The dog and the typewriter.
- joneworlds@mailbox.org

In the  days after  the cannery  shut down,  I had
returned home.  I found a typewriter.  I made text
together with it every day, and I felt as one with
it.

One day it stopped stamping letters when I pressed
its keys.  I had fear that it would never again be
as  it was  before.  I  wondered what  to do,  and
thought to  ask someone for  help.  A dog  of mine
came by, and spoke to me.

"You do not need anyone.  You must find the answer
by yourself. Take this shovel, and dig."

I went to  the patch of dirt  outside, and started
to work.  I  dug many holes, deep  and wide. After
three  days,  my  hands  were  sore.  And  yet  my
typewriter still would not speak when I tried it.

"You will keep digging," said the dog.

After three  more days,  my hands were  covered in
blisters. And  yet my  typewriter still  would not
speak when I tried it.

"You will keep digging," said the dog.

After three more days, I  was deep into slimy clay
and rotting fungus. My  hands were bloody and raw,
and I was in great pain.

"I can dig no longer."

"Then take  this," said the  dog. It brought  me a
child's blanket.   I took it. The  blood and filth
on my hands stained and ruined it as I held it.  I
was disgusted.   And then  I was anguished  to see
that this blanket was my  very own from long, long
ago.

I  became angry  with  the dog.   "I  see not  the
purpose of my labor."

"You are a poor  digger. See, the typewriter knows
it."

I went to my typewriter, and in my anger I grasped
it in my  hands, and shook it.  My  blood and dirt
covered  the   sides.   And  then   three  letters
appeared  on the  page, as  though its  action had
been restored and I had pushed the keys:

w h y

The typewriter  then faded  from my view,  and was
gone forever.

The  dog has  stayed with  me, and  though I  feel
gratitude  for its  service, I  now keep  it on  a
leash. It  no longer  speaks to me,  or I  hear it
not.