The 'Type-Writer'

I found this image of an old typewriter on Google the other day and decided to write a selection as if I were the typewriter. It's a little quirky but it turned out to be kind of fun.

I am the "Type-Writer." My keys are hard and cold, my ribbon worn. I can still type everything from A to Z, and from one to zero, and my return key works just fine, thank you. I am a relic of yesteryear.

I pine for the long, red nails of my first owner, who hardly ever touched me, but when she did, it was pure heaven. Her touch was, at times, gentle. When she typed soft notes to her lover, her cadence was sleek, unending.

Other times, though, she abused me. I remember the day I was thrown down a flight of stairs at her ex-lover. I smacked his head — blood poured out all over my keys. He died.

After that I belonged to a bank teller who had no wife or children — no family to speak of — and he typed secret desires on me. He wanted to be a transvestite and would put on long, silk dresses and bright purple lipstick when he typed on me.

For no reason, he sold me to a convent in 1950, and I never heard from him again. The nuns typed letters to God on me. Prayers, hopes and wishes, none of them ever postmarked, but rather buried in a hope box in their backyard.

I stayed at the convent until it closed in the 1990s, and I was sold on eBay. A large man with sweaty armpits stored me in his basement next to old glam magazines from the 1920s. It was scary down there, dank and dark. And he never used me. He seemed normal until the day he came and got me to type a letter. It was a suicide note. I never knew him well, and his rough fingers pawed at my keys hungrily as he pounded out his last words.

Now I am homeless, sitting in the junk section of a flea market in Boise, Idaho. To my right, an old green Singer sewing machine sits, belts worn through and no needle. To my left, a cracked China doll sits on a bookcase full of worn out novels and comic books. The sour, musky smell of dying material surrounds me, and I can't help but wonder if anyone will touch my keys again.