The Typewriter

All characters in this story taking part in sexual activity are above the age 18 years old. All events that take place in this story are fictional.

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The sun's glare was so bright through my windshield in the early morning light, I nearly missed the cardboard sign taped to the street sign at the end of Felix Street that read 'TAG SALE'. I flipped my directional on as I made a quick turn onto Felix and slowed down, starting to look for a house with a yard full of stuff. Now that the glare was off my windshield I could actually see through the front of truck. I glanced left and right at the row of suburban homes as I cruised down the street hoping I didn't miss the tag sale. I'd been out all morning looking for tag sales; you never knew what you could find at them. Last month, I had picked up a cavalry saber that dated back to the Civil War. I felt a little bad getting it for a steal from the old woman running that sale, but hey, now I have a piece of history hanging above my bed.

I finally spotted the Felix Street tag sale. A couple houses down at the end of the street sat a low ranch style house with white siding and a pale green shutters. It was set back a ways from the road, so that the driveway stretched quite a way to the street. This was fortunate for whoever was running the tag sale, as it gave them plenty of space to set up a couple rows of tables with all sorts of knick knacks on. I could see the usual sorts of objects laid out on some of the tables; old flatware, a handful of stuffed animals, small appliances from the past ten years or so, there were even some Christmas decorations out near the end of the driveway. As I pulled over at the curb and hopped out of my Ford Ranger, I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of seeing a plastic Santa Clause and snowman out in the hot sun of a July day.

I started walking up the driveway, glancing at all the little trinkets laid out on the tables. There was a whole group of ceramic figurines that were some kind of wide eyed angels, all standing in rows like a little army. Next to that was a table covered with kid's toys, most of which looked like they had seen better days, and a couple of rumpled cardboard boxes filled with stuffed animals. Not seeing any major finds on this side of the driveway, I turned my attention to the other set of tables.

This side looked to be more promising. There were an assortment of older electronics grouped on one square table, most of which looked to be out of the 90's. Still, there was a turntable that looked like it might fetch a fair price after a little elbow grease. I went in for a closer look, studying the turntable with greater scrutiny. After a few moments, I concluded that it was, in fact, a complete piece of junk and not worth my time. I moved on down the line, looking at a toaster (missing its electric plug), a blender (cracked pitcher), and an old CRT computer monitor (who would want one?).

As I perused through the sea of junk, I did happen to pick out a few odds and ends that I liked. A tarnished silver ring, a decent looking pocket knife, an intricate little wooden jewelry box with roses carved into it, and even a couple old Atari games for the Atari 2600. I was almost ready to give up and cash out with my findings and take off when I spotted it, down on the ground next to the boxes of stuffed animals. I missed it initially, as it was tucked down close next to the cardboard boxes and nearly out of sight. I knew exactly what was in that small black case.

I strode over to it and plucked it up off the ground. It had weight to it, but wasn't overly heavy. I laid it down on the table, pushing a handful of G.I. Joes out of the way and unlocked the heavy brass latch. Flipping open the lid revealed the contents of the case to me, confirming my suspicion. Inside, tucked neatly into a layer of foam sat a nearly pristine black typewriter. I gazed down at it, slowly running my hand down along its edge. A fine layer of dust came away on my finger so I blew off the rest, revealing the word CORONA printed across the front. I knew right then I had found a prize, I just had to get it for a good price so I could resell it and make a profit.

Tucking it back snugly in its travel case, I closed the lid, buckled it shut, and ditched my other findings, no way I could afford all of this if the owner had any idea of the typewriters value. I glanced around, there were only a handful of other patrons wandering around the yard looking at different things. I spotted a man up by the garage in a lawn chair, in his mid-thirties or so, balding, and more focused on typing something out on his phone than helping the people in his yard asking questions and trying to buy things. A small line had actually formed near the man, as he distractedly negotiated prices with a stingy older man who didn't want to pay more than two dollars for the damaged toaster. Behind him was a graying middle aged woman with a handful of stuffed toys, presumably a last minute gift for some child in her life, or perhaps part of some sort of stained stuffed animal collection she had going. Either way, I didn't feel like waiting for them to work out a deal with a guy barely paying attention to people paying him and decided on a quicker course of action.

I fished a fifty dollar bill out of my wallet and skirted the two people ahead of me in line, approaching the man running the tag sale from his left, nearly over his shoulder. I could see that he was actually playing Candy Crush on his phone, not typing an email like I originally thought. Rolling my eyes, I leaned into his field of view and shook the black case up in front of him.

"I'll give you fifty bucks for this."

Without even lifting his eyes up off his phone, the man grunted an affirmative at me, snatched the bill from my hand, and I scuttled off down the driveway, trying to dodge the glare the graying, stuffed animal lady sent after me. Hoping back in my truck, I plopped the case with the typewriter down onto the seat next to me. Turning over the engine, I cranked up the radio, and took off heading home.

After I had finished getting the other items I gathered from my morning tag sale run from my trunk, I grabbed the typewriter out of the cab and went inside. My parents were both at work and my sister was off at school. I had the house to myself until the afternoon, so I figured I'd take a look at the typewriter and see how much work it would need before I could sell it for a nice profit. That was my job, sort of. Pick up junk for cheap at yard sales, estate sales, and flea markets, flip it, and sell it off to make a buck. I had picked up doing this as a hobby after high school during summers while attending university, but now, I actually was able to do so as a full time job in the summer. I had become pretty decent at spotting valuables and even better at fixing them up and finding a buyer online. It paid the bills, I liked doing it, and I got to handle all sorts of interesting items so I figured why not.

I was especially interested in the typewriter though, since I also enjoy writing. For the most part, I type things up on the computer, but I had gotten a typewriter from my grandfather's estate years ago, and took it out to write up the occasional short story or term paper, just for a change. But that typewriter didn't hold a candle to this one. Just doing a quick background search for it online revealed that it was most likely made in the 40's and was worth several hundred dollars in good condition.

I sat back in my chair, looking at the small black mechanical box sitting on my desk before me. I wanted to sell it, that would be a huge profit, but at the same time I really wanted to keep it and use it to write some of my stories. I considered my options, and figured that I should at least try it out before deciding. I got out a cloth and wiped off the rest of the dust from the machine and then went and fetched a ribbon and some paper for the typewriter from my supply I had for my other typewriter. I swapped out the empty ribbon for the full, fresh one and went to feed a new sheet of paper into the carriage. However, as I fed the new sheet into the roll, a small note slipped out and onto my desk. It was yellowed with age, and was more like cardstock than paper, about the size of a sticky note. I picked it up off the desk and looked at the text on the page. It looked like some kind of rules or instructions but it was written in what looked like German.

Puzzled, I opened up my web browser on my laptop and carefully typed the text from the page into an online translator. It took several long minutes to do so, as many of the phrases were much longer in German than English and the text was old and starting to fade. After I finally managed to type in all the text, I hit the translate button. What popped up was very confusing and I had to reread it several times to even try to understand what it meant. The following was the translation:

Typewriter Commandments

1. It Can Give To You, But Something Must Be Given In Return.

2. It Is More Mischievous Than You, But Will Delight In Your Mischief

3. It Is Literal, So Be Specific And Careful

4. It Works Often, But Not Always On Your Agenda

5. It Will Grant You Pleasure, In Return For Its Own Pleasure

6. It Can Do Harm, But Not To The Author

7. It Can Heal, But Only The Author

8. It Won't Steal, Yet It Cares Not If You Do

9. It Cannot Give Life, Yet It Can Take It

10. It Cannot Take Life By Command. Ever.

I had been confused before I translated the note, but now I was at a whole new level of confusion. What the hell was this thing talking about? Did this even mean anything? I checked the translator to see if it had made a mistake, but found nothing. I did a few searches online for the phrases or for finding a note like this, but again, turned up nothing. I rechecked the note to make sure I had typed it correctly and once again, did not uncover any answers.

I sat back in my chair staring at the text on the screen, then the note, then the typewriter. I must've sat there for several minutes, just staring trying to make sense of it all. This must be some kind of joke, right? After all I practically stole it from that guy. I looked over the typewriter again, looking for some other clue or cryptic note but found only the serial number. I ran the number through Google, turned up some sort of record of the device, chronicling its manufacture and first couple of purchases, but nothing to explain the note.

At a loss, I figured I'd finally test it to see if it worked. Sliding the sheet of paper into place, I set the carriage at the beginning and began to type.

It was a dark and stormy night,

I watched as the hammers snapped up, struck the paper, and flipped back down as I pressed the keys. The machine worked smoothly, and was nearly silent, unlike the annoying clack clack clack my other typewriter made. The only bad thing I noticed was the s hammer appeared to have a small crack towards the middle. Making a mental note to replace the hammer, I resumed typing.

It was a dark and stormy night, and the bats swept low across the courtyard of an old church and up to the belfry.

A bright flash, followed by a loud crack of thunder illuminated my room and caused me to jump out of my seat with surprise. I glanced out the window and saw only the faint glow of the streetlight outside my bedroom window lighting the street. Sheets of rain poured down onto the front yard and sidewalk, visible only in the light of the streetlamp out in the midnight blackness outside. I got up and crossed the room watching the rain fall. Then it hit me. It wasn't even noon, why was it pitch black outside. I looked at my watch to confirm, but the digital display ready 1:30 AM. Confused, and chalking it up to a faulty watch, I looked to my wall clock for the time, but again, the hands read 1:30 AM.

What the hell was going on? It should be daylight, and there wasn't even a cloud in the sky this morning when did this storm start? I turned back to the window, just in time to be greet by several bats swooping by, across the front yard and off into the night. This cannot be happening. There's no way this is happening.

I looked back to the typewriter, barely able to see its black frame in the near darkness my room had been cast in. The single sheet of white paper still sat in the carriage, awaiting me to continue. I crossed the room back to my desk and pressed the enter key. The carriage moved the paper up and slid back to the margin. Suddenly my room was once again bathed in daylight. I whirled back to the window, and saw no trace of the rain or bats. Was I going crazy? Only one way to find out I suppose.

I sat back at my desk and typed the simple phrase:

The cat entered the room.

I turned back to the doorway, staring intently, waiting for our white Persian cat, Oscar, to wander in. Minutes ticked by and nothing happened. Confused, I turned back to the typewriter and hit enter. Again, the carriage reset and I typed a new phrase:

My shirt is blue.

My shirt had most certainly not been blue when I put it on when I got up this morning. It had been a red t-shirt with a school logo on it in white. But now, glancing down at my shirt, the white logo remained, but on blue fabric, not red. I put my finger on the enter key, then looked back down at my shirt. I pressed the key, and at the same time the carriage clanged back into place, my shirt morphed from blue, back to red. I had to stop and rub my eyes. That really just happened right? My shirt just changed color. Twice. What.

Now, considerably freaked out, I jumped up and backed away from the typewriter. The "Typewriter Commandments" were starting to make sense. This thing had some sort of power that can make things happen. Wait, could this thing really kill people? That's what #9 means right?

Just then, during my anxiety attack, Oscar hopped up onto my desk. I considered his entrance for a moment. I had just used what was apparently a magical typewriter to state the cat would enter the room. But nothing happened, and I pressed enter and that seems to end whatever effect the typewriter has. So is Oscar in here because I made him or because he wandered in on his own? This was going to take some more experimenting to figure out.

As I stood pondering, Oscar strode across the desk and right over the keys of the typewriter, causing several hammers to fly up and smack ink onto the page. The random letters didn't spell anything discernable, and nothing appeared to happen. At least jibberish won't do any harm. I shooed Oscar away from the typewriter and sat down, trying to think of another test to perform. I decided to give myself more money, and typed up a simple statement saying I had just received $100. As the period hit the page and the lever dropped back into place, the enter key lowered itself, causing the carriage to reset and then several more keys activated themselves, and a phrase popped up on the paper before me.

Please Give Payment.

I stared, open mouthed at the page. Not only had the typewriter hit enter by itself, it typed out its own message, and that message was some kind of demand. Payment? What payment? What does a typewriter need as payment? Completely perplexed at this point, I felt I was in some kind of Twilight Zone episode as I sat there in a stupor trying to make sense of the past, what, five minutes? What on Earth was this thing?

Oscar, still on the desk, once again tried to walk across the typewriter. This time however, I blocked him with my arm before he could disturb any keys and possibly ruin the strange interaction I was having with the machine. Oscar, who usually always got his way, didn't take my blocking his own investigation of the device lightly and lashed out at me with a front paw and a hiss. His claws raked across my forearm and caused some warm blood to well up in three crimson streaks. I slapped a hand to the wound and jumped up.

"Agh, what the hell Oscar!" I hollered at the Persian as he hopped down off the desk and scurried out of the room. Little bastard. I looked down at the three fresh cuts along my arm, and, determining they were terribly serious, just went down the hall to the bathroom to rinse them out and stop the bleeding some. They were at an awkward angle across my arm so I didn't bother bandaging them and returned to my room to keep checking out the typewriter.

This time, as I touched it, it sputtered to life again, flipping more levers and typing out a new message.

Payment Received. Front Right Pocket.

The carriage then zipped back into the reset position, and fell still. There was a tingle in my right thigh, and looking down, noticed a bulge in my pocket. I reached in and pulled out a wad of money. Almost all singles, and a few fives, I counted the bills and found the total to be exactly $100. Extremely confused, I stared at the machine until I noticed the crimson droplets on a couple of the keys. When I jumped up, I must've sent a few drops of blood flying onto the keys.

Something in my mind clicked. Payment. Bloody Keys. Rule #1. No, no way. To get the typewriter to give me a material object, I have to pay it? In blood? No, no, no, no. This is getting too weird for me. I considered throwing the thing in the trash and being done with it then and there. It operates on some kind of blood magic bartering system? Hell no I don't want any part of that.

I picked up the typewriter and rushed out of the room and was halfway to the front door when I realized something. It made the weather, my shirt, and the time, all change without blood. I stopped in my tracks. Did it only demand blood sometimes? Only when I ask for something right? Something physical. Otherwise it seems content to ply its magic and make whatever else happen just fine.

I calmed my nerves and returned to my room, placing the typewriter back on my desk. This will be fine, I told myself. Just don't pay if it asks and don't ask for things, just use it carefully. That was a Commandment right? I glanced back over the rules, studying each one more carefully.

Some of them made more sense than others now, like 1 and 3. But some of the other ones didn't make much sense. How is a typewriter more mischievous than me? And what kind of pleasure can a typewriter get? As I questioned some of the rules, I reread number 7, the one about healing the author. Then I got an idea, and typed out a quick message.

Heal my cat scratches.

I waited, watching the paper and the levers. I waited, but nothing happened. Disappointed, I pressed enter and when the carriage reset, I immediately felt a strange itching sensation from my forearm. I looked down as it began to burn more than itch in time to see the flesh on my arm shiver and crawl as it began stitching itself back together. Within seconds the cuts were gone and my arm was once again smooth.

Running my hand along the place where the cuts had been, I couldn't even feel where the skin had been ripped. It still tingled some, but I figured it would wear off soon. This seemed like it could be a very useful little device.

I continued to play with the typewriter all afternoon, learning a couple tricks, and testing out some stuff that didn't work. It indeed could not kill on command, as I attempted to have it kill a bee that had worked its way into the house. It could however, force the bee to leave and even have it repel insects from me in general. I discovered how to make effects last beyond pressing enter by specifically setting a duration in text. I made it rain for exactly eleven minutes and then had it snow for five.

As I played with it, I failed to discover what exactly it meant by pleasure but I did figure out how it doesn't always work on my agenda. Sometimes, it just took a while for a command to occur. Even stranger it seemed to occur randomly. I thought at first it might actually find me rude so I began being more polite and saying please and thank you but it seemed that it sometimes took several minutes to work, or in one case, well over an hour. In other words, it really was totally random to hit some kind of delay. Or I at least hadn't worked out a discernable pattern yet. But now, I was ready to try something, different. Something a little more fun.