chose that moment to pop up: "Your account balance is below $50."
"Fuck it," I muttered, hitting share and posting the video to every social media platform I had. I added links to my newly created P*treon and a hastily set-up donation page.
Within minutes, my phone began buzzing incessantly. Comments poured in:
"Holy shit is this real???" "Nice special effects, what software?" "FAKE!!! But good editing tho" "Her eyes!!!! Look at her eyes!!!"
I grinned as I watched the view count climb. Maybe I could do a live demonstration next. People would pay to see that, right? I could move increasingly heavy objects, take requests, maybe even-
My fantasy of wealth was interrupted by a breaking news alert: "BREAKING: Multiple reports of supernatural abilities emerging worldwide."
"Wait, what?" I clicked on the notification, my stomach sinking. The article showed clips from around the world, including a teenager in Japan shooting sparks from his fingertips, a woman in Brazil healing a cut on her arm in seconds, and a man in Germany turning invisible.
"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned, flopping back onto my bed. So much for being special, and so much for my get-rich-quick scheme.
My phone buzzed again. It was a notification from my P*treon. Someone had actually subscribed at the highest tier: $100 per month.
The message read: "Can you lift more than just small objects? How about clothes? ;)"
I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling. Perhaps I wasn't the only telekinetic in the world, but I could still capitalize on this. After all, I already wrote smut for a living, so I could possibly incorporate some visual elements as well.
"Pervert," I muttered, even as I started composing a reply. My eyes caught my reflection in the mirror, the blue glow dissipating into a dull hue.
"Money~ Money~ Money~"