The Royal Writer’s Conundrum

It was a fine machine with a few dozen hammers. With the proper procession of keys, you could make a world from black ink. It asked for very little but a bit of an extra push when pressing down on the keys. Virginia stared at the wondrous device unable to touch it, sure that some creative tempest would over power when she touched it. That was of course a highly irrational rationality.

There was nothing special inside the typewriter, it was a medium for Virginia to express her own thoughts in her own words. If she happened to not have those words or worse, not have those thoughts, the problem would be hers and no tinkerer could fix her. Of course, if she never did type a damn thing it would be all be moot because she wouldn’t be worth a god damn.

The beautiful Royal with the half exposed workings sat on a distressed barstool between Virginia and her television. News at 11 was blaring bloody murder on the west side. Virginia felt envious of the murders, at least those terrible people were doing something with their lives. The typewriter was not moved by her impotence.

Slowly as the band played out the late show, Virginia found her nerve and began to type out her magnum opus. She felt a sudden freedom to write that was in no way hindered by her lack of ink ribbons or paper. She wondered if it would be harder with evidence.

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