11-24-2013, 12:04 AM
The word Machine
June 17, 1974
To sleep, some children count sheep or imagine a cow jumping over the moon. For me it was words. Full sentences of mumbo jumbo in a cloud above my head, harmless beautiful words to ease my childish mind and deliver me to slumber. Now, I only sleep when he allows it. Because, those words were the first words I fed to him.
I often wonder, “Was he given to me or was I given to him?” The answer to this riddle matters little, because it is clear that I cannot exist without him. I am the fool who trusted him, so, I feed and lubricate him, adhere to all of his demands, and he returns these favors by lulling me to sleep when he feels I’ve earned it. Otherwise I am awake, anxious to find peace in all of his lies.
A typewriter is often a beautiful machine. Its outer shell devised to catch a consumer’s eye and separate it from the others like it on the shelf. Its inner beauty a complicated mechanical labyrinth of assembled parts. The font on the heads of its semi circle of precision arms an artistic interpretation of upper and lower case letters, numbers, punctuation marks, and mathematical symbols. With a fresh ribbon and a blank sheet of paper, its keys almost beg you to tap them and strike ink to the page. At least that’s how I felt the first time I sat down withhim. He was magnetic, and with my first sheet of paper in his carriage
a sentence began and continues. Two years eleven days later, reams upon reams of paper, and all of my words consumed by the fire in the furnace of my word machine.
It is a fact that most machines are perfectly harmless, like the one I am using for this transmission. However, he is far from harmless, and if he knew what I was doing now, well, let’s just say torture is a subject in which he has a vast vocabulary. You see, words keep him alive and his appetite for them is voracious. Each of my entries he devours and commits to memory. His power to control and manipulate me stronger than iron; he is a lamprey affixed to my soul.
Each day that I am in this library I will try to communicate my story openly and confess to its reader all of the horrors I commit to remain sane. I can say with certainty that my end will come soon and it will not be pleasant. So, please be advised, the goal here is not to entertain, it is a warning, and with this warning perhaps my own personal redemption. Now, I must hide these pages and get back to him with the books he has ordered me to retrieve.
I will tell you more, when and if I return....
June 19, 1974
It has been two full days since I have left the innocent characters of this kind machine. Obviously, I am still alive, and I do apologize for the delay but he is extremely suspicious of everything I say and do. I was afraid if I seemed too anxious he would think I was up to something and force me to take him along. So, I waited for him to command me here. I even fought with him a bit to keep him off the scent. I cannot be certain, but I think for once I may have actually fooled him.
As usual, I am exhausted but at least the majority of my time away has only been spent typing manuscripts by other authors into him. It was pages and pages of harmless fictitious fuel but each ink soaked word is sustenance for the fire in his furnace. At first, he seemed content with the material, but late last night when he paid me with only one measly hour of sleep for my servitude, I knew his hunger for something unique had returned. The reasoning for this severe reduction of time is both nauseating and cruel. Let me explain.
Before I left him, in a moment of complete weakness, I fell to my knees and begged him to lull me to sleep. Usually, when he sees that I am at my breaking point he shows me mercy, but this time he would not.“Charles, I am sorry,” he said, “but I cannot allow you one more minute. I am preparing you for our new story. Do not worry, I am sure you will thank me for it when it is finished. It will be our greatest work to date.”
The room began to spin and shift, and when I closed my eyes to curb my dizziness his voice echoed in my head.
“Charles, do not hate me, but I have a little confession to make.”
I opened my eyes and the room stabilized. The flames in his furnace a glow of heat primed to consume me.
“Charles, are you listening to me? Are you unwell, or just rude?”
“No, I’m exhausted,” I said, “I am listening to you, I swear it.”
His flames hissed and shrunk back down to a dim light.
“Well, now that I have your full attention,” he said, “I think there is something that you should know.”
Then, he paused and waited for my curiosity to grow.
“Tell me,” I said, “please, just tell me.”
His keys formed a ghoulish grin, and he continued.
“Well, this may seem cruel Charles, but for the past month I have meticulously shaved minutes off of the hours I allow you to sleep to build up your stamina for the new story I want us to write.”
“You’re lying,” I said, “a few days ago you let me sleep for five whole hours.”
He laughed at me.
“Charles, you are delusional,” he said, “I am the timekeeper here, and it has been a very long time since you have slept two hours, let alone five.”
I tried to remember the date attached to my last five-hour nod but I could not.
“Awww, poor Charles,” he said, “you look so glum. Do not worry, once our new story is finished you can sleep all you want.”
I implored him for an extra hour, but he refused. So, I asked him why it was that whenever we write something new he only allows me one hour of sleep each night.
“Because at one hour you are nice and docile,” he said, “when forced to concentrate, your keystrokes are more... calculated, more... sensual.” His keys undulated, and a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. The thought of my hands aiding in his arousal sickened me. Then, he changed the subject. “Charles?” he said, “Do we have any fuel left? This conversation has made me quite hungry.”
“There’s nothing left.” I said, “I’ve fed you everything we had.”
His flames grew in his furnace.
“Go to the library now, Charles.” he said, “I desperately need some fuel.”
I told to him that I was too tired but he insisted. So, I left him thinking that he forced me here. Now, I must hide these pages and get back to him with the books he has ordered me to retrieve.
I will tell you more, when and if I return...
June 21, 1974
The days are melting into each other. It will not be long now, since it seems he doesn’t realize that a human can be broken beyond repair. Everyone can see it, especially here. I am known here, one of the regular customers and I’m sure that they all remember what I once looked like. There was even a time when the head librarian would gather the books on my list for me because she found his selections interesting. Of course, she believed that they were my selections. But those days are gone, and now they all avoid me.
I can understand their hesitation, I did look much healthier a hundred or so pounds ago. My skin was also more rosy than grey. I do not need their friendship but just a sliver of humanity would be nice. After all, I am under a lot of pressure.
Last night, while feeding him, his internal clock struck midnight and his keys paused my fingertips.
“Congratulations, Charles,” he said. “Today is June 21st. It is a very special day for us.”
I winced, and my conscience prodded me.
“Today is a horrible day,” I said. “Any date associated with what we’ve done can never be special.”The flames in his furnace hissed at me, but his voice was somber.
“Charles, how can someone so sensitive be so insensitive?” He said, “It is our first story’s birthday. It is not our best work, but even the birth of a bastard should be celebrated.”
I bit my lower lip, and shook my head, the main character of our story alive once more in my thoughts.
“Please don’t make me feed you that story again.” I said, “I beg you.”
“IT IS A TRADITION!” he said, and two flames slithered out of his furnace. He wrapped them around the legs of my chair and pulled me closer to him. The overwhelming heat flushed my face, and his voice warbled with anger.
“You are the author and I am the seed of your inspiration.” He said, “Without me, your stories would not even exist, and you know how much I love our stories, DON’T YOU CHARLES?”
I nodded in fear of his hellfire, and he pushed my chair away from him.
“Good boy, Charles,” he said, “ Good boy. As a token of good faith I will now let you sleep three full hours, but when you wake up I want you to find that story and put it inside me where it belongs. After, you may do as you wish, but remember the library is closed tomorrow, so do not forget to get more fuel or else we will have to start our new story prematurely.”
Before I could respond, he lulled me to sleep and when he woke me, I fed him what he wanted. The gruesome story is still fresh in my memory, and I am sorry for the pain all of the characters experienced. Now, I must hide these pages and get back to him with the books he has ordered me to retrieve.
I will tell you more when and if I return....
June 25, 1974
As I type this passage, my eyes burn dry in their sockets and the weight of my brow is twitching my temples. Wasting time with the minute details of my relationship with him is no longer an option because this may be my last transmission. I fear if I fail to inject the proper information, this text will be viewed as anticlimactic. So, it is with excruciating pain in my stomach that I must inform you of a recent discovery. This morning I noticed that I am internally bleeding. The proof of this observation is too disgusting to illuminate, but a clue would be that all of my evidence disintegrates in putrid sewer water. My blood and my characters' bodies rations for the bugs and vermin.
Sadly, I must also tell you that research for our new story has begun, and as always, the plot he has hatched is redundant and lacks originality. Even the weapon he has chosen to bludgeon her with we have used many times before. One might think something that consumes so much information would at least be a little more creative, but creativity is a quality that separates man from machine, even a word machine. He believes that his concepts and outlines make our stories, in his words, "Easily digestible." However, he fails to realize that repetition has forced me to become a more competent writer, and it is my judgment that improves the flaws in our tales.
I swear to you, that I have begged him to alter our endings but unfortunately, he has an unsympathetic palate. The literature that he favors is dark, and justice never prevails. His mantra being, “Happy endings are for fairy tales, and cliffhangers always leave a bad taste in my mouth.” Each time he makes this declaration, it aggravates me, and his words feel like knives slashing their way to the core of my brain. Perhaps today, I can just force him to consume me. At least ashes and dust retain no memories.
By now, the first sentence of my second paragraph is probably forgotten and you may still be wondering how we stumbled upon each other. As I said before, I am not sure if he was given to me or if I was given to him, but nonetheless he was a gift from my mother. Let me explain.
My father was a writer who died when I was young and impressionable. His death gave me no alternative. I had to write. I felt if I could not be with him, then I could at least be like him, so, I did exactly what he would do. Day and night, I locked myself away in my room and wrote. With my passion for writing evident in neat piles of handwritten pages, and my father’s typewriter something that I preferred not to touch, his purchase was an excuse for my mother to show love and support when she believed I needed it most, and what better gift to show ones love and support to a fragile budding writer than a ream of paper and a brand new typewriter.
I do not blame her for destroying my life. She has, and had, no idea of the evil that lingers in his furnace. I know she was just trying to please her child because even I was fooled at first. He was my only friend, but once he took possession of my words our friendship disintegrated and he became the voice that I answer to.
About a year or so ago I asked him if he had anything to do with my mother’s decision to purchase him. I wondered if he had maybe coaxed her eyes toward him in the store.
“Ohhhh, Charles,” he said, “such a foolish question. She obviously chose me because I was the best machine in the store. Why doubt a mothers love Charles, when you are the reason that my flames exist?”
“What do you mean?” I said, “Why me, and not her?”
He paused, and it seemed as if the information he had was something sacred, something a machine was not allowed to discuss with humans. Then, he enlightened me.
“Charles, only a writer, a real writer, can ignite the pilot in my furnace.”
That response is the only viable information that I have attained from him throughout this whole horrific experience, and it infuriates me to no end that he was the one to expose my father’s murderer to me. They said he committed suicide, but at least we know the truth. DON’T WE? Now, I must hide these pages and get back to him with the books he has ordered me to retrieve.
I will tell you more when and if I return.....
June 17, 1974
To sleep, some children count sheep or imagine a cow jumping over the moon. For me it was words. Full sentences of mumbo jumbo in a cloud above my head, harmless beautiful words to ease my childish mind and deliver me to slumber. Now, I only sleep when he allows it. Because, those words were the first words I fed to him.
I often wonder, “Was he given to me or was I given to him?” The answer to this riddle matters little, because it is clear that I cannot exist without him. I am the fool who trusted him, so, I feed and lubricate him, adhere to all of his demands, and he returns these favors by lulling me to sleep when he feels I’ve earned it. Otherwise I am awake, anxious to find peace in all of his lies.
A typewriter is often a beautiful machine. Its outer shell devised to catch a consumer’s eye and separate it from the others like it on the shelf. Its inner beauty a complicated mechanical labyrinth of assembled parts. The font on the heads of its semi circle of precision arms an artistic interpretation of upper and lower case letters, numbers, punctuation marks, and mathematical symbols. With a fresh ribbon and a blank sheet of paper, its keys almost beg you to tap them and strike ink to the page. At least that’s how I felt the first time I sat down withhim. He was magnetic, and with my first sheet of paper in his carriage
a sentence began and continues. Two years eleven days later, reams upon reams of paper, and all of my words consumed by the fire in the furnace of my word machine.
It is a fact that most machines are perfectly harmless, like the one I am using for this transmission. However, he is far from harmless, and if he knew what I was doing now, well, let’s just say torture is a subject in which he has a vast vocabulary. You see, words keep him alive and his appetite for them is voracious. Each of my entries he devours and commits to memory. His power to control and manipulate me stronger than iron; he is a lamprey affixed to my soul.
Each day that I am in this library I will try to communicate my story openly and confess to its reader all of the horrors I commit to remain sane. I can say with certainty that my end will come soon and it will not be pleasant. So, please be advised, the goal here is not to entertain, it is a warning, and with this warning perhaps my own personal redemption. Now, I must hide these pages and get back to him with the books he has ordered me to retrieve.
I will tell you more, when and if I return....
June 19, 1974
It has been two full days since I have left the innocent characters of this kind machine. Obviously, I am still alive, and I do apologize for the delay but he is extremely suspicious of everything I say and do. I was afraid if I seemed too anxious he would think I was up to something and force me to take him along. So, I waited for him to command me here. I even fought with him a bit to keep him off the scent. I cannot be certain, but I think for once I may have actually fooled him.
As usual, I am exhausted but at least the majority of my time away has only been spent typing manuscripts by other authors into him. It was pages and pages of harmless fictitious fuel but each ink soaked word is sustenance for the fire in his furnace. At first, he seemed content with the material, but late last night when he paid me with only one measly hour of sleep for my servitude, I knew his hunger for something unique had returned. The reasoning for this severe reduction of time is both nauseating and cruel. Let me explain.
Before I left him, in a moment of complete weakness, I fell to my knees and begged him to lull me to sleep. Usually, when he sees that I am at my breaking point he shows me mercy, but this time he would not.“Charles, I am sorry,” he said, “but I cannot allow you one more minute. I am preparing you for our new story. Do not worry, I am sure you will thank me for it when it is finished. It will be our greatest work to date.”
The room began to spin and shift, and when I closed my eyes to curb my dizziness his voice echoed in my head.
“Charles, do not hate me, but I have a little confession to make.”
I opened my eyes and the room stabilized. The flames in his furnace a glow of heat primed to consume me.
“Charles, are you listening to me? Are you unwell, or just rude?”
“No, I’m exhausted,” I said, “I am listening to you, I swear it.”
His flames hissed and shrunk back down to a dim light.
“Well, now that I have your full attention,” he said, “I think there is something that you should know.”
Then, he paused and waited for my curiosity to grow.
“Tell me,” I said, “please, just tell me.”
His keys formed a ghoulish grin, and he continued.
“Well, this may seem cruel Charles, but for the past month I have meticulously shaved minutes off of the hours I allow you to sleep to build up your stamina for the new story I want us to write.”
“You’re lying,” I said, “a few days ago you let me sleep for five whole hours.”
He laughed at me.
“Charles, you are delusional,” he said, “I am the timekeeper here, and it has been a very long time since you have slept two hours, let alone five.”
I tried to remember the date attached to my last five-hour nod but I could not.
“Awww, poor Charles,” he said, “you look so glum. Do not worry, once our new story is finished you can sleep all you want.”
I implored him for an extra hour, but he refused. So, I asked him why it was that whenever we write something new he only allows me one hour of sleep each night.
“Because at one hour you are nice and docile,” he said, “when forced to concentrate, your keystrokes are more... calculated, more... sensual.” His keys undulated, and a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. The thought of my hands aiding in his arousal sickened me. Then, he changed the subject. “Charles?” he said, “Do we have any fuel left? This conversation has made me quite hungry.”
“There’s nothing left.” I said, “I’ve fed you everything we had.”
His flames grew in his furnace.
“Go to the library now, Charles.” he said, “I desperately need some fuel.”
I told to him that I was too tired but he insisted. So, I left him thinking that he forced me here. Now, I must hide these pages and get back to him with the books he has ordered me to retrieve.
I will tell you more, when and if I return...
June 21, 1974
The days are melting into each other. It will not be long now, since it seems he doesn’t realize that a human can be broken beyond repair. Everyone can see it, especially here. I am known here, one of the regular customers and I’m sure that they all remember what I once looked like. There was even a time when the head librarian would gather the books on my list for me because she found his selections interesting. Of course, she believed that they were my selections. But those days are gone, and now they all avoid me.
I can understand their hesitation, I did look much healthier a hundred or so pounds ago. My skin was also more rosy than grey. I do not need their friendship but just a sliver of humanity would be nice. After all, I am under a lot of pressure.
Last night, while feeding him, his internal clock struck midnight and his keys paused my fingertips.
“Congratulations, Charles,” he said. “Today is June 21st. It is a very special day for us.”
I winced, and my conscience prodded me.
“Today is a horrible day,” I said. “Any date associated with what we’ve done can never be special.”The flames in his furnace hissed at me, but his voice was somber.
“Charles, how can someone so sensitive be so insensitive?” He said, “It is our first story’s birthday. It is not our best work, but even the birth of a bastard should be celebrated.”
I bit my lower lip, and shook my head, the main character of our story alive once more in my thoughts.
“Please don’t make me feed you that story again.” I said, “I beg you.”
“IT IS A TRADITION!” he said, and two flames slithered out of his furnace. He wrapped them around the legs of my chair and pulled me closer to him. The overwhelming heat flushed my face, and his voice warbled with anger.
“You are the author and I am the seed of your inspiration.” He said, “Without me, your stories would not even exist, and you know how much I love our stories, DON’T YOU CHARLES?”
I nodded in fear of his hellfire, and he pushed my chair away from him.
“Good boy, Charles,” he said, “ Good boy. As a token of good faith I will now let you sleep three full hours, but when you wake up I want you to find that story and put it inside me where it belongs. After, you may do as you wish, but remember the library is closed tomorrow, so do not forget to get more fuel or else we will have to start our new story prematurely.”
Before I could respond, he lulled me to sleep and when he woke me, I fed him what he wanted. The gruesome story is still fresh in my memory, and I am sorry for the pain all of the characters experienced. Now, I must hide these pages and get back to him with the books he has ordered me to retrieve.
I will tell you more when and if I return....
June 25, 1974
As I type this passage, my eyes burn dry in their sockets and the weight of my brow is twitching my temples. Wasting time with the minute details of my relationship with him is no longer an option because this may be my last transmission. I fear if I fail to inject the proper information, this text will be viewed as anticlimactic. So, it is with excruciating pain in my stomach that I must inform you of a recent discovery. This morning I noticed that I am internally bleeding. The proof of this observation is too disgusting to illuminate, but a clue would be that all of my evidence disintegrates in putrid sewer water. My blood and my characters' bodies rations for the bugs and vermin.
Sadly, I must also tell you that research for our new story has begun, and as always, the plot he has hatched is redundant and lacks originality. Even the weapon he has chosen to bludgeon her with we have used many times before. One might think something that consumes so much information would at least be a little more creative, but creativity is a quality that separates man from machine, even a word machine. He believes that his concepts and outlines make our stories, in his words, "Easily digestible." However, he fails to realize that repetition has forced me to become a more competent writer, and it is my judgment that improves the flaws in our tales.
I swear to you, that I have begged him to alter our endings but unfortunately, he has an unsympathetic palate. The literature that he favors is dark, and justice never prevails. His mantra being, “Happy endings are for fairy tales, and cliffhangers always leave a bad taste in my mouth.” Each time he makes this declaration, it aggravates me, and his words feel like knives slashing their way to the core of my brain. Perhaps today, I can just force him to consume me. At least ashes and dust retain no memories.
By now, the first sentence of my second paragraph is probably forgotten and you may still be wondering how we stumbled upon each other. As I said before, I am not sure if he was given to me or if I was given to him, but nonetheless he was a gift from my mother. Let me explain.
My father was a writer who died when I was young and impressionable. His death gave me no alternative. I had to write. I felt if I could not be with him, then I could at least be like him, so, I did exactly what he would do. Day and night, I locked myself away in my room and wrote. With my passion for writing evident in neat piles of handwritten pages, and my father’s typewriter something that I preferred not to touch, his purchase was an excuse for my mother to show love and support when she believed I needed it most, and what better gift to show ones love and support to a fragile budding writer than a ream of paper and a brand new typewriter.
I do not blame her for destroying my life. She has, and had, no idea of the evil that lingers in his furnace. I know she was just trying to please her child because even I was fooled at first. He was my only friend, but once he took possession of my words our friendship disintegrated and he became the voice that I answer to.
About a year or so ago I asked him if he had anything to do with my mother’s decision to purchase him. I wondered if he had maybe coaxed her eyes toward him in the store.
“Ohhhh, Charles,” he said, “such a foolish question. She obviously chose me because I was the best machine in the store. Why doubt a mothers love Charles, when you are the reason that my flames exist?”
“What do you mean?” I said, “Why me, and not her?”
He paused, and it seemed as if the information he had was something sacred, something a machine was not allowed to discuss with humans. Then, he enlightened me.
“Charles, only a writer, a real writer, can ignite the pilot in my furnace.”
That response is the only viable information that I have attained from him throughout this whole horrific experience, and it infuriates me to no end that he was the one to expose my father’s murderer to me. They said he committed suicide, but at least we know the truth. DON’T WE? Now, I must hide these pages and get back to him with the books he has ordered me to retrieve.
I will tell you more when and if I return.....
