The Typewriter


Click click click.

A scythe swings up and strikes the page. It lowers quickly and another takes its place. The platen hurries from right to left.


The typewriter is sitting on the lap of a woman. She is hunched over, legs crossed, feverishly typing. Her hands move knowingly across the circular keys. Her back and neck have long been accustomed to this position and do not complain. Her dress, ruffled, clings to her skin. She pauses and moves to tuck her disheveled hair behind an ear.


The woman sits in a pool of cool blue light. A pen light attached to her typewriter illuminates the area around her. Waves of soft white sand, still warm from the day's sun, lie cooling. One rock, the size of a softball, lopsided, sits slightly toppled a few feet away.


The beach is almost a peninsula, loping around like the bow of a ship so that the woman sits at its tip. Waves crash softly onto the shore. They roll and swoon, moving languidly out in the dark.


Above, the night shines down. The moon and stars pace slowly across the sky. Their light dances over the ocean's waves, skipping from crest to crest.


The woman stares out at the scene. She tears outs a piece of paper, puts in another, and carefully winds the new sheet into the typewriter. Hands poised over the keyboard, she thinks for a moment and begins typing.

"Dear moon," she begins.

Click click click.

Type writer by Chesky W (source image)

Click Clack by shoofle

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