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.
