The Typewriter


Trace Vance

Harry ran into his room with the thirty pound typewriter in hand. He stopped in front of his desk, and lifted the typing machine up with all his might. When the typewriter was over the desk, Harry let go of it. The machine landed with a loud thud that was heard from downstairs.

Harry’s father, who was reading a book, looked up at the ceiling. “Harry did you fall up there?” He asked worriedly.

Harry looked down at his floor. “No, I’m all good.” He shouted back. His father shrugged and went back to his book. 

Harry sat down on his chair. He pulled closer to the typewriter and leaned over to his bottom desk drawer.

Harry always had an appreciation for older technology. Ever since he watched an episode of the antique roadshow, he fell in love with objects older than himself. His parents would take him to antique shops, and he would buy things with the little money that was available to him. His room was littered with old tin signs, old soda bottles, vinyls, and more that would be impossible to list here. While he was able to buy most of the things that he saw, the one thing that always eluded him was a typewriter. The problem wasn’t that he couldn’t find one, there was one in almost every shop that he visited. The problem was that he could never afford one. The ones that he found always seemed to go over what he could afford. He complained to his parents about it, but all they told him was tough luck. He thought that he would never get to write with a typewriter, but that changed today. Today was his birthday, and one of his gifts was an antique typewriter. When all the guests had left, he ran into his room. lugging the typewriter with him.

Harry pulled open his bottom desk drawer, and took out a piece of notebook paper. He placed the paper on top of the typewriter, and rolled it into the machine. He clamped the end of the paper down on the cylinder. He placed his hands in position, and typed his name. When he had pressed every letter in his name, he looked up at what he typed.

Harry Wright

Pleased with what he had typed, he began typing some more. He was just messing around with the typewriter. He typed whatever came into his head. He typed down some lyrics to songs that he remembered, TV shows that he watched, books that he read, and so on and so forth. He felt a dryness in his mouth, and typed down a way to solve that.

I wish that I had a Coke right now.

He would have gone on typing. The Coke line was just a throw away one anyway. He was about to type about his mother, when he caught something from the corner of his eye. He looked over to his desk to see what was happening.

The air seemed to grow darker near a spot on Harry’s desk. The spot grew darker and darker to a point that Harry could no longer see through the air in that space. It was if someone had put a small piece of painted black cardboard on Harry’s desk. The spot then took a lighter shade. It turned from jet black to a bright red. The space then conformed into that of an aluminum can. The words Coca-Cola then printed themselves on the side of the can. A can of Coke formed out of nothing.

Harry was leaning against the far corner of his room when the Coke can was coming into fruition. He eventually got the courage to walk up to it. He got about halfway to the can when a noise came from it. He stopped dead in his tracks and listened to what it was. It sounded like water flowing from the faucet. It became clear to Harry that the can was filling itself up with Coke. He started walking to it again after the noise had stopped. He sat down at his desk and carefully picked up the can. He could feel that it was filled with Coke. He opened the tab and looked inside of the can. He then took a small sip of it. The stuff tasted more like a flat Diet Coke than a regular one, but Harry wasn’t too worried about that at the moment. He placed the can back onto his desk, and started at the typewriter.

Thoughts filled his brain in the matter for microseconds. Where had this thing been made? How did my parents get this thing? Where did they get this thing? Who was the man that sold it to them? Was the one that sold it the one that made it? Is this magical? Did I just Imagine all of that or something?

Harry slowly  reached out to the typewriter with his right hand. He typed down on the paper.

Where were you made?

He was hoping for the typewriter to type back to him. Answering questions like the computer in Alien. He waited a few moments, but nothing happened. The typewriter just sat there as if there was nothing special about it at all. Harry sighed and sunk down into his chair. After a moment of pondering on what to do next, he looked over to his bed. Tin signs lined the wall over his bed. Harry’s eyes traced the wall and he noticed a spot that could easily house another sign. He looked from that spot back to the typewriter. He then sat up and placed his fingers on the keys.

I wish there was a tin sign in the empty space above my bed.

Harry turned from the typewriter and eyed the space above his bed. Like on his desk before, a dark spot began to form above his bed. The spot soon turned a shiny silver color, and took the shape of a rectangular sign. There soon was a tin sign above Harry’s bed that advertised nothing. The sign was literally just a tin sign. Harry, confused, looked from the sign to the typewriter. He then laughed. He realized that he didn’t have any detail about the type of sign that he wanted. All he asked for was a tin sign, and that was all he got. He leaned over the typewriter keys again.

Make the sign advertise Dr. Pepper.

He then leaned back into his seat, looking over at the tin sign. The transformation process that he expected to happen never did. He looked back at the typewriter with a confused look on his face. He examined what he had typed to see if he had done something wrong.

“I wrote it down like the other two. What’s wron-.”

It struck him. He said I wish during the other times. He quickly typed down.

I wish that the sign would advertise Dr. Pepper.

He looked back over to the sign. In the matter of seconds, Dr. Pepper advertising appeared on the tin sign. Harry looked back down at the typewriter. A devilish grin appeared on his face. He quickly turned to look over his twin sized bed. He leaned over the keys again.

I wish that my bed was king size.

He then gazed at his bed. The red bed turned into a jet black mass in his room. When the bed was nothing more than a rectangle with no color, it grew length wise. The sides of it extended to the point where it was double the original size. The bed then began to turn back to its original red color. Harry now had a king sized bed in his room.

Harry stood up from his desk chair, and walked over to his new bed. He pressed his hand down on the mattress as if to make sure that it was really there. He looked up from hand and back towards the typewriter.

“I can do whatever I want with that thing.” Harry told himself in a low voice. He back walked over to the machine on his desk. Thinking of all the things that he could make happen with it.

He sat down in front of the typewriter, and thought about what he was about to do next. He thought back to the day that he just had at school. During break a kid came up to him and pushed him down into the pavement. He had looked up and saw that the kid was Ivan White.

Harry rubbed his hands together. He then hovered his fingers over the keys and got to work. Harry felt absolute power in that moment. He didn’t care about the ramifications of what he was about to type.

“I wish that Ivan had never been born.” He said as he hurriedly typed down his sentence for Ivan White. With a devilish grin, he looked back up at what he had written. His grin quickly turned into a horrified gape.

I wish that I had never been born.

He had typed too quickly. He made a mistake and autocorrect wasn’t here to help him.

“No.” He said with a look of bewilderment on his face. He started dumbfounded at what was typed on the page in front of him. He would have stared at it for a long time, but black spots covered his eyes. Several tiny blacks dots appeared in his vision, and soon turned him blind. He tried to scream, but his mouth was held shut by the blackness.

With the little time that he had Harry ,now no more than a silhouette, stood up and tried to make a run for it. He knew the layout of his room to the point where running blindfolded in it should have come naturally to him. He, however, forgot about the new length of his bed.

Harry’s leg struck the side post of his bed. He lost his footing and fell downwards. Harry reached down with his jet black arms, expecting them to break his fall. Harry’s hands never reached the ground. He kept feeling well past where his floor should have been. 

Harry’s world was now one of complete darkness and silence. He kept falling down the void that was now his home. Harry tried to think of some way to get out of the mess that he was in, but that too soon stopped. The darkness had reached its way into Harry’s brain. Harry got his wish. He had never been born.