Dearest Alice by, Michel Prince
Milton sat at his typewriter trying to put into words the way he felt about Alice. How could he sum up in just a few strokes of his fingers how she’d changed his life? She’d entered his world in a flurry of lace and feathers dancing on the stage at the speakeasy. Lost in a line of twenty girls and yet with one thrust of her hip when she looked over her shoulder at him he was struck.
Was it her blue eyes? He didn’t know. But somehow deep in his heart he knew she was the one for him.
The keys of his typewriter had been freshly oiled and the ribbon was new when he fed the paper on the reel. It was his fingers that weren’t ready. They sat poised above the letters unable to press down even a simple D to being the letter Dearest Alice.
Falling back against his wooden chair he ran his fingers through his brown curls in frustration. He envisioned her standing before him in just her under garments as his fingers then would have a purpose. Tracing the lines of her hips as he brought his lips to her navel and kissed the delicate flesh around her belly.
His dream took on a life of its own as he continued on his journey of Alice’s soft flesh and he could feel it against his skin. When he opened his eyes what appeared before him was the letter, typed and ready to bring his fantasy from the page to his room.
Was it her blue eyes? He didn’t know. But somehow deep in his heart he knew she was the one for him.
The keys of his typewriter had been freshly oiled and the ribbon was new when he fed the paper on the reel. It was his fingers that weren’t ready. They sat poised above the letters unable to press down even a simple D to being the letter Dearest Alice.
Falling back against his wooden chair he ran his fingers through his brown curls in frustration. He envisioned her standing before him in just her under garments as his fingers then would have a purpose. Tracing the lines of her hips as he brought his lips to her navel and kissed the delicate flesh around her belly.
His dream took on a life of its own as he continued on his journey of Alice’s soft flesh and he could feel it against his skin. When he opened his eyes what appeared before him was the letter, typed and ready to bring his fantasy from the page to his room.
Katie placed the typewriter in the corner of her office, hoping
Grandma Elsie’s inspiration would rub off. As she typed on her
laptop, the tapping of the old typewriter’s keys startled her. She
turned around, a half-smile on her face, prepared to scold her husband
for disturbing her writing time.
No one was there.
Katie turned back to her computer, tried to get back into the scene
she was writing. As she read what she had written, the tap, tap, tap
of the typewriter made her whip her head around.
“Grandma?” The single word slipped out.
Katie stared at the now-quiet typewriter. Her heart pounded, a
rhythmic pulsing she felt in her neck and wrists. She drew in a deep
breath, excited but unafraid. Summers with her grandmother had been
full of the unexplainable. Mysterious events had been dismissed with
casual waves. Abnormal became normal during those times.
Katie slipped a sheet of paper from her printer. Though the office
was warm due to the open window, her arms were ridged with goose
bumps. The chair creaked when she rose and walked over to the
typewriter. She rolled the white paper against the platen and
adjusted it. She returned to her chair and turned her back to the
typewriter.
Waited.
When the tapping began again, Katie sat still, keeping her breaths
even so as not to startle the typist. When it was done, she retrieved
the paper. One sentence, typed in an uneven line:
Six feet under wasn’t deep enough.
Follow Dahlia
The Brother’s Story by Gregory Hart
Thomas sat staring at the type writer, unsure of what to write. His creative writing teacher had told the class to write a ten page report about their family. Normally he would never have this much trouble with coming up with something to write but that was for a work of fiction. Not once did he ever write about his family.
He continued to stare down at the keys of the typewriter, hoping something would magically appear on his paper but nothing. Thomas let out a sigh and looked up at the clock hanging on the wall above him, reading one in the afternoon. He had to do the assignment that night because it was due the next day.
Suddenly, he heard a commotion outside in the front yard. Rising up, Thomas saw his father and mother running outside to greet a visitor. To his surprise, he saw it to be his older brother embrace his parents while dressed in his World War II uniform. Smiling big, Thomas sat back down at the desk and he soon began typing away. It was the inspiration he was looking for, he was going to write about his brother and his involvement in the second world war.
It was about two hours later when the opened and his brother entered the room. “What are you writing about?”
“I’m doing a writing assignment for my class. I have to write something about my family and I chose you and you’re part in the war.”
Follow Gregory
His Promise, by DH Black
Michael glared down at the typewriter, a mixture of apprehension and raw adrenaline sweeping through his body. He inhaled deeply and tried his best to control his ragged breathing, brushing the tip of his index finger across the worn keys. For a few seconds he closed his eyes, remembering her face, the way she smiled at him, her eyes full of delight. Her flaming red hair was a distinctive contrast to her creamy white skin, the look sensuous. The way her stunning green eyes flashed when she laughed reminded him of a life he’d missed out on, the one stolen from him. Sadly, the ugly truth was she’d never even noticed him. He was invisible.
Snarling, he shook his head and adjusted the paper, merely a scrap he’d found in his desk. This was almost cathartic and something he was compelled to do. As he eased down onto the hard wooden chair, he pictured her face when she read his words, his admission of love.
“Delilah.” Merely whispering her name sent a shiver from the back of his neck all the way down his spine. His cock was throbbing, pushing hard against the tight confines of his pants and for a few minutes he contemplated allowing relief. “No!” Michael knew better. A sweet and very justified promise meant only for the one love of his life was much more important than self-indulgence. He began to type. When he was finished Michael smiled, satisfied.
“In death we’ll share love and eternity.”
Follow DH
The Dream Machine by Winfield Strock
He’d been grandma’s favorite and yet from amongst her riches she left him only a battered, obsolete typewriter in her will. He found a note tucked into the type guide. You’re a writer and a dreamer, like me. Carry on my tradition, write every day. It’ll set you free.
Sweet and imaginative, she’d been Robert’s only ally as his parents chided him for his lack of interest in typical boyhood pastimes. While everyone else played they’d shared their imaginations.
Only when he ran out of money, women, and friends he recalled the heirloom sitting on a kitchen chair since the funeral. Half drunk and wholly furious, Robert shouted his angry rant while he typed it.
“If we’re both dreamers, how’d you die wealthy and happy and I’ll to die broke and lonely? What did I do to deserve this lousy machine rather than a fat check like all those other slobs?”
Hoarse and thirsty he stumbled to the sink for a glass of water as his pounding head sent him lunging for the cabinet. As he grabbed the aspirin he spied valium, a fringe benefit of an ex-girlfriend’s exodus. Dark thoughts, a simple solution crossed his mind. No, too easy. Something’s bound to go right soon.
He yanked the page from the typewriter; ready to giggle at his alcohol induced dyslexia but gulped instead as he read.
“Type your questions and read your answers. Type your dreams and read their hidden truth. This humble looking gift will unlock your fortune.”
Check out Winfield's book Adventures above the Aether
Keys of Regret by Ashley Fontainne
The clanking of the ancient keys
Reverberates no longer in my sorrowful ears.
The metallic tinkling the produced your flowing words is gone,
I am trapped inside of my worst fears.
Gnarled fingers that once pecked out
A constant, rhythmic tune
Withered into oblivion
Their gentle strokes taken way too soon.
Your reservoir of creative juices
That once drenched the table
Are now only remembered by the feeble stains
Atop the keys that wrote poems and fables.
Selfishly, I begrudged your heartfelt passion
When you released your art each day.
You departed to the next realm
So here I sit and type, for to you I have much to say.
Follow Ashley
RSS Feed
