Walking to work from the parking garage, I began to contemplate the problems interfacing with individuals imbedded in IT. Now I consider myself to be an IT person, but those hard-core individuals including coders, QA staff and even project managers are on a different level.

The issues with application development, I realized, stem from how programming is taught. Or rather that programming is taught and program development is offered merely as an elective option. Everything that is made is designed to be used, and this includes software.

Fire isn't that hot. Well it is if you find yourself surrounded by it or touch it for too long, but simply passing your finger back and forth across a lit wick only burns if your digit lingers too long. It wasn't an ideal situation, but with the power out it seemed to be an interesting means to pass the time.

Why the power was out wasn't really clear but the blackout was complex-wide, so surely it was being investigated and fixed. All that one Adam Catcher needed to do was sit tight and wait until the lights flickered on and his rig hummed back to life. Wait. That was something Adam was very good at that. He had waited for the past five hours, enough time to drain the battery of his laptop, which was effectively useless without electricity to power the wireless router and DSL modem.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Adam's finger moved through the flame; his motion constant and consistent. How long had he done this? At least half an hour, maybe longer. His mind wrestled with thoughts as his head rested on his arm and his arm rested on his desk. He entertained the idea of calling someone, but when he noted it was past midnight and everyone he knew was either asleep or didn't like calls, a feeling of loneliness overcame him.

The gentle tapping of rain against her apartment's tin roof whispered good morning in her ear. She stirred slightly. An October gale thrashed against her window and demanded she get up. She glared at her clock with its glowing red blurs. Her hand searched the nightstand for her spectacles, only finding them when they were sent to the floor. In frustration she buried her head in the pillow. Retrieving them, she read that it was six thirty-four. She let out a yawn. Too early to be up and too late to get more sleep. There was little motivation to abandon her warm blanket, but work would not have her late again.

She growled softly at the prospect of moving. "Fuck," she whispered to the gently tapping rain that would surly soak her at the bus stop. "Double fuck," she replied to the wind that would mess up her hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," she spoke her daily mantra before rolling out of bed. She wrapped herself in the quilt and sat at her desk. Empty bottles of beer and glasses that once held stronger stuff littered the surface, as did packets of cigarettes and assorted discount lighters. They gave way at a point to a keyboard, mouse and monitor. These, and the tower tucked neatly under the mess, were what gave life meaning.

Sure the paper and pen were nice, but the computer let ideas flow. In a fit of writing she could lose herself, lean back in that chair, close her eyes and write, truly write. A single blank document would be replaced by several pages of coherent text, ripe for editing and critique in simply minutes. The keyboard was her finest tool. Slightly discolored by tobacco and singed in two spots from dropped ash, she had no desire to replace it. The text of "Backspace" key had begun to fade, along with the "S" and the left "Ctrl", a testament of her compulsive saving.