All weekend she tried to break the blog. All weekend she struggled with it, shaking the bars, rattling the windows, hammering on the floor and using loose keyboard buttons to prise the electric doors apart.
Finally, she relinquished the task, and fell defeated against the liquid crystal screen, her forehead resting limply against the links bar.

I don't believe it, she whispered. An imperceptible shimmer. This can't be all there is. There's got to be a way out. Louder, now. I don't believe it. I just don't believe it.
A flicker across the blog, a current disturbed from its usual path became a fuzzy disturbance at the foot of the screen.
I don't believe it, she repeated, fixing her mind on all that was outside the blog, that was beyond, that she could get to if only it would open and let her out. I *don't* believe it.
An insistent buzzing sound marked the fuzzing signal's progress, creeping up over the screen. It crackled over her legs, her crumpled pyjamas, buzzed as it began to race distortingly over her hunched, crouched, blogging form.
She felt the interruption in the signal, and an idea lit deep beneath her dull blogged eyes. I don't believe it. I don't believe it.
A feedback whine as the edges of the room pixellated and rendered her life in 256 colours. The whine traversed the blog in the form of a sharp white visible crackle, painful as it crossed her intent face, still blogging.
I don't believe it.
The static made every fibre ache with its metallic roar as a wave of electrons engulfed her, and the room crackled and popped in the storm that spread from the four corners of the blog, and hemmed her ever further into the square in the centre, a thumbnail white cube, steadily diminishing, a zzzzip sound vanishing into the centre distance, leaving ....

.... silence ....

I broke the blog, she whispers. I broke it. Here in the blue screen of death, was freedom. Here in the ether was potential, possibility, more than just the IRC realm or Tron-like figures of her nightmares.
Carefully she flexes a leg, an arm. Long periods crouched at the blog have made such movements seem strange, unnaturally loose.
Gaining sureness in the void, she lifts her head to the current, listens to the voltage hum.
Unnaturally loose.
Unconstricted.

I don't believe it, she whispers. Imperceptibly, a flicker.
Somewhere deep in the bios, a line of static fuzz.

I don't believe it.

Apologies to John Wyndham