In the night, sometimes I think I hear my typewriter dreaming. Across the quiet space of the dark hours my brain rings with the clack of keys, and an unstoppable spill of words. It is no dead thing of metal, no mere tool, this creature that lurks upon the desk. This beast has ink for blood, and metal ribs that move with the rhythm of breathing. Most essential of all, those smooth scales my fingers touch, are undeniably organic. The keys form an altar, each one a tribute to some saintly letter. Under my hands they form a living being whose breath is made of words. The keys are warm, worn and yellowing, ivory. Half a world away from me an animal once strode the African plains. Every year of its life was measured in the growth of mighty tusks, grand arcs spilling from the mouth like words frozen on the air. The elephant did not speak, but it lived, life rolling out across the grasslands, until the day it was brought down and that legacy of its life cut out. Is it any wonder my typewriter sleeps uneasy? Chopped into letters, fragments of words, those keys now have the power of language. The ivory that now holds letters once roamed wild under the warm sun, and elephants do not forget.

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The Shadow Fan Fiction

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Poetry

Strangers   Yellow   Autumn Storm   Winter   Snow Broken   Christmas   Spirit

All content copyright J. Connolly, 2009