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 [The old typewriter had been his fathers. It was rusted, and worn, and up until very recently, hadn't worked in any way. Pieces and levers had rusted together. The main reel was missing, and several of the keys were bent. It was a very ugly, useless paperweight. His father had loved it. His father had left it to him. Falk had spent months fixing it, restoring it piece by piece and cannibalizing other machines to get this one to work.
Now was the moment of truth. The machine sat in front of him, paint fresh and black, the rust sanded away and the buttons polished to a high shine. Falk carefully inserted a ribbon of ink, loaded the paper, and scrolled down to the first line. He inhaled deeply, hesitating a moment before finally allowing his fingers to press down on the lever. There was a thump. A crisp, clean black letter now showed on the clean white surface of the paper. Falks heart was racing.
His fingers flew over the keys, typing out paragraphs, quotes, anything he could think of. It worked perfectly. With a smile the seventeen year old orphan removed the used piece of paper and trashed it. Then he wrote a story.
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Four years later Falk sat at a desk in a bookstore, signing copies of his latest novel. After his fathers passing Falk had dove into his writing, dropping out of school and writing one book after another. All on the old typewriter his father had left him. He didn't know why, but that was the only way he could find inspiration, the stories practically flew off of his fingertips, while with any newer word processor he would sit and stare at a screen for days, with no idea what to write.
His latest hit was the story of a young girl trying to survive in a kingdom torn by war, crime, and corruption. It was his most interesting yet, and he thought it might be the first in a series.
Back at home he sat, eager, ready to continue his story. His tours were done, no more book signing for a while, just creativity. His last book had ended in a cliff hanger, with the girl cornered by corrupted soldiers, with evil intent in mind. So that was where he would pick up.
"Her heart raced as the soldiers descended upon her." He wrote, feeling the usual thrum of energy that he felt when writing. "One of them held a ball of fire in his hand. He laughed and told her how he would burn her pretty face. The mage raised his hand up, laughing maniacally..." Falk stopped, seeing the words he was about to write, and refusing to put them down. His hands itched to continue the sentence. "No, I'm not going to disfigure my main character." He growled and then started typing, the typewriter seemed to resist his interference, the words coming more slowly to his mind than usual. "The mage raised his hand, laughing maniacally. The fire flew down towards her, consuming her entirely but not touching her. She stared at the men, unsure what was happening. She reached towards the one who had burned her, and the flame leaped from her finger to him, and he turned to a pile of ash. The soldier drew his sword and charged her." Well s**t, this is no better. Now she would die, according to the words he thought. He forced his will again against the machine. "The soldier ran right through her, her body had begun to fade. The girl was being protected by some unseen force, who now was taking her somewhere safe." He sighed, and smacked the side of the typewriter. "Ha, take that. You can't kill off my favorite character." Falk stood up and walked to the window, night had already fallen, and in the distance a shooting star descended to the earth. The star fell slowly, Falk watched with amazement as it fell past his home, crashing to earth in a field nearby.
((pm to continue, the typewriter creates and controls her realm. The portal he opened hasn't closed with her passing though, and people may come looking.))
 Samurai Angelus · Mon Oct 20, 2014 @ 02:18am · 0 Comments |
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