The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #26

typewriter

The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #26

One Picture

One Element

One Emotion

200 Words

A Typewriter

(Use the following quote for inspiration, you don’t have to use actual quote)

“Some people could look at a mud puddle and see an ocean with ships.”
Zora Neale Hurston,  Their Eyes Were Watching God.

365 Days

Please add your story in the comments below.

5 thoughts on “ The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #26

  1. 365 days. Three hundred and sixty five days and he couldn’t do it.
    “Just write something, we’ll publish it for you, make you a star, a career,” said his friend at the publishing company.
    And now was the last day.
    Zora Neale Hurston once wrote “Some people could look at a mud puddle and see an ocean with ships.” He saw nothing. All his life he’d wanted to be a writer and now he’d blown his chance. He hadn’t a creative bone in his body.
    There was a knock. He moved himself away from his unused typewriter and went to the door. It was the man from downstairs.
    “Hello.”
    “Hi, err, I’m a little busy right now…”
    “Sorry, sorry, but I heard that you were a writer?”
    He stopped himself from closing the door.
    “Yes, I, err, yes, I’m a writer.”
    “Well, I know it’s a bit of a nuisance for you, but could you do me a big favour and have a look at my old manuscript? I’ve been working on it for over ten years now and I’d like someone with an eye for these things to peruse it, so to speak.”
    “Why, of course, I’d be delighted…”

  2. The ballpoint pen sits on the desk.

    Boredom breeds invention and thusly the ink pen is now a star ship.

    In hand, it lumbers through interstellar space. Its purpose is transportation.

    The cap is its engine, the clip the bridge, and the shaft of the pen jutting forward from beneath the clip is the vast cargo hold.

    WHAP!

    A fat stack of company papers crash land on the desk.

    The star ship is gone. Just a pen remains.

    A work-weary mind reels back from blissful distraction.

    The typewriter on the desk waits. The stack of papers smirks.

    Rows of worn keys, the letters illegible, line up before the fingers. The fingers begin their motions and cold, emotionless words begin to flow. Words like, continuance, disposition, transaction.

    Three-hundred and sixty five days of stagnation. One year. Then two years. Three, and then epiphany.

    Purgatory is an endless stack of papers requiring countless words without the flavor of life.

    Redemption’s a drawer where a secret document accumulates, rife with words conveying depth of soul and kaleidoscopic colors.

    The work goes on, both dross and dear, laid to paper by hammering typebars and intrepid fingers.

    Unburden a creative mind with proper use.

    Imagine!

  3. “Some people could look at a mud puddle and see an ocean with ships”
    Some could conjure a universe at the parting of their lips.
    Some can hear the grass grow. Some can taste the sunshine.
    Some can step inside your life, your heart, and soul, and mind,
    and lead you to another world that lives and breaths and moves;
    to lift you up or let you down; whatever mood they choose.

    But not me …

    Slowly my vision began to focus on the keys of my typewriter, as I came out of the daydream. It has been 365 days since she left, and all that time I hadn’t written a thing. It used to be so easy. Every day seemed an ecstasy of ideas when she was beside me. The smile in her eyes would sweep me up into a whirlwind of desire to make something beautiful and share it with the world.

    But since she left … since she left, there has been nothing; nothing but this painful vacuum and a deafening silence that rings so loud in my ears I could scream! It’s most unbearable!

    So, here I sit, staring at the portal from whence she left, and hoping; longing; pining away
    for the return of my ……… sweet inspiration.

  4. ‘No, dear,’ Bette said, ‘keep the tea-towel tucked under your chin. Without it, you’re too tempted to peek.’

    Tania obediently tucked the cloth back in place and fitted her fingers again on the typewriter keys. A-S-D-F J-K-L-:. Q-W-E-R U-I-O-P. T-a-n-i-s. No, T-a-n-i-a. It was coming. Slowly.

    ‘Why are you insisting I need to learn how to type, Mum?’

    ‘Because, my darling, you are the sort of person who sees an ocean with ships when everyone else sees a muddy puddle. With that imagination, you’ll be a writer, I bet.’

    Tania beamed at the compliment.

    ‘Or if you need to earn a living before you’re discovered, you can be a typist.’

    Tania made a moue at that. Her fantasies didn’t include being stuck in a boring job. No, not at all.

    Some 365 days later, she had her first acceptance; her poem, ‘Lying in a sick bed’, was selected for inclusion in the school annual.

    ‘But darling,’ her mother said, ‘you’ve never had a sick day in your life!’

    ‘Puddles and oceans, Mum,’ Tania commented.

    (True story: names changed to protect the not-so-innocent.)

  5. Just another day in the office…
    Danielle Lee Zwissler

    I was picked up nearly 365 days ago, yeah, you’d say It was a year, but it wasn’t. We were in a leap year, and I had one day left, and I was in this place, this crazy place. And there were white walls, and weird shit written upon them like, the only sunny thing about you is your disposition, and if you have to weigh something, let it be your heart. Shit like that makes a person crazy.
    I was already there.
    I was in the shrink’s office one day, and they asked me to look at this picture of ink and I told them it looked like a typewriter, a typewriter with paper. The kind with the really cool old keys, and ink and tape, not the new electric ones.
    The doc in front of me said interesting, and I looked up. It wasn’t interesting, it was crap. Some people could look at a mud puddle and see a cruise ship with hips. I saw a damn typewriter. It was stupid. I wasn’t creative, I was a mindless idiot with no possibilities. The shrink checked a box and then stood up, and gestured for me to stand, too.
    I stood, looked at him oddly and then he escorted me down the hall. He turned toward me before I went to my room, the one with the padded walls and the endless drab of white, and he said it was nice knowing me.
    Days later, I was told that I was free to go. The doc evaluated me, and said I was just as sane as the next guy.
    So I left, and then three days later, I bought a typewriter.

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