Thursday, July 31, 2008

THIS TYPEWRITER STILL TYPES, A KEY WILL STICK ON OCCASION

There was no sign that said you couldn’t walk on the grass.
Yet it felt like an intrusion.
She did not trample, but it felt like trampling. Tiny animal life screaming underfoot, the clouds for the afternoon torrential rains already brewing.

Lately, she had taken to carrying herself inside her mind, like she carried her characters. To be observed and weighed, perhaps to be loved, perchance to be killed. One more in her stable of spirits. She did not relish the scrutiny. (It made her understand a character’s inherent need for mutiny. Yet you could not grant them full control over their destiny. How can I love you, if you are not mine? How can I kill you, if you were not mine? If you will not be pinned down on the keys of the Underwood, how can I let you scurry away last minute, free, into the undergrowth?)

Would she hold up?

Was she the new arrival she would fall for, fast, as she was wont to do?

The sun stung her eyes.

It felt like an intrusion.

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