To Dance Beyond The Hand

The door is locked.

I think.

I’m sure it is.

This basement smells horrible, and I hope the sound of this typewriter doesn’t attract attention from the outside.

You see, I’m a writer – and we’re banned from creating new worlds because … well… I’m not quite sure why, but we are.

I think it scares them…

No, not our audiences… it scares the other ones, the ones who can’t control our thoughts and our…

…thought I heard a noise outside. It was just a rat in the corner. I gave it something to kill it, so it doesn’t freak me out at another time.

I’m not sure when this happened – the banning of all creative writers – but it’s looking very much like ‘Fahrenheit 451’ out there; but instead of book burnings, they’re ‘stablising’ writers. In my honest opinion, it’s because we can think up worlds, create situations, people, cultures and everything that fills in all the gaps and work on them until they’re so convincing that the public will follow our created worlds until we finish them up… and then we go out and do it all again.

And we do it for money.

However, it’s because in the real world, the capitalistic pigs who trail us along know we can see between the gaps of their biggest mistakes and yet, with writers, we fill in those gaps and make the story we’ve written – the fiction – better than the life everyone lives.

So, people prefer to read and live in books, than follow the news and politics.  This is better for us artists – right? Wrong. To shut us up, they have made us the bad guys and put out a bounty on us all – even the famous ones.

Yes, your favourite writers are being locked away with their hands kept from the typewriter, being kept from writing anything… they can’t even keep a journal in case that journal turns into a book they’re secretly writing in longhand. How pathetic is that? I think…

I’m in another location.

I only had two days in the basement of the local high school. I heard some noise upstairs and had to stop writing so they’d go away.

It’s been three days since you last read my writing.

I’m in the back rooms of a regional art gallery. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. So, I’ll make sure I can tell you as much as I can about me as possible.

I’m not famous, I’m not rich. I just love to write.  I love to create worlds out of nothing on the blank page and enjoy the ups and downs of the creative process. It’s just how I work – and have always worked.

When I did have a house, I had an office filled with books, a computer and all the writing gear I ever wanted and wished for. It was great to be a creative and enjoy the process… I even had a Writers’ Group to attend. This helped me connect with other writers – we thought alike – and we enjoyed each other’s company.

But when one vanished, and the cop who was with us, warned us of what the government had in mind for us, we immediately closed down the group and stopped emailing each other.

Our worlds became very small.

They found me…

I had to move again…

Dammit!

I’ve had to hide the typewriter and am now hand-writing this in a notebook… I hate this because I hardly ever hand-write anything anymore, and the process is so slow.

But at least it’s quiet.

I can’t do any writing at night… and I’m living on the street.

Oh shit…

“Where is your typewriter?”

“I’m not telling you… my Grandpa gave it to me… it’s not going hurt you.” Tears well in my eyes.

“Somebody else might use it.”

“Not if they don’t know how… it’s a particular type… it’s very old.”

The suits look at each other before one sits across from me, while the other moves to the door. The one across from me sighs, “You’ve left it in a museum?”

I didn’t say anything.

“The basement we nearly caught you in?”

“No.”

He bashes the table with a fist, “Where!”

“That must have hurt your hand… it’s all tingly now, isn’t it?”

He stands so quickly, the chair he sat on topples over, “We’re getting nowhere with her.”

“Of course not… she’s a writer… they’re the best people at keeping their own secrets.” The other says still standing at the door, “But if we threaten…”

I smile, “Threaten? Is that all you have in you?”

The first suit lunges towards me, raises his fist, growling, “You little…” then his partner grabs him, pulling him back, “She provoked me.”

“No she didn’t. Sure she’s got a smart mouth, but she didn’t touch you.” He whispers, “She’s a writer… they work with their minds.”

“You are staying here until you tell me where your typewriter is.” He shoves his partner off him, “This place will get to you.”

I look around the room with the two-way mirror, a table, four chair and one door, “A room? You’re leaving me in a room? I’ve got my mind to keep me company, and you think you can make me go nuts on toast by leaving me in a room by myself? This is seven-year-old time-out crap.”

They leave the room.

They close the door.

I look around for a few minutes wondering what I was going to do next.

There is no way out.

But I knew where my typewriter was…

Sitting down at the table, I clear a space in front of me and concentrate as I put my hands out where they’d come in contact with the keys.

Closing my eyes, I visualise my Lettera32 in front of me on the table.

It didn’t take much to bring it from the hiding place I had put this wonderful machine.

Within minutes, I feel the wobbly, plastic keys under my fingertips and smell the ink on the tape – there’s nothing like a typewriter like this!

Smiling, I begin to type.

Thwack!

Thwack! Thwack-thwackity-thwack!

Oh! Yes, the words play out onto the paper in front of me! They are the dance beyond my hands – my fingers – they are the extension of my brain, of my imagination.

I hear the lock in the door.

Removing my hands from the keys, the typewriter vanishes.

I look up.  The two suits stand there.

I know they had been watching me through the two-way mirror.

“You’re more dangerous than first expected.” Says the first one.

“So, you’re gonna kill me?”

“No.” the second one shakes his head, “You could probably change something about how this would work out if we tried.” He gestures to the table, “Has your typewriter always been on the table?”

I grin: “My typewriter is wherever I am. Nobody can take it away from me. It’s part of the dance of my fingers – and even if they’re not there, my mind can control its every move.”

The sun on my face has never felt so good.

They’re going to leave me alone, but I’m not allowed anywhere near the city.

So, I’ve traveled to a place where I can be alone… with my typewriter, plenty of paper and my thoughts and worlds… so the dance beyond my hands and fingers can continue in relative peace.

But then, I can go anywhere with the typewriter… so I still travel.