The old typewriter sang out as it composed the lyrics, the beat birthed as it drummed upon a fresh page. Ba-boom. Boom-ba. Ring, zip, ping: went the carriage return. A new line began told in strong black ink. Verity giggled. Who needs a band when you have such a machine! No internet! No distractions! Ba-boom. Boom-ba. Ring, zip, ping! ‘Hack this, hehe. You can’t, can you?’ she mused as she made her writing the right type of infectious joy.
A buttercup yellow typewriter basked in the midday sun. Its metal and ink both warmed, its keys awaiting their turn to sing. What story would come today? What gallant prose would waltz onto the page? What ideas would morse code out? It passed the pleasant hours regaling to itself stories of yesterdays and yesteryears, of heroic words that changed the world. For one who is asked to choose a weapon and selects the “word” can do as many as seven impossible things before breakfast, or so a clever soul once wrote.
Dust clogged in tattered curtain’s shadow, the typewriter was a lament of days faded to meanest whisper. Once the bastion of the free world, the new sword of the journalist era, it neither lived nor died. Seizing in the stagnant mist, mist that rolled from harbours bare, ‘twas sorest sight, this corpse of a dream that should have lived. Oh my. Oh my. If only it had lived, perhaps the streets would have made it too. Perhaps the curtain would be red-velvet hue.
In that broken down house, long after the hurricane had passed, the rain-drenched typewriter weeped out its ink. Cold wind blasts went unfelt. Lamenting joist creaks went unanswered. No fresh pages came. No warm hands arrived. No new words sang out. Built tough as it was, tankish in its weight, it wondered if it might outlast the collapsing dwelling, if at least it might see unfiltered daylight one last time.
On his typewriter he tried to become the type to right the souls of others, to heal them, that is what poets do.
The keys of that typewriter moved with the rhythm of universal music, they kind artists hear so well.
The typewriter was a thing of beauty in the fresh-spun light of day, its sober hues in echo of the deeper soul.
Each plunge of the typewriter keys was as soulful as the motions of a ballet dancer, bringing the soul up for light and air.