Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - The Typewriter

The Typewriter: Snippets and Stories

The Typewriter is a short story that falls a touch on the serious side. It reflects the maturation and loss of the absolute faith that only children can so blindly follow as one grows and goes through the "up"s and "down"s of life. Just a snippet and look into how I'm spinning the yarn for this story.

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Synopsis: A story short of a boy who sneaks into his father's study to admire the antique typewriter. He reminisces upon an old fable of its seemingly indestructible nature, having survived several misfortunes and catastrophes that the family had undergone. Yet just as it had miraculously survived many a disaster, it was deemed likewise useless as anything more than a decoration, for it could function to type as well as it could fly. There were other aspects such that it differed from the typical typewriter, like the parchment roll that lacked an insert for fresh paper, looped on a perpetual roll.

Staring at the typewriter, the youth notices a small keyhole, and holds up the metal key hung on a looped string of leather. A family heirloom. On a whim, as if beckoned by more than a child's curiosity, he inserts the key into the slot -a perfect fit-, and turns the key without resistance. The machine whirs and clicks, and to his amazement, begins typing a singular message:

Greetings, Master Curse. It is a pleasure to serve you.

The words fade into ever present parchment and the whirring slow. Many a question and more rose up in the child's thoughts, but he fought them back. When the boy hesitantly taps a message back, "How do you know me?". The machine responds:

There is nary a soul that does not recognize the name of our Sovereign lord and master. The Harbinger, he who heralds the start, and end, of the world.

The blood runs cold in his veins and the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, yet at the same time a comforting familiarity washes over him at the name, and he draws closer to the machine. It is still, whirring and clicking softly, almost as if patient and waiting, observing.

"What type of typewriter are you? How are you doing that?"

I am the biomechanical scripting apparatus, PROTO. VS-CXIIB, created for the greater ease and convenience of people everywhere. With the versatility and accommodative capacities of the CXII line, verbal prints have never been easier. VS-CXIIs are not only mobile and protected against thermal, nuclear, excess of pressure, and water damage, they also come with their own morphskins for the ultimate and creative fashion experience. Customizable down to the last detail.

The current skin is a default favorite, the ever popular "retro-style" typewriter:

MORPH: RETRO - DEFAULT TYPEWRITER

Silas grimaced, that spiel had sounded too scripted. Like an advertisement where the lady's voice almost bled with false cheer. Nothing like the patient, polite, comforting, and most of all genuine personality from before, he worried his lip and typed out his response, reading his thoughts aloud as he typed, "You've told me what you are, but how are you doing" he paused, "this?"

Though he was sure the robot couldn't see the gesticulation, it felt natural as he waved his hands to emphasize. 

My construct is composed of an organic personality imprint severed and implanted upon a hypermutable core. While the internal generators of the CXII line run solely on thermoelectric generators, the artisan who created me deemed it necessary to fit my model with a compressed Foucault pengenerator, thus supplying the power needed to support the state of stasis for an undetermined period of time.

He wasn't quite sure he understood all of that, it was a lot of information at once and the text was fading fast on the parchment, "Are there others like you?"

I am the prototype of model VS-CXIIB. The Chronological Comprehensive Feed was not updated prior to entering stasis.

Silas was pleasantly surprised to see the typewriter respond to his voice. It was getting tiresome typing out his questions. "The Prototype. So you're the first of you're kind. Why were you in stasis?"

To conserve power during transport.

"Transport where?"

To you, Master Curse.

His awe turned to one of bewilderment, "But how could you have known where to find me?"

As he spoke the machine was already filling him in with the answers he so desired.

This was achieved by tracking, following, and locking onto your timestream and-

 "How did you do it? And-"

-chronological imprint. From there, my own was twisted to collide at a point of intersection coinciding with both your locational and chronological position.

He hesitated, an old insecurity brewing like a festering wound and embodied in the form of a simple, but very vital question, caught on his tongue, "-why me?"

Though the question remained unspoken, the writing on the parchment halted. Not abruptly, for the prototype VS-CXIIB had finished the sentence, but there was a moment where the parchment remained blank and was not supplied by further text. Then slowly the words scrawled out:

I want to get to know you better, Master Curse. There are many errant variables and factors in the long course of time, space, and history, however it is your's that I wish to, in a humble request, witness and share.

An unfamiliar warmth welled up in his chest, one which he both relished in, and feared for its fleeting nature, "Do you have a name?"

My specifications have not included any sort of a appellation nor epithet. My personality donor and creator, however, identified himself with the moniker Neiro N. Noir

A sheepish smile crossed his face and he giggled, "I'll call you Neiro then, since that used to be your name! Well, sort of I guess."

I would like that, thank you Master Curse.

"Call me Silas, Master Curse sounds strange."

Yes Master Curse.

Silas scowled, though this time he was sure Neiro had called him "master curse" in jest. Something about the way the fluid inky letters had danced across the parchment, or perhaps the slight twerk in their curvature as one letter bled into another.

He placed a hand on the typewriter, "It's nice to meet you Neiro"

You too, Silas.

To his surprise, the typewriter scrolled the parchment, and added in a last playful character:

♪