The typewriter.

By Robert w Kingett.

Hi. My name is James. I guess it's about time I do a memoir since I after all have been a best selling author for fifteen years now. I began writing short horror stories on a little old typewriter that I bought at a pawnshop one afternoon walking home from somewhere. I looked at the typewriter, manual, and one of those models that looks beat up beyond recognition, and instantly loved it. It seemed to call to me as though it and I were made for each other. The man who owned the pawnshop even gave it to me for free because he was going to go out of business anyway and no one else was ever going to buy that crappy thing when computers now dominated the written word. So, on a bright and sunny day, I lugged the typewriter home with me. I wanted to see just how this thing worked for my needs.

Working as a janitor by day and writing by night, I soon completed my first novel after six months of writing. The words somehow just came easy to me. No hassle, no writers block, and no hang ups of any kind. I was shocked but amazed. After I was done typing it on that old typewriter I bundled it up and sent it to the first publishing house I could, and many more. The first publisher I sent it to agreed to publish it! With woops of joy I leaped in the air and I even kissed my dog. I was an author! She had even scrawled a cute little hand written note at the top right of the acceptance letter.

Awesome horror story. Let’s see what else you got.

So excited to the point where I even danced on the roof of my car, I began to type more works all on the same old typewriter I had bought at the pawnshop. The second book came just as easy as the first. If not more so. The 5th, 7th, and 12th book also poured out like water. All of them were best sellers and I even made it on the New York Times best sellers list.

After about fifteen horror novels I was sitting down at the typewriter and I just started thinking to myself something completely random. What if I did something other than horror? That will make me a well rounded author in my book, and I will get the chance to sell even more books. So I did. I started to work on a happy heartfelt novel in which the main character overcame natural hardships and grief. It was a happy novel, one that I kind of liked more than my previous works. When I was writing it however, I looked back at the manuscript and frowned with deep disapproval on my face. This wasn’t what I had typed. It was a massive bloody book with heads getting chopped off, people dying, and knives being thrown in the air. Weird. I looked back at the old typewriter, daring it to say “ha. I tricked you”

I thought something was wrong so I went to a doctor. My doctor had told me after I spilled out the whole story to him that I had nothing to worry about. He explained as calm as he could, and as nicely as he could without making me feel like an idiot about brain waves and thought patterns. I even showed him the manuscript but again he said I didn’t have to worry. When the time was right it would all be okay.

I went home and put a blank sheet in the typewriter. With shaking fingers I typed out the sentence…

“Even though he loved his parents very much, he desperately had to tell them.”

I rolled the typewriter paper back up and looked at the words now displayed on the page. They now read…

“Even though he loved his parents very much, he desperately had to kill them.” My hands started shaking as I looked down at the words that I didn’t write. I didn’t write these words! I didn’t!

Panicked, I slid another paper in the typewriter and began typing. This time I looked at the keys as I typed… making sure I watched every finger stroke.

“Even… though, he, loved… his parents very much, he desperately had to T, E, L, L them.” I made sure I looked at every key I pressed. Again the sentence read

“Even though he loved his parents very much, he desperately had to kill them.”

This was scary! I ripped the paper out, crumpled it into a ball, and chucked it away. Mad and scared at the same time. I put another sheet in and typed the word, tell, on the typewriter.

“Tell.” I said as I typed it. Looking at it I saw that it was the word tell. This was honestly getting creepy.

I showed my doctor what I had discovered and he again said there was nothing to be upset about. In fact he liked the new manuscript I had written about the little boy that killed his parents. But wait, I didn’t write that. The typewriter did. Not me! I knew what I had to do, and I had to do it fast. I had to get rid of the typewriter.

That was a few months ago, and now I traded the typewriter for this new IBM computer I am typing on. I guess all in all it was kind of scary, but I am just glad that it's all over now… I'm just glad my doctor was there to help me through it all. I should thank him. I should go to his house, and bring a nice knife with me, and chop his ugly head off and watch as blood splatters his house! I shall purge the earth of his worthless useless existence since I hate him so much! Oh! I can't wait to see that knife in his eye…