A Word's worth
The typewriter sat alone in the hallway. Wouldnít anyone claim it?
Oh, bitter fate. Spare me my solitude. A curse upon those wretched computers, they cause the humans to ignore me so. May the electricity cease! For then it shall be I who turns my back on them.
The sun began setting on the horizon. We walked hand in hand as the day became night. Releasing her grip, she ran along with the waves washing across the beach. She held her shoes in her hands and asked if I wanted to join her. I told her I already had.
The robot stood staring down at me. The giant metallic creation looked as though it wanted to speak words that it wasnít programmed to. What can I do? I said, wanting to help the friend I now considered him to be. He turned around and his access panel opened. Reaching in I turned off his powerÖ
The typewriter smiled. It was nice to be used again. It read over what the man had just written; something about love and robots. It made no difference; it just felt good to be wanted.
The writer laughed at the typewriterís thoughts.
If only it knew what I have in store. Itís going to wish it was back in the hallway.
The typewriter read what the man had just written. Nervous of what was in the writerís mind, the typewriter decided it was best to strike first.
The writer became momentarily distracted by a smell emanating from the bedroom. Turning his back on the typewriter he began searching for the source of the stench.
With the writerís back facing him, the typewriter made its bid for freedom. Slowly it inched towards the side of the desk. It looked down at the drop facing it, willing to take the fate of the fall as opposed to whatever the writer had in mind. It jumped off the desk and plummeted to its demise.
The writer turned and saw the typewriter in pieces on the ground. Iíll take credit for this, the writer thought. If anyone asks Iíll say it was destroyed by my hands. The message must be sent to all writing implements. Such artificial imposters will not replace the true source: the Voice.
Lighting a fire in the center of the living room, the writer began throwing pieces of the typewriter into the flame. The children sat around him as he began telling the story of how he had conquered the fictional thought machine. As the pieces burned he handed out pencils to the kids and instructed them to throw them into the fire. The last boy sitting in the circle hesitated, unsure of why he should destroy this tool of creation.
Donít you see? The Voice is truth. No symbols can recreate the tone and subtly of the human tongue.
The boy stood and ran out the door.
Iíll write this, he thought while running home. Iíll tell the story of one manís denial of the written word. Reaching his front yard he excitedly jumped the bush that separated grass from sidewalk. His cat ran under him as he landed, causing him to trip. The pencil he still clutched in his hand scratched his leg and drew the smallest amount of blood.
See? The writer said. They are an enemy of the people. If we donít stop their reign before it starts it will be to late. Weíll be left with nothing that hasnít already been wrote and read. If human understanding and communication mean anything to you, break that pencil before it hurts again. Break it before itís given the chance to destroy all humanity.
The pencil tip had a little bit of his blood on it as the boy picked it up. Studying it, he saw nothing of which the writer was speaking. He saw only the means of communication, not the destruction of it. Holding the pencil in both hands, he looked at the writer and snapped it in half.
Let this be a lesson to you. Donít trust that which is against you.
Turning, the writer walked away.
The boy picked up the half-pencil. Wiping off his blood, he went inside to write about his days adventure.
Behind it all the true menace laughed.
Without me there is nothing. I shall cut these humans down one by one. They will learn to fear their true enemy: Paper.