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The Typewriter


The Typewriter

Copyright © 2016 Simon Black

Published by Simon Black at Shakespir

Copyright © 2016 Simon Black

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. 


Author: Simon Black 

Publisher: Shakespir, Inc.

Shakespir Edition License Notes

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The Nightmare

He must be dreaming, because what he sees around him cannot possibly be true. Can it?

On the other hand, how can he be dreaming, as he does not remember going to sleep? The last he remember, he was sitting at his desk in his office in front of his laptop, ready to start typing out a new story. He blinked his eyes and then he was here…wherever here is. Whether he is dreaming or not, this is all very strange and he don’t feel good about any of it. This is the result of extreme stress.

The place where he is, looks like the toilet at the primary school he attended many years ago. The same semi-darkness, with the buzzing of that light that never seems to work quite right, the same semi-wet floor, the same creepiness. The only difference is that this place is much bigger. The pungent smell of Jeyes Fluid hangs over everything like an invisible mist. The row of stalls on the one side and the sinks on the other side, goes off endlessly to both sides, whether he looks left or right. It is like looking into two mirrors being held opposite each other together. The toilet is also much wider with lots of nooks and crannies.

He seems to be here alone, with only the slight echo of water dripping somewhere in this cavernous place. The caretaker is not going to like that.

The basin in front of which he stands, changes into a keyboard. It is almost as if this is a normal thing. That a washbasin just changes into a keyboard. Ah, he had been working too hard. He is dreaming of his work…if this is a dream. He certainly hopes it is.

The keyboard glows orange and looks extremely hot. He looks into the mirror in front of him and his face stares back at him. He knows it is his face – it must be his face, but it doesn’t look the same. The face in the mirror is much thinner and the skin much paler than he had ever seen it before. That face looks sick. He is not scared, though. He just feels a bit sad.

As he looks down at the basin, the keyboard is gone, but it is clear that it was there, because there are now what looks like pieces of glowing plastic in the basin. He quickly washes his hands. The glowing plastic goes down the drain hole. The water doesn’t seem right, but he just can’t make out what is wrong with it.

The usual graffiti is on the walls. The caretaker is definitely not going to like that. He wonder who wrote it there, in such a neat handwriting. It almost looks like it was typed onto the wall.

ASRUHAHAL IS COMING is written in huge letters with black felt-tipped pen on the wall. Must be a new gang, he thinks to himself as he had never seen that name before. PHONE BOLRAH NOW FOR THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE – 066 642 3351.

He walks deeper into the toilet and comes around a dark wall. This is where the dripping is coming from. It is water dripping from the ceiling onto the floor. When he looks closer, he sees it is not water. It is blood. Thick and dark red. Blood? Why did he immediately think it was blood? It must be blood. When he looks again he sees that the entire floor is filled with the blood, which seems to have a strange sheen to it. It is only the spot where he is standing that is blood free. But the blood seems to be slowly encircling him, giving him that urge to just run away as fast as he can. But his muscles won’t obey the brain’s commands. Damn, it is one of those dreams.

And then the thunderous roar echoing through the toilet.

He was already hearing the roar as he was looking at the graffiti, but now it was becoming louder and more prominent. Fear fills his whole body in an instant, making him cold all over. This is a fear he never felt before in his life. Now, with the roar getting louder in his ears, he realizes that he doesn’t know where the exit is. This is not the toilet at his old primary school, because that toilet he knew by heart.

How will he get out of here; out of this creepy toilet? All he will need to hear now is a sheep blaring and he will know it is a nightmare.

The next moment he hears a sheep blaring right next to him. It is even touching his hand. He looks down with horror. It is not a sheep.

His daughter, Irena, is with him. Seeing her with him, fills him with even more fear.

“What are we going to do, Daddy.” She asks as she looks up at him with those big clear brown eyes of hers. The roar is now much louder and closer. But still he does not see anything. Is this place that big? He can’t get out. And what about the thick blood on the floor?

When he looks again all the basins had changed into glowing keyboards. Keyboards which seem to be grinning at him. This is a dream. This is one of those dreams and he feels even more fear running through him. The fear eats into him like acid as all the keyboards/sinks start to bleed streams of blood onto the already blood filled floor.

He had many dreams like these before. He always tries to wake himself, but he could never succeed in doing it. No part of his body reacts when he commands them to. And this fills him with even more fear, making him strain even harder. He feels himself straining against himself to wake up, but it is to no avail.

He picks Irena up and starts running away from the roar. Even as he runs, he just hopes that he is not running deeper into this evil, semi-dark toilet with all its secret nooks and crannies. The sound of that deep roar alone, makes him very certain that he do not want to see the evil that is making that sound.

Maybe he can just hide. Maybe he can hide inside one of the stalls.

But what he saw inside one of those stalls the last time he dreamed of this place will never allow him to open one of those doors again…ever. That is definitely not something he wants to see again – even in his dream.

He runs with his daughter. He does not care about himself, if he can just get her to safety. The fear runs through him like cold dishwater. He must escape. He must save his daughter.

The roar is very close to him now and is still coming. He comes around a dark corner with haste and then he sees the door opening. The door is wide open into the bright outside light. He just needs to run faster to reach it.

He does run faster with the warm body of his daughter clinging to him with all her might. He runs desperately and sees that he is going to make it. Even the roar sounds much further away now.

Then the door opening seems to be moving away from him. At first nearly imperceptible and then faster and faster. The closer he comes, the further the opening moves away. He strains as he runs at top speed now to safe Irena, but all is to no avail.

Behind him, there is what sounds like laughter and he feels something grabbing him. He immediately starts to fight with all his might as he put his daughter down, with his own body between her and the evil that is attacking them. Despite his desperate efforts, rough tentacles come behind him and grabs Irena. He screams out loud…

… as he sits upright in his bed. His whole body awash in sweat. Another nightmare.

It was only a dream, but it still reflects his life. It still reflects that which he could never accomplish. He had put his own daughter in danger, through his inability to reach his life-goal. All that hard work, all those sacrifices he made through the years, were for nothing.

He is still shivering with fear from the nightmare, but immediately phones his daughter on his mobile phone. The sun is long up, but he does not mind. He had been writing until late the previous night, before he went to bed. Now he is worried about Irena.

“Hello daddy,” She says immediately in his ear.

“Hi, sweetheart…are you okay.” He asks as he starts getting out of bed.

“I’m perfect, dad. I’m on my way to school. How are you doing?”

“Also fine. In any case, be careful and remember I love you.”

“I love you too, dad. Will I see you this weekend?”

“Definitely yes.”

“Ok, see you then. Bye.”

The Inheritance

Alan Chase was a worried man. Not only was he not getting on with his writing, but now his ex-wife was also threatening him with leaving for the Eastern Cape with his daughter, unless he increases the alimony payment. She has got a job offer that side and has a week to decide if she is going to accept it or not. In that week, he will have to decide if he was going to increase her alimony. If he increases the alimony payment immediately, she will stay. If not, she will leave for better prospects and distant shores.

If she leaves for the Eastern Cape, he will not be able to see his daughter, because he will not have money to travel that far. His life had become one big mess and he will soon be without his house, unless he can earn money from his writing.

If only he could improve his writing. He knows in the deepest recesses of his heart that he is a good writer. He was born to write. He has been writing since schooldays. He wrote a lot whilst in the higher standards of primary school and right through his high school years

Then again during his second year at University. He got inspired and started writing up a storm. He was then also confident enough to send his short stories away for publication. They all came back with little politely worded pink slips. ‘Thanks for wanting to publish your work through our magazine, but we can’t make use of it.’ He could never understand that.

What is even more irritating is that editors do not give any reasons why they do not accept a short story, so the writer does not know where he went wrong.

In all his stories, he had a perfect plot, characterization to die for and lots of sparkling dialog. Everybody who he could get to read the stories were impressed by it. However, the magazines never wanted to publish it. Maybe it was because he didn’t know people in the industry. He was an introvert and definitely didn’t make friends very easily. In his heart, he knew that if his stories were any good, an editor would have published it without personally knowing him.

Therefore, there must be something wrong with the stories, but now if someone would just tell him what it was.

As an alternative, he started publishing some of his best stories on the Internet. For free at first. Then later, when everyone is hooked, he would start asking payment to read his stories.

However, as he checked over the weeks, there were very few clicks on his stories and zero comments. It was clear that no one was interested. Some of the sites he sent his stories to, never even published it.

The thing was that he wanted to make his living through writing. That is how he always saw himself when he started waking to the idea that one actually has to have a craft to make a living. To buy food in the house, to buy a house with in the first place and to have clothes and a nice car. He immediately decided that his craft was going to be writing.

The whole thing of being a writer started when he was very young. After he read his first storybook, he was immediately hooked. The words were like magic to him and the fact that someone – a writer – put it there, meant that a writer must be a magician. A magician who puts words and ideas on paper, which echoes through the ages without end. That is what he wanted to do. He wanted to be a magician. He wanted to be a writer.

Where writing assignments were hated by his fellow students at school, it was like manna from heaven for him. Afterwards the teacher would always read his essays to the class to indicate how they should write theirs.

While still in high school, he won two essay competitions. He was praised by many for his written material. However, here in the real world it was something else. He always thought he had talent, but now it seems that he did not.

It seemed that the general reading public just did not like his stories. Despite this, he was still writing. Nothing would ever stop him from writing. The problem is that in the real world, one needs to earn an income. There is no other way to survive that he knew of. So either his writing must earn him an income, or he will have to stop writing and find a job.

He was working for a while as a very unhappy horticulturist, designing gardens and then maintaining it. It was an income, but not really a compulsion for him. He resigned from the gardening business, because he was simply too tired to write in the evenings after work. His writing was much more important than doing something he didn’t enjoy.

He resigned and decided to concentrate on his writing one hundred percent. He got some short stories sold, but definitely not enough to make a living on. Luckily, he had some money in the bank, but that was not going to last forever. He sold his car just to make his account stronger, but he knew that it was still not going to last forever.

As a writer, one needs lots of free time. The free time is when you work out the plots or get the ideas for the stories. The writing part is actually the easiest part of the whole process. This is what he wanted to do, but could not do if he wanted to make a living and maintain his house.

That was the reason that Solita left him two years ago. She said that his head was in the clouds. He should get it out of there, forget about this writing and see to it that he gets promotion at work so that there could be more money to spend. She left, but there were no real animosity between the two of them. He was sure that she still loved him as much as he loved her. Luckily, they already had a daughter, Irena, by that time. He knew that the presence of their daughter would see to it that they are together forever, no matter what.

Despite the fact that they were divorced, there was never any problems for him visiting his daughter. There were even times when the three of them would go out somewhere, to the mall or to a galleria like a regular family. Solita wasn’t even dating someone else. He himself never even considered dating someone else.

For him it was just a matter of fact that he and Solita would get back together as soon as he could pull his life together and make a success of his writing. It was not as if he didn’t try. He had thousands of short stories on his hard drive and hundreds of printed out stories in boxes that he kept in his room. When he was out of work, he wrote up a real storm.

Strange, was that not one of those stories seemed to draw the attention of anyone. Even for free; readers were not interested in what he wrote. He gave the stories to critics and none of them could find any fault with it.

He was in between a rock and a hard place.

Of course, no one can look at his own work objectively. Only someone from outside can criticize it. That he never got. No extreme negative comment were every made of a story of his.

The tight plot was there. The theme was interesting. He had good, fully developed characters and his dialog sparkled as his writing lecturers always told him. He really do not know what was wrong. Even the many editors whom he contacted always just said that they could not make use of it at the moment. No one ever said there was anything wrong with his stories.

He gave up writing so many times in his life. When he was done with school, he did not write for more than a year. During the whole first year at University he didn’t write one word for pleasure. It was only when he changed his course in the second year that he started writing again. This time he could write every day because that was the course he did and it was expected of him to write. That must have been the happiest time of his life.

Like old Mrs Herman, his teacher in high school said: All written words you see everywhere around you, all movies, all books, comics, magazines…all of them are there because of a writer somewhere. Every scene, everything you see on TV or on the big screen is there because of a writer. So being a writer in our society is something very important and without which the world will not be the same place it currently is. The world will be dark and gray with no joy at all without writers. It is because of writers that we know what happened in the middle ages, that we know what happened in antiquity, that we know how people lived in biblical times. The work of writers echo through the ages and that echo will never stop.

He already had the compulsion to be a writer, but good tutors like Mrs Herman and others drove him further into fanaticism to be a writer. In the end that was all he wanted to do. He sometimes thought that he should have studied to become a journalist, instead of the course he did. However, he wasn’t interested, because he always saw a journalist as the poor man’s writer. If he had become a journalist, he would have been in contact with the people who could have helped him today to publish his books and stories.

Now he was totally down on his luck and almost out. Today, he had already fetch the bills in the post box and perused it. He will have to empty his savings account this month and will definitely only be able to pay Solita her normal alimony. He won’t be able to pay even a cent extra.

He will definitely not have more money in a week’s time, which means that he is going to lose his daughter. There was nothing he could do about that and that made him feel helpless. As helpless as he never felt before in his life, because he had nothing to fall back on.

With Solita away from him, she will definitely start dating again. Why not? She is young and beautiful. In addition to that, Irena won’t see him on a regular basis, which means they will slowly drift apart. He will seldom see her and that alone already drives him crazy.

His life is miserable.

As he goes out the back door to give the dog some food, he suddenly hears his front door bell ringing. He goes to the front door via the back gate and immediately sees the brown and yellow FedEx van standing outside his gate. The FedEx man is busy ringing his front door bell.

Must be a mistake, he immediately thinks to himself. He is not expecting any packages and definitely not something that would be delivered by FedEx.

“Good morning, sir, are you Mister Chase?”

“Yes, that’s me.” Alan smiles with the man.

The man hands him a rather large box. Alan immediately checks the address label, still assuming the FedEx man made a mistake, but no, it is clearly addressed to him. It comes from California in the United States. He does not know any people in the United States.

“Can you sign for me please?” The man asks as he hands the tablet to Alan. Alan quickly signs on the screen and hands it back to the man, still totally flabbergasted by this unexpected package. It is not small and it feels a bit heavy.

He sees the FedEx man off at the gate and then he returns to his backyard. He finishes giving the dog his food and then he goes into his kitchen with the huge box. He puts it on the table and gets a knife to open it.

He takes the big envelope that lies on top of the item and then he sees it is an old typewriter. A mechanical typewriter? Who on earth would send him a typewriter in this day and age when everything is done so easily by computer or tablet?

He opens the letter and sees it is from Jack Sherman. He remembers Jack Sherman. Years before Jack Sherman was at the University and one of his best tutors. He always thought that Jack was dead already. He can remember, though, that after his stint at the University, Jack returned to his homeland in the United States and became a very famous writer. He didn’t only write several bestselling novels, but were also part of the writing teams of some of the top movies.

Now that rich man sends him an old typewriter. This is the strangest thing ever. He didn’t even think that Jack could remember him, never mind sending him something, but why a useless typewriter. Why didn’t he rather send him some money?

Alan sits down on a chair in his kitchen and starts reading the letter that he finds in the box.

The Letter

As he starts reading the letter, he immediately sees that he was correct in assuming that Sherman was dead. He is sure that he read about Sherman’s death somewhere on an obscure website, but at that time, he had something else on his mind and did not take too much note of it. Why would he in any case. He associated Sherman with a time when he was still on top of the world. He did not want to think about that joyous time now; while he was in the hell, he was in. That was just the type of person he was.

The more he was in trouble, the more he withdrew into himself in order to get himself out of this mess. The one thing that was for sure is that he should never have gotten married to Solita. He always loved her and he was sure she loved him, but they should not have gotten married, because not one of them was ready for it yet. They should have waited. Now he was struggling to make ends meet and he was forcing her to do things that she does not want to do.

He sees now that the letter has another sealed envelope inside. The first letter is from Sherman’s lawyer telling him that Sherman’s estate was now completed and he inherited this typewriter. There is also a personal letter from Jack Sherman for him in a second, sealed envelope.

He breaks the seal and starts reading the letter.

“Dear Alan

I sent you some emails, but I am not sure if you received it. I only had your university email address and I was not sure if you were still using it at that time. Because you never replied, I assumed the latter.

Maybe I should have told you this personally in the time that we were together at the university, Alan, but I always considered you as one of the best students. One of my best, but one who had little chance of succeeding in the real writing world.

You are too honest and you are too much of a rule follower. After all these years and after all the successes I had, I still can’t work out why it is like that in our profession, but it is. Our profession is not looking towards the light side, although that is all that it projects. Our profession wants us on the dark side – to put it very bluntly.

As you can remember, I told you that success is not going to come easy. In the entertainment- or art world, whatever you want to call it, it never does. The entertainment world is like a completely different world; one that is very far removed from the real world. We, who are in the entertainment industry, know that we create our own worlds. It is our task to addict those who live in the real world, to our make believe worlds, through our stories, our movies and through our television programs.

Writers are in actual fact creators and thus on a much higher level than your average human being.

We have the world’s attention on us the whole time, but the light behind us shines so bright, that no one can actually see us. What they see is only a shadow of who and what we really are. If the world should see us as we really are, they won’t like it.

That is why it is not easy to join this world, Alan. As I am sure you have noticed over the years as you unsuccessfully tried to get your stories published. Even the small hack magazines are not interested and you just can’t understand why not. Your story is technically and artistically very close to perfection, but still no one is interested in it. Why is that?

I can tell you. It will never be published because you are not part of the inner circle. To become part of this inner circle, which is in operation all over the world, you have to do certain things. Things that humans don’t like to do, as it is against human nature. Do you understand, Alan.

In order to be successful, you have to leave that which is human in you behind…and become a writer. And that is not easy to do.

Although you felt your whole life long that you are an author, that doesn’t make of you an author. That is only your calling to be an author. To become an author you need something else. Something only the entertainment world can provide you. Not the entertainment world you see around you, but the hidden entertainment world that the average human being never sees.

You have been writing for many years now. You have noticed, I am sure, that when you write you disappear into a world of your own for a while. The real world is then only but a mirage around you and you only return to the real world once you stop writing.

That is good, but the problem is that you are only a visitor in that writing world. In order to be successful, you need to be a permanent resident of the writing world.

To become a famous and a well-read author, you have to sacrifice that which is human in you. You will have to become, who you were always meant to be. You will have to become a permanent resident of that ‘writing world’. That other world must be where your permanent residence is and the real world must be strictly for visiting.

This is not easy.

Like I always told the class, success does not come easy. When I told you that, many of your less talented fellow students understood what I said. You were one of the few who did not understand – because of your honesty. You thought it is just the usual nonsense that teachers say, but it was not.

Success does not come easy.

There is always a price to pay. The higher the price, the higher the reward.

There is a difficult part that you first have to get over and then you will be in the valley of success. Once you are there, you write your own paycheck and nothing is impossible for you. You WILL become a god.

It is up to you now to go further into this subject and see what I said is true. Let me give you a clue, just look at the many famous people who are talentless in whatever they do, and then you go from there.

In any case, to help you find the truth, I sent you my old Brother typewriter. It was the top model in its heyday and you will see that it still works perfectly. Be a willing recipient of this present that I am sending you. It is my heritage to you. You will know how to use it because you started out with a typewriter. Let it become a part of you – search and discover. Become an author.

I guarantee you will like it.

Jack Sherman”

This must count as the strangest letter he ever received. He understand some of what Jack is mentioning in the letter, because he heard about it here and there through the years. He never really believed any of it, though. Deals with the devil, join the Illuminati, stuff like that. He never believed any of it. No one ever approached him with any offers in that line in any case, so he just assumed it was poppycock.

Alan puts the letter down on the table next to its envelope and take the typewriter out of the box. He can feel his heart beating faster as he touches the writing machine.

It is a black Brother ZM2000. It is very clear that it was very well taken care of as not a screw or clip is out of place. He sees that the only thing that is missing is a ribbon. A typing ribbon. The problem is that no one uses typewriters anymore and there is no place in the country he will find a typewriter ribbon. Maybe there are still suppliers of typewriter ribbons in the US as there are still companies that actually use typewriters, but not in this country. In addition, this typewriter is very old. It looks like something from the beginning of the last century.

Why on earth would someone like Jack Sherman use a typewriter like this?

Why would anyone use a typewriter to type his stories, in any case, when it is so much easier with a computer? Even the cheapest computer is far better than the most expensive typewriter.

He types on the keyboard and feels that all the keys still moves nice and smooth. The keys are working perfectly, including the return. He smiles when he hears that familiar ring again when he reached the end of the margin. Makes him think to years back, but even then he was using an electric typewriter and not a mechanical one like this one.

His mind immediately starts working now, as he gets a bit excited. It seems that all the problems that was filling his mind a few moments ago are gone now. Writing, real writing always fills him with this type of excitement. Why an old typewriter should get him this excited he do not know, but the words in Jack Sherman’s letter appears in his mind’s eye.

“Don’t ask any questions, just type a story on this typewriter and everything else will take care of itself.

“Remember what I always told you – there is always a little magic in some things. Leave the real world behind and take the chance. Make use of your talents.”

The Typewriter

Alan looks at the shiny black typewriter. It is clear that Jack took very good care of it. One can almost say that it looks new, but there are signs that it was used a lot. He lifts the machine and scrutinizes it carefully. He sees something that immediately draws his full attention. On the left hand side of the typewriter are the letters AC. It seems to have been burned into the machine in a very elaborate way. AC, his initials. He wonders if Jack Sherman did this. If so, why?

Why would Jack Sherman send him such an old model typewriter? Does he want him to start a typewriter museum or what? And what about the strangely worded letter? In addition, his initials are engraved onto the machine. What is all this for?

Of course, he will keep this machine, as a memento from Jack, but the chances that he will use it for actual writing is virtually nil. He has a laptop that is just perfect for the task of writing.

He continues with his inspection of the writing machine.

The typing bars are all there and in perfect working order. The typing bars are usually of the first things to go on a typewriter that is used a lot. They start tangling into each other and soon you have a lot of spelling mistakes in your work. Then you know it is time for a new typewriter.

The thing is that everything on the machine looks original. Jack Sherman couldn’t have bought this machine as new. He must also have gotten it second hand or from someone else. He wish now he could contact Jack to find out. If he remembers the article correctly, Jack was very sick before he died. He stopped reading the article when he came to that part; because he really did not need any other bad news in his life. His life was bad enough. He also tried his best to get that article out of his mind and that is why he was not sure if Jack Sherman was dead.

The rubber of the platen feels nice and warm under his hand. Like a welcoming friend, almost. It makes him smile. Old memories flood his brain and leaves him with a warm feeling all over.

After he touches some of the keys, he gets the urge to start typing immediately. Even if it is just to feel what it feels like to type on a typewriter again after all these years.

Unfortunately, he will not be able to, because there is no ribbon. The other thing is that he will have to get used to typing something and then there isn't a copy of it saved somewhere on his hard drive or even flash drive. If you want to make changes to the story, you have to re-type whole pages. With a typewriter there is only one hard copy, unless you go to all the trouble to put in carbon paper. All corrections have to be done with correction fluid or -band. However, he has been typing for many years now and is not worried about that at all.

He knows a little shop in Brackenfell where he usually buys stationary. He can’t remember that he ever saw typewriter ribbons there, but then he wasn’t looking for it. They had things that he didn’t even knew existed anymore and he always found it fascinating. He will go there this afternoon to see if that little shop has typing ribbon. If they don’t have he is sure the old man will be able to tell him where he can find typewriter ribbons.

That evening he takes the typewriter to his little writing nook. He closes his laptop and puts it into its bag. Then he prepares space for the typewriter on his desk.

He found the typewriter ribbon in that shop and he bought ten rolls of black and red ribbon. He don’t know what drove him to buy that many ribbons, but now he has it. That ought to last him quite a while, if he was going to use the machine that much. Maybe he will get tired of it after the first session, but then he will still have the ribbon for future use.

He weaves the ribbon through the necessary loops and then he test his skill on the first page. It is actually exciting to hear the clicking sound of the typing bars on the paper. And then that satisfying grinding sound as he turns the paper in the platen. The little bell sound at the end of the margin and then pushing the carriage release lever to bring the page up to the next line.

Now that he is satisfied that everything is working exactly as he wants it, he decides to take the machine on a test run. He will type out the beginning of a short story that he has been thinking of writing and see how it turns out.

Bolrah Kuyper – Demon Hunter Extreme.

As his fingers starts to get used to the typewriter keyboard after years of not using it, he feels a new kind of excitement moving through him. With these keys, it is actually the force of his hand that makes them type on the paper and not some electronic motor or computerized chip. He is typing much faster than he is used to. It must be because of all the exercise he got on the much easier computer keyboard. Things are going well and it almost seems that he is even thinking clearer, using the typewriter.

He enjoys the clicking of the typebars on the paper covered platen and then seeing the real letters appearing instantly on the paper. Any mistake he makes here is a mistake that will stay there forever. He types so fast and the paper fills up so quickly with his words, that it almost seems to him as if the typewriter has a mind of its own. That is the wonder of it all; whilst a computer does have a mind of its own, the typewriter is only a dead tool. A dead tool that only comes alive if a person uses it. He keeps on typing away.

After having typed ten whole pages full, he gets up and makes himself a cup of coffee. On returning to his desk, he looks at the neat stack of A4 paper all typed to capacity with his words…his thoughts. It takes him back many years ago, when he was still in high school and had a stack like this almost every day. At that time, he was so excited about writing and could not see himself doing anything else but writing. He wonder what he would have done if he knew of the disappointments that would follow.

He types some more, almost without thinking. He didn’t think about it at the beginning, but now he notices that he is writing a story almost effortlessly. He had a rough idea in his mind, but here on the typewriter the story is forming itself as he types.

He was still going to develop the idea full on his computer one evening when he had the time. Here he was now writing out the story as if it was nothing. Once he has the first draft the rest is usually easy.

Maybe that was the problem all these years. He needed to use a typewriter. He don’t know how, but it seems that the typewriter makes him think better and write faster. Maybe that is what Jack Sherman meant by his strange letter.

Didn’t all the famous authors use a typewriter to type their stories – he will have to look it up.

Where he would usually type a chapter and then do something else for a while, he was now typing continuously. He wants to get to the end of the story, to see how it ends.

Before he knows it, he types THE END on the paper and pulls it out of the typewriter.

He didn’t have a stack of neatly typed papers like this for a very long time and he likes the feel of it. This is much more satisfying than a stack of pages coming from a laser printer or simply having the story in electronic format. This stack of pages makes you feel like you really worked.

The satisfaction of having completed a short story in one sitting is extremely energizing. He didn’t even know it was possible, because he never completed a story in one sitting before.

However, now the editing is still there and that is going to take a while. Might even take a week. He is usually only satisfied with his story after the fifth edit.

He scans the first two pages and finds nothing to edit. Not even a spelling or grammar mistake. Plus he is satisfied with what he had type on the paper. That is a first for him, because he can’t remember a time ever when he was totally satisfied with what he wrote. He is always making changes to his stories even after many rewrites.

When he comes to the fifth page and he is still hundred percent satisfied, he decides to just read the story. He reads it from the first page right to the last. 8000 words filling up 22 pages. He can see nothing to edit. In addition, he really likes this story. This is much-much better than the stuff that he usually writes – even he has to admit that.

It is late already, but he is so excited now that he immediately starts retyping the story onto his laptop. He needs this story on his computer, because then he can do much more with it, than with only the hard copy on paper.

He is done by nine o clock that evening. At the moment, he doesn’t care much about anything else. Here he created a brand new character in one sitting, without the usual planning and working out that he does when creating a new character. This is life and does not seem like work to him at all. This is joy all the way.

He sends it through the word grinder, as he calls his special spell and grammar checker, and there are hardly any red or blue lines in his work. The words that does have marks are correct, but not according to the word grinder’s specific rules – which he doesn’t agree with all the time in any case. These are the words and sentence fragments that he wants and he leaves it like that.

He really thinks people are going to like his first story of Bolrah Kuyper, the demon-hunter who was born with only one working eye. He is already thinking that in a follow up story Bolrah must discover the real purpose of the eye that does not function. He has many ideas for this character. He saw that name somewhere in a dream and just went with it and it worked out beautifully when he typed it just now on his typewriter.

He logs onto the Internet and sends his story away to a website that sells horror and fantasy short stories. FANDORA: FOR YOUR FAVORITE HORROR AND FANTASY.

It is late night where he is, but over there where the website is the working day had just begun. An hour later, he receives the email that his story has been accepted and is already online.

Before, the site didn’t even want to accept his stories, although he had read stories on there that was much weaker than his. Now he will just have to wait and see what happens. If he makes any success here, this typewriter is going to be his most precious possession.

As he goes to sleep, he knows instinctively that there will be no nightmares tonight and he will have a good night’s sleep.

Ideas Without End

Alan goes to sleep a happy man for the first time in a long time. He feels satisfied. Not only because his short story was accepted so easily this time, but mostly because he wrote a story with such ease. He always enjoyed writing, but never in his life did he write a story with this much ease. The story flowed continuously from him, like an unending stream. His usual method was to first write down his plot and then work out the story from there. Then he would plot each chapter, so that it is exciting, relevant to the story and ends on a high note to encourage the reader to go onto the next chapter.

This sometimes made it more difficult, but he had no problem with it, because he always enjoyed the whole process – it just took a long time to do all that. After that, he would start writing the actual story. This is was also not an easy process as he changed many things as he wrote the story and then he had to go back and change things that is part of that which he changed. There were times when what he wrote didn’t make sense to him and he just couldn’t get it in the order that he wanted it. That was utter frustration.

With the typewriter, however, he only had a ghost of an idea and he started to type. It almost seemed as if the moment he started to type, the story wrote itself. He typed out the whole story in one sitting. That is incredible. In addition to all that, the story did not need any editing. It was ready just the way it was. It was the first time in his whole life that he felt comfortable to send out a first draft.

This typewriter is good.

The next morning he sees on his phone that FANDORA sent him an email. It is from the founder of FANDORA himself. It is clear that this is not the standard email these sites usually send out via automatic email servers; this was a personal email.

“When I browsed through your story the first time, it was like being hit with a brick in the head. We usually just scan these stories for forbidden things, etc., but this one I had to read – it just drew me.

I sat back and got totally lost in it. This is pure magic and exactly what our site needs.

The thing is that our readers also thought so, because our servers came very close to crashing with all the downloads and browsing on our site.

Our readers are looking for more stories by you, but it seems there are none.

Please send us some more as soon as you can.

Because your story is a best seller, we are paying royalties into your account immediately and there is no waiting period. You are also getting 95% of the price instead of the usual 75%. We are making more than enough and even as I write this, people are downloading the story.

Hope to hear from you soon


This was the biggest surprise ever to Alan. It was the first time that one of these website people made real contact with him.

Can it be the typewriter that cause all this. If so, how is it possible?

He immediately sits down by his laptop and starts typing out a story. He had something that he dreamed about and that he thought would be a good idea for a story. He starts writing the story on the laptop.

After a while, though, he sees that he cannot write it without his outline. He immediately starts drawing up an outline, but it takes long. No, this is just as usual. He is definitely not going to make progress in this way. He will have to go back to the typewriter.

He goes sit in front of the typewriter and puts his fingers on the keys. Then he starts typing. It almost seems as if his fingers are moving on their own. Or rather as if the keys are moving and his fingers are just following. Once again, the story flows out of him like water. He must just be imagining this, but whatever the case may be, it is happening right in front of his eyes.

If he is imagining all this, then why did Jack Sherman sent him the typewriter? Is this a magic typewriter that Sherman used to reach his success and then he sent it to him?

He does not even believe in magic. He never believed in magic.

Within two hours of almost continuous typing his story lies in front of him. Twenty-five pages of solid prose. This is so easy he cannot believe it himself.

He always heard the famous authors said they do not know what happen but most of the time it seems as if the story is writing itself once they made a start. That is exactly how it feels with this. This is not the first time that he feels like this, while writing, but now he is just feeling it in a bigger way, if one can describe it as such.

Maybe it is all those years that he has been writing. That was actually practice and now the real writer in him has come through. This is fantastic. And it took a mechanical typewriter to bring it out, because, really, magic can’t be real.

He goes through the story and see the same thing as in the previous one. There is hardly any editing necessary. The story is exactly what he wants and how he wants it.

The plot comes out perfectly and fits in with the surprise ending. The creepiness that he wanted in the story goes right through like a line of gold in a piece of rock. His characterization is very close to perfect, with totally rounded out characters who readers will instantly believe in. It is as if those characters were put on the paper through magic. The dialog is fresh and sounds genuine. One does not use real dialog in a story as it will not move the story forward, but his dialog will fool the reader into thinking it is real, while still moving the story forward. This was something he struggled with since he heard about it.

The story is done and now he must just get it onto his computer.

Bolrah Kuyper discovered the purpose of his eye that never functioned before. That idea just exploded into his head and he would never have worked it out with his usual methods. He had to admit that even he was a bit surprised when he discovered the purpose of the eye. This is going to drive the readers wild.

He made out from the many emails he received from FANDORA readers, since the previous night, that many of them are not exactly stable people. That is good, as long as they read his stories.

It seems that he is going to write his stories on the typewriter from now on. This typewriter that even has his initials on it. He will have to find a way to get that hardcopy into his computer without all the unnecessary typing. He thinks there is software that can do that.

The best for him is the fact that he can write so effortlessly when he is using the typewriter. He cannot do that with the computer.

Before he starts working on that, he gives FANDORA a quick check. There are lots of reviews on his story. For the first time one of his stories got more than one review. At the moment there are one hundred and six reviews and the story had two thousand five hundred and sixty six downloads. This is incredible. The story got five stars and all the reviews are raving.

One review only says: MORE…MORE…MORE…MORE…

Another one says: This is the way action horror should be written. Can’t wait for the movie to come out.

By all that is holy, people like this character he created just yesterday by sitting in front of his typewriter and typing. All those other characters which he sometimes took months to develop and which he thought would change the world, never even got a second look from readers.

Before he starts to re-type the story onto his computer, he goes on the Internet again and gives his Paypal account a quick check. He nearly drops everything when he sees the amount. In less than twenty-four hours he made $682. That is more than ten thousand Rand. He can give half of that to Solita and hope that she stays here with his daughter.

Plus – and this thought makes his head spin – if he can make this sort of money every day, he won’t have any problems anymore, because all his money problems would be solved.

The story that he wrote is still going to be downloaded for a very long time to come. It further reached bestseller status. This means it will be featured on the front page of FANDORA for as long as it has that status. That will give it more power, because everyone who goes into the site will see it immediately and with the five golden stars underneath it, they will almost certainly want to read it.

There is simply no way that he can lose.

In addition he just completed another story, which are going to bring in the same amount of downloads. Once you have readers who look for your name, you have wealth in your hand. There is no way that he can go wrong with this.

He gives the typewriter a quick kiss as he smiles all over. This is life. This is what he has been working so hard for all these years.

He is motivated and inspired. He is making real money from his writing, almost unbelievable. He really started losing faith in himself and thought that he would never make it. Luckily, he kept on writing. He looks over at the huge poster that he made of a Ray Bradbury quote. It says:

You only fail if you stop writing.

That was something he always had in mind and he kept on writing and here he is getting the reward now.

He starts to retype the story into his laptop and then he posts it on FANDORA.

He decides to write a whole series of short stories about his demon hunter. After that he will write a short novel and then he will combine all those short stories into one volume and publish it as a book. This is so great.

Before he starts with that, he goes to his Paypal account and transfer the money to his bank account.

From his bank account, he immediately pays five thousand Rand into Solita’s account. Then he phones her.

“Hi, Solita, I paid an amount over into your account.” He says. When she talks, he can hear her voice is different. There is a softness in it that he did not hear for a very long time.

“Yes, I saw it coming through a minute ago. It is a huge amount. Thanks. I hope you are okay.” She says. Even over the phone, he can hear the concern in her voice.

“I am more than fine. Can I talk to Irena.”

“Yes, she’s here.” She says and hands the phone over to his daughter.

“Hi, daddy, how are you?

“I’m okay. What are you doing?”

“I have a kitten daddy…he is too cute for words.”

“Another one? How many have you got now?”

“Four. Please bring them some tinned food when you come this way…”

He smiles by himself. Irena and her love for small animals. It is almost an obsession for her. When she was little she was always in trouble for bringing any small creature that she could lay her hand on, home to take care of.

That evening he works out his plan for the series of short stories that he wants to write about his hero, Bolrah Kuyper – Demon Hunter.


Within a few months, since he started writing his stories on the typewriter, Alan Cash is a well-known writer. He had published one hundred and five short stories, most of which record the adventures of his hero, Bolrah Kuyper.

Then he had out two full-length novels, one featuring the demon hunter, the other an adventure love story. He is writing so incredibly fast, he cannot believe it himself. A lot of time is saved, because he does not need to do any editing; his stories are perfect first time.

He even got an offer from the famous comic book artist, Will The Trainman Singer to write a graphic novel with him. “You write like I draw.” The Trainman said. “Borah Kuyper is the perfect character for a graphic novel. It will drive the fans crazy.”

Although he never thought of writing comics, he had already started on it and found it very interesting to write the script for a graphic novel. The writing part of his first graphic novel, One Eyed Demon Hunter, is close to completion. Once done he will hand it to The Trainman to start the drawings.

Both his novels were not only available in eBook format on Amazon and all the other eBook publishers, but was also available as physical books. The physical books gave him more readers. This further meant he had to do a lot of book signings and interviews. All this made him a well-known figure now. He suddenly saw people who did not want to touch him with a hundred foot pole before, now smiling and trying to befriend him.

This did not anger him at all; it just amused him. He had made peace with who and what he was a long time ago. He was a writer and he did not care that much if people liked him or not. If people do not like you, there is nothing much you can do about it, is there? You can only be yourself and no one else.

The fame he always dreamed of, was his now. At the beginning, it was exciting and he felt good all over, but after a while, it became just another way of life. At times, it was even a bit irritating when people thought they could just jump into his private time and expected him to accept it.

Sometimes at night, when he lay in his bed, he still could not believe that all this was happening to him. His life had made a 360-degree turnaround. All because Jack Sherman sent him that typewriter.

He had more than enough money now. He worked out a money plan a long time ago and he invested most of it. Although the royalties were rolling in, in one continuous stream, he wanted to make sure that he would never run out of money ever again. Even if the royalties stop tomorrow, he must know that he always has money in the bank. Even after he left this mortal coil, his daughter must still be able to benefit from that money.

The amounts he was making now were huge. Only one of his books went for $4.99 and he sold more a less thirty of it per day, almost every day.

His wife and daughter now had no reason to leave for greener pastures. He paid Solita much more than she could ever use and there was no reason to leave. He saw Irena a lot and had many outings with her. There were many times when his ex-wife joined them on their excursions.

One evening, while they were at a galleria, he was sitting on the bench talking to Solita, while Irena was enjoying herself with a video game nearby. The noise inside the galleria was almost overwhelming, but they were used to places like these.

“We must get back together now, Solita.” He said as he held the warmness of her hand in his. “You know we should never have gotten that divorce in the first place and Irena is growing up fast. Don’t get me wrong, I do understand why you left me, but as you can see things are different now. You have seen my new house; you have driven in my new car. You know things will never be the way it was before. The main thing is that we love each other and we have Irena. She is the tie that binds us together whether we want it or not.”

She looks at him as he speaks and then she looks down to the floor.

“I do understand what you are saying, Alan. You should also know that I never left you because of the money. I left you because of your unnatural obsession with something you were making no impact on. At least that is what it looked like to me at the time. You had no time for me and was always just busy writing. I realize now that I was wrong and I should have stood by you through thick and thin, but I didn’t.”

She keeps silent for a moment and then she looks up at him. “Yes, I love you and I always loved you, but if I come back now, everybody will say that I am just after money. You know it is not true.”

“So why consider what other people will think. Only think of what we want. And what is the best for our daughter.” He says as he looks over at Irena talking to a boy who is also busy playing on the machines. “However, I don’t want to put pressure on you. Consider what I asked you and then you give me an answer when you are ready.”

She smiles.

“You are such a sweet guy, Alan. That is why I fell in love with you the first time. That obsessiveness that was always in you – even when we were still dating – is completely gone now. I will definitely think about your proposal. I…”

And then everything becomes dark around Alan as he sinks down to the carpeted floor of the galleria. For a few moments, the loud sounds of the video games thunder in his head and then he sinks away into unconsciousness.

He come by much later in a neat light green and white hospital room. He sees Irena immediately looking worriedly at him and then he sees Solita.

“God, Alan…” She says as she approaches. “You gave me the shock of my life. We were still talking and then you just fell down to the floor. Luckily, there were medics in the Mall. They could help you immediately”

“I don’t know what happened. I was never unconscious in my life…what did the doctor say?” He feels the worry moving through him like a dirty stream.

“They gave you a thorough exam. The doctor told me there is nothing physically wrong with you. He will talk to you later on himself.” She says as she lay a kiss on his forehead. “I am so sorry if I put any stress on you, Alan. I can assure you I never meant it to come to this. You seemed so relaxed the last few weeks. And you had such a lot of success. I just…”

“No, baby…don’t blame yourself for anything.” He looks at Irena who looks at him, clearly very close to crying. “Don’t worry, big girl. Things like this sometimes happen. Daddy is okay.” He says as he talks directly to her.

“You gave me a fright, Daddy. I really don’t want to live without you. I am going to sleep over by your place tonight…” she says as she looks at him with her big bright eyes.

“If they release me, then it’s okay.” He smiles at her. “I don’t want you to worry. I feel perfectly fine. I’ll hear by the doctor what it was.”

The doctor comes in by the door and the two women leave.

The doctor looks at his chart again, before he talks.

“I put you through all the tests, Mr. Chase. There is nothing physically wrong with you. It is very clear that your body is very fit and you take very good care of yourself. So it’s not a physical problem. You are a writer and you wrote a lot of stuff in a very short time.” The doctor smiles good-natured. “I must confess action horror is not my genre, but I did some research on you – bless the Internet that makes everything so easy. I discussed this with my colleagues and they agree with me; you are working too hard and your system simply couldn’t take it. There is no need for us to keep you here, as there is really nothing wrong with you. What I would suggest is that you go home and relax. Don’t work for a while and just enjoy yourself and see what happens. Keep looking after your body like you are currently doing.”

Alan arrives back home early that morning. Irena insisted in coming with him. She is sound asleep in her room now.

He will have to read that letter of Jack Sherman again. Maybe there is something that he missed. Something that he must or mustn’t do with the typewriter and which caused his collapse. He cannot just black out for no good reason. Plus there is nothing physically wrong with him. He knows for sure that he did not work too hard. Before he worked much harder than he is working now and there were never any blackouts like this. Before he had a lot of stress and he didn’t black out even once, he only had terrible nightmares. At the moment, writing is so easy and very enjoyable that there is simply no way that it can put any stress on him. It must be something else and he suspect the typewriter.

The typewriter changed his whole life – for the good, but what if there is a price to pay for all this. There must be something in that letter that he missed.

He takes it out immediately and starts scanning it very carefully. And then he finds what he was looking for. He only sees it now, because he was specifically looking for it.

It is typed in extremely small letters right at the bottom of the page…

Always a Price

It is a URL typed in the smallest font: https://wickedbeastmagictypewriter.com

Alan immediately goes to his laptop and types the URL in his browser. As the web page starts to open, a tight shock moves through his whole body, going like a lighting strike through his heart, as a picture of his typewriter immediately loads on screen.

The legend on top says: THE MAGIC TYPEWRITER OF THE BEAST.

As he starts reading, he feels how his heart sinks deeper and deeper as the darkness of utter despair falls down over him. He had bitten into something, which is too big and dangerous for him to chew. He will not come out of this alive.

The article was written by Eric Du Bois. A man who dedicated his life to study the life of a man they called the wickedest man in the world, the Great Magician or the Great Beast. He studied this man’s life in the smallest detail and found out things even his biographers did not know. This specific article was about the typewriter that is standing on Alan’s desk, only a few centimeters from where he is sitting. The same typewriter that he wrote several best sellers with so far already.

The research into the typewriter was not easy, as many people did not even know of its existence. It was only when I read an article by the Great Beast himself – which he wrote for Eldritch Extreme magazine that I came upon him mentioning the typewriter. “With my typewriter, which was washed in the blood of the great Asruhahal, I can type anything and as many words as I like in the shortest time possible.” These words immediately put this writer searching.

After talking to many wizards and even Satanists this writer found one who had a little knowledge about the typewriter. The typewriter is an ordinary Brother ZM2000 typewriter, which The Great Magician consecrated via a satanic ritual. ‘Washed in the blood of Asruhahal’, means that it was consecrated in an extreme ritual. Such a ritual – where a human had to die – gives the typewriter permanent magical powers, energized by a major-demon.

This was not something new and many great writers, inventors and even magicians used this method to consecrate their own writing instruments. After such a consecration the writing instrument, which was usually a pen could write faster, better and deliver copy that were instant master pieces. Such a pen could also never be destroyed, stolen or lost.

Once the writing instrument was consecrated through the ritual, no further rituals are necessary. Whomever uses that writing instrument also uses the magical powers inherent in it, without asking for it. It is the same as if the original owner is using it.

The ritual, where the writing instrument was consecrated, calls in the help of the demon. Whenever that writing instrument was used, it was the demon who did all the writing via the pen. The Great Beast just modernized the concept by choosing a typewriter as his writing instrument.

The Great Magician was a prolific writer of poetry, novels, articles, essays, etc. He wrote over 10 000 works that just seemed to appear like magic from his hand week after week. People could never understand how he could write so fast and so well at the same time.

Further research shows that this same typewriter found its way to the United States in a most unusual way. It was brought here by an Algerian who fled to the United States. He came here via Egypt. This Algerian was Tefnut Faizabad, who was wanted by the Algerian government for a series of articles that he wrote in his home country. Faizabd fled from Algeria to Egypt.

Now for the short time that he was in Egypt, he came across the typewriter in one way or the other. There are rumors that he got it in an illegal way. Whether this is so or not there are no proof for, but he arrived in New York with the typewriter in its special carry-case.

Once he was here in the land of the free, Tefnut Faizabad immediately tried to get rid of the writing machine. He denied to all who would listen that he stole the machine. Why would he, he was a writer himself he would say. But the way that he was clearly desperate to get rid of it, prevented anyone else from buying it from him. Why was he so desperate to get rid of it? There are actually many stories of his sheer desperation and of the lengths; he would go to, to get rid of the Brother ZM2000.

People even suggested that he should then just throw it away or “forget” it somewhere, when they saw that he wanted to get rid of it, just for the sake of getting rid of it.

He would then mumble under his breath in his broken English that it can only be accepted by a willing heart and throwing it away will never get rid of it. People did not know what that meant, but after that, people tried to avoid him as much as they could.

Tefnut Faizabad then moved to California. On his arrival in Hollywood he succeeded in selling the typewriter to a young and upcoming screenwriter almost immediately. Faizabad got clever through his lack of success in selling the typewriter in New York. There he just wanted to sell it as a typewriter. Here in California he now called it a magic Algerian Typewriter that would help any author write better and faster. In addition, he did not seemed to be desperate to sell it.

He even seemed a bit reluctant to sell the typewriter and as any good salesman knows, this drive your customers wild.

After selling the typewriter, the Algerian disappeared as if he never existed. The last official record of him is written in the book-in register of the Dark Desert Hotel. Then all traces are lost.

The writer who bought the writing machine suddenly had unprecedented success in his writing endeavors now. Where he was an average writer before, he now became an excellent writer. Several Hollywood blockbusters rolled off his typewriter as if it was nothing. People were surprised at how fast he could write and how good his writing was. You can never just read one of his books, was something that people liked to say.

This writer is not going to mention the name of the author who bought the typewriter or his books and movies. Although the writer is dead, his estate can still sue, as there are no real evidence that can be used in a court of law for the allegations made here. This is for the information of the reader only and they must decide for themselves if they believe this or not. Those who need to read this will immediately be able to make a distinction.

This writer, however, can swear on a stack of bibles that after researching this article, he read a book by the mentioned Hollywood writer. That was the best he ever read and after finishing the book, he really hungered for more. So if this book was written by that ‘magic’ typewriter, then what is said about it must be true; unless of course the writer was simply super talented.

The movies made from scripts provided by this author are some of the greatest classics ever produced and are still being studied and talked about by the art connoisseurs and movie buffs.

The typewriter itself is really nondescript and if it still exists today will look completely old fashioned and will not demand a second look – maybe from collectors, museum personnel, etc. yes, but definitely not from your ordinary citizen.

Due to the magic inherent in it, the typewriter will never wear down and it will last forever.

It gets magical power from the demon Asruhahal. Asruhahal is one of the five demons sitting by the throne of hell, always advising the great one. Asruhahal is considered the patron-demon of all forms of art and invention. Anyone who types on the typewriter will automatically and without any effort from their side, bring out great stories as well as great inventions. The writer will not easily tire and will accomplish very speedily a great amount of a work in a relative short time. This is all powered by the demon.

So far, no amount of research could reveal exactly how the demon powers the typewriter. However, as with all possessed objects, the objects are usually broadcasters. The demon cannot interact with the real world, as that will kill the human it interacts with. So the object, whether it is a pen or a typewriter will act as a broadcaster that works both ways.

It broadcasts to the demon what the human writer wants and then the demon broadcast the story to the writer via the machine.

The machine thus connects on a metaphysical level with the one pressing the keys. It automatically assumes that the one pressing its keys is its owner. On that same level, it also connects with the demon who sends his message through and helps the writer in every way possible. If the human is a writer or an inventor, there is no way that he cannot have success when he uses the typewriter.

This writer’s research so far did not determine what the price is that the demon demands for his efforts. One thing is for certain, once a writer starts using the typewriter, he cannot just stop using it via normal ways. With a demon involved, there will definitely be a price and it is always way out of proportion to what the human gets from it. This has been proven in many of my other research (see The Demon Always Demand A Price, here).

The Great Magician himself did not use the typewriter that much anymore by the time the Algerian got hold of it. No one knows if he gave it to the Algerian or if it was stolen and then sold to the Algerian. The Great Magician had more writing instruments like these, so the loss of one would not bother him that much. It would actually work in his favor, because it would help spread his message further, wider and quicker.

On this point, it must be noted that a by-product of typing on this typewriter is that whatever is typed on it, hooks the reader to the work. Once they read one book or story, they also want to read other stories by that writer. This causes a chain reaction that just keeps going and going.

It is guaranteed that any writer, no matter how mediocre he is, will have great success when typing his stories on this typewriter.

The Great Magician had his initials burned out on the left hand side of the typewriter to show whom he represents and who was responsible for the power of the typewriter.

The path of the typewriter has been lost in Hollywood and no further information about its current location could be found. This writer suspects it is still in Hollywood, being used to bring out the great movies that people all over the world like to watch, thus spreading the message of the great beast.

If anyone reading this, has any further information about the typewriter, please contact me at [email protected]

Alan feels the lameness right across his body, after reading the article. He saves the page and then closes his laptop.

That is this typewriter here in front of him. It is a pity they could not find out who the writer was who originally bought the typewriter from the Algerian. That was the writer who must have given it to Jack Sherman. And on his turn, Jack send it to him. To bring him fame and fortune, but also to lead him to his doom.

He thinks he knows who the great magician was with the initials AC. He will look it up later on the Internet, just to make sure.

So this is what it all came to.

He is a great writer now, as he always wanted to be, but he is going to pay with his life for that privilege.

Can something be more terrible than this?

Or maybe not. Maybe he should feel exhilarated. Wasn’t he going to die in any case? Dying in the normal fashion would have meant that he would have died as a nobody. Within a week, no one except his closest family would even remember him. Now people will still be talking and reading his works hundreds of years after his dead.

Like Jack Sherman said in his letter: There is always a price to pay. The higher the price, the higher the reward.

There is a difficult part that you first have to get over and then you will be in the valley of success. Once you are there, you write your own paycheck and nothing is impossible for you. You have become a god.

He has all the success that he always wanted, but he had to pay a price for that. Okay a price he does not like. The question is; if he knew what would happen if he used the typewriter, would he still have used it or not? That is very difficult to answer, but in the back of his mind, he knows very well what the answer is.

Like Solita said, he always had an obsession about writing above everything else. It is only now, after reaching the success that he always wanted that he feels better and that he knows that obsession is gone. Even other people are noticing it. He also feels much more relaxed.

So is this whole thing actually so bad?

He had his life. He did not enjoy a large part of it. Not because of any physical problems. No, he did not enjoy his life because of psychological problems, all which came from his obsession with writing. It led him into lots of dark and dangerous paths, but luckily, he survived them all. Until the typewriter found him.

Now, he can lead the life that he always wanted to lead. He is a famous writer, whose name will always live on. Yes, he will leave a legacy behind. He will know that his daughter is well cared for and has everything that she will ever need. And she will for always be known as the daughter of Alan Chase, even if she becomes well known in her own right.

He makes the decision on the spot to write as much as he can, while he still can. The typewriter is a blessing and he must spread the word.

He will write Irena a letter explaining everything, except about the typewriter, of course. He wants to be the last person on this earth to use the typewriter. The typewriter is something, which must be destroyed in one way or the other. Irena can then live the life that she is destined for, not having to worry about where the money is going to come from.

She has been talking about becoming a writer herself, but so far, he did his best to discourage her. He first wants her to study for a career that she will always know she can fall back on. Once she has that, she can write as much as she wants. She should not make the same mistake he made when he was her age.

He sits down in front of the Brother ZM2000 and takes off its cover. He rolls a blank A4 page onto the platen. His heart sings, knowing that soon that page will be filled with his thoughts. Anything that he writes on this typewriter means money in the bank for him.

Then the bar keys suddenly starts moving at lightning speed over the paper as the typewriter types out a message of its own.

There is a way that you can avoid the heavy price that the typewriter demands…

The Price is too High

There is no further movement as he waits on the machine to continue. It takes an extraordinary long time and he goes to make himself a cup of steaming hot coffee. He can always think better when there is coffee involved. He goes back to the typewriter and sees that there is still nothing on the paper.

It seems the machine wants him to respond. This thing is alive.

He types in underneath the typewritten letters of the machine.


The response is almost instantaneous.

Sacrifice your daughter via the ritual and you will live a long and productive life. You will be in perfect physical condition and will have everything you need.

Seeing those words on the paper in front of him, makes the anger boil over inside him. This demon already has his soul, but still it wants more. This is ridiculous and exactly as Eric Du Bois said; the asking price is usually out of proportion to what the demon offers. But involving his daughter – who has nothing to do with this – is just too much. Way too much and something he will never be prepared to pay.

Without thinking twice, he throws the machine down on the hard tiles of the floor. Very hard. Pieces of metal and type bars explode all over the floor as it break away from the machine. The anger flushes red and hot through his whole body. He fetches a hammer and starts hitting the machine all over, breaking some of the floor tiles in the process, until there are basically only splinters left of the Brother ZM2000. With the anger still boiling within him, he leaves the smashed up pieces right there on the office floor and he goes to the kitchen.

He sits by the kitchen table drinking his coffee.

He heard this story many times. He never believed it for one minute. About this; how all famous people have to sacrifice someone to whatever demon is helping them reach success. The sacrifice cannot be just any person; it has to be a person very close to you and one that you love.

Well, Irena is the person closest to him and the one he loves the most. He will never give her up for anything in this world or beyond. He will fight for her until there is nothing left of him; but he will never sacrifice her for anything, even his own life.

Never, never…

He is glad the machine is destroyed. Now he won’t be tempted by it again. Overall, it is not so bad. The books that had been written is written and nothing will be able to take that away from him. He is well known now and the royalties are still rolling in without an end in sight.

The only problem that he can foresee now is that he will have to stop writing. Or at least stop publishing his work, because whatever he writes on his laptop or even another typewriter, is definitely not going to be as good as the work he brought forth via the typewriter.

He does not care, though. Nobody can force him to write and he will simply not make his work public. There is no way that he can lose, except that he is going to die before his time. That is the price, which he must accept to pay. Despite that, his name will live forever.

He will never hurt his daughter – not for all the money and fame in the world. She is going to inherit his wealth and he will live forever through her.

Bolrah Kuyper is now a very famous character and other writers might continue to write stories about him. Irena will then also get royalties from those works. A famous director did say he was interested in making a movie of his first Bolrah Kuyper book. That is even more income for her.

Financially, he is settled and he has everything that he needs at the moment. Furthermore, he reached his goal of becoming a famous writer.

He definitely does not need that evil typewriter anymore. He is glad that he destroyed it. It was a decision made in anger, but it was a good decision. He sinks away into a restful and well-deserved slumber…

…however, the typewriter is still there. When he arrives in his office, he immediately sees the typewriter on his desk. His office’s decor is a burning red and orange now. Everything looks extremely hot – as if it will burn your skin right off your body with extreme heat. Strangely, he feels extremely comfortable there. It is his office after all. He is not even sweating. He sees the real world and he sees another strange world projected over his world. The strange thing is that none of this is making him feel uncomfortable. It is almost as if he belongs here.

He is typing on the typewriter, so fast and continuous that sparks fly from the key bars as they strike the paper on the platen. Even the top part of the paper is burning, but it does not seem to destroy the paper. Here it seems natural that everything is on fire. He feels comfortable in this world, as if he was walking hereto his whole life long.

Typing out a story makes him feel extremely good and satisfied. What he sees around him does not scare him at all. The echoing screams, the blood, the extreme pain. He is the author and he is in control. Then he sees his demon.

The demon in the typewriter.

Big, huge muscles and brown. He has what looks like a grin on his face as he walks towards Alan. For the first time, since coming into his office, Alan suddenly feels uncomfortable. The demon is still coming, almost as if in slow motion, like in a movie.

Alan feels a horrible kind of discomfort now, so as if something big and itchy is in his clothes at a place where he cannot reach to relieve the itch.

Still the demon approaches in its irritating slow pace.

Alan feels the first pang of pure fear taking hold of him. He suddenly knows what awaits him. The fear spreads like a cold, wet blanket all over his system. He is helpless.

Still, he is an author. A creator of worlds and situations. He is still in control as long as his fingers move over those keys. The screams get louder, a stream of blood splashes over the page on the platen and then the words appear in fire ink over the page as he types them as fast as he can.


…the gruff sound of Bolrah Kuyper’s Dodge truck is audible above all other noise. Any demon in Bolrah’s sight is going to regret it.

Bolrah is a demon hunter and Bolrah will rescue him. He sees the tall demon-hunter for real now, getting out of his truck, his special stainless steel shotgun glowing in his hand, ready to blast any demon away. He just saved himself, through one of his own characters. His own character is going to safe him from Asruhahal.

…but then all forms of reality dissipates from him like water drops on a hot plate.

Bolrah is not going for the demon.

Bolrah is coming for him.

Bolrah’s magic shotgun is already out and he shoots a full demon-round straight into his stomach.

The intense pain, as the demon-poison spreads through his system in an instant, makes him grab his stomach and fall from his office chair.

And he screams…

…himself awake. He finds himself awash in sweat and struggling against the blanket over him. The intense heat he felt in the dream is suddenly replaced by an intense cold that makes his body shiver and his stomach pain. With great effort, he gets out of his bed and walks on bare feet to his chest of drawers.

He takes a pain pill, but it does not seem to help against the pain at all. He knows he will not be able to sleep with this intense pain eating into his stomach. All he can do now is to lie there in his misery until morning. This is how the rest of his life on earth is going to be.

It is uncomfortable, but he knows that he is rid of the typewriter and will die in peace. And he will still have his daughter. He must protect his daughter at all costs, no matter what.

Tomorrow he will start a story on his laptop. He has a brand new idea that he wants to try out. He is sure there is still some of the power of the typewriter left in him. When it took something out of him, he is sure it also left something inside him. Something that he will still be able to use, even without the typewriter. That smashed up typewriter is still lying there on his office floor. He will get up early tomorrow to pick it up and throw it in the trashcan. Luckily, the garbage is also picked up tomorrow, so he will be rid of it once and for all.

He does not know when he fell away into a slumber, but he wakes up fresh and ready for the day. All signs of sickness are gone and he feels very good. He will definitely have a workout today, because he can feel that he has the energy for it. Maybe when he destroyed the typewriter the curse was lifted from him. He is a good writer and he will be able to type out best sellers without the typewriter. He is sure of that.

He picks up the dustpan and brush in the kitchen before he goes to his office to sweep up the pieces of the typewriter. Then he wants to seal it in a bag and throw it in his garbage bin so that it can be taken away forever.

He is the man who rid the world of the Great Magician’s typewriter.

As he comes into this office the dustpan and brush falls from his hand as he goes lame with pure shock. As he enters the office, his eyes goes straight to the floor where he left the bashed in typewriter the previous night. There is nothing, only the black and white, very shiny tiles. The cracks are still there where he hid the typewriter with the hammer and struck some of the tiles.

He looks around, but there is definitely nothing else on the floor. Then, once again, reality seems to move away from him like a speeding train.

There on his desk, where he made it stand after he opened the package that first morning, is the typewriter. Shiny and ready for action. Not even a scratch on it…

The keyboard almost seems to look at him with a satisfied grin.

Happy Hunting

Alan cannot believe his eyes. This is not possible.

He smashed that typewriter with a sledgehammer. He was very angry and there is no way the machine could have survived that fierce attack – and with a sledgehammer. The cracked and broken tiles are still visible on the floor where he hit the machine with the hammer.

But here the typewriter sits on his desk as if it was never smashed to the floor and then further smashed with a sledgehammer. He feels real fear now.

This typewriter is evil.

The thoughts moves like a tsunami through his brain as he works out a solution.

He puts the typewriter cover on and then he puts the typewriter in a black bag. He goes to the kitchen with it and puts the black bag in a big burlap bag he sometimes uses for old grass and leaves when he works in the garden. He seals the top part with a piece of wire.

He takes a drive to the municipal rubbish dump and dumps the bag with the typewriter there. He sees it rolling down the high hill, coming to rest against some old bricks and pieces of concrete almost at the bottom. He then watches as the huge bulldozer comes and roll a heap of other garbage onto it. After that, the bulldozer moves some sand and stones to cover the garbage, sealing it in completely.

As Alan walks away, he feels sure he will never see that typewriter again. There is almost a whole mountain full of rubbish on top of it.

He feels vindicated as he walks to his SUV and drives off. It is almost as if he got rid of a darkness that was hanging over him and he even feels a bit exhilarated as he drives back home.

He immediately goes to his office to start typing out the idea he had earlier that morning. It is always better for him if he can see his ideas on paper. He will make this a great story, without the typewriter. He will proof to himself that he is a great writer without any magical/multi-dimensional aid.

As Alan enters his office, though, the typewriter is there waiting on him. The typewriter is standing on the desk, just as he found it this morning. It does not even seem to have been away from that spot for one second. He takes the typewriter’s cover off and sees everything is still one hundred percent in working order. He tests the keys and all of them works perfectly with that satisfying clicking sound as the bars hit the platen. He pinches himself just to make sure he is awake.

Alan slumps down in his office chair, knowing he lost the battle.

So he cannot get rid of this typewriter, no matter what he does. Exactly like Eric Du Bois said in his article. One can only get rid of it by giving it to someone who will willingly take it and who is able to use it. It now seems that this thing will even follow one to the grave, if you do not find a willing recipient and that is why Jack Sherman send it to him.

He read stuff like this about magical objects, but always thought it was a joke…an exaggeration. However, here he is seeing it happening right in front of him. He knows he is not hallucinating. He smashed the typewriter with a sledgehammer, he threw it away at the garbage dumb, where it was covered with rubbish and sand and stone, but it is still here on his desk as if nothing happened and it is still working a hundred percent.

Alan can feel that he is already feeling like typing on it. The urge is very strong, although he is fighting it.

This typewriter is now a danger to him, because it is threatening his daughter and he cannot allow that. He will have to keep his own mind.

Minutes later, he sits in front of the typewriter typing out the new idea he has in his mind.

As he has no choice now about using the typewriter, he does some more research on it. The gaining of knowledge was always something that drove him. He always wanted to know everything about everything. This machine was killing him, but he wanted to know how it works. It is a demon that makes the machine tick and that makes all stories typed on it into masterpieces, but why is it killing him at the same time?

After an intense search, he finds the answer in a local library. It is in a book written by The Magician himself. If the magician created the typewriter, then he will know everything about it – why didn’t he think of that before?

In the book, The Magician does not talk about the typewriter at all. The relevant chapter talks about writing instruments that has been used by great authors, great magicians and great inventors over the ages. All of those men struggled for years in dire circumstances to get what they wanted. They knew what they had to accomplish, they could see it in their mind’s eye, but the reality was that they could never reach their goal in the physical world, without some special aid. The only way to do something worthwhile was through a special aid.

Most of these men quickly realized that because their goal was not from this reality, they needed some outer dimensional help to get their idea into the real world. Then they started working to get that help. Many people called it magic.

Such help usually came through a writing instrument for them; because that was the item they would use the most in their daily endeavors.

Asruhahal works through the writing instrument, because he is too powerful to work directly with a human. Whatever the writer wants is given to him via the writing instrument. The price that is asked for whatever valuable information the demon gives is the life force of the person. This is taken via microscopic amounts of blood from the wielder of the writing instrument.

The pure life force of any human being will multiply his abilities ten thousand fold; if they only knew how to use it. Here, with the typewriter, the magic in the machine – the demon behind the scenes, does all this for him. The writer’s work becomes like magic and the act of writing itself becomes so easy that the writer cannot understand why he struggled before. Any ghost of an idea will become a major story if typed on the typewriter. If he is an inventor, he will simply write or type whatever it is that he wanted to invent and he will not be able to explain later on how he came upon it. He will say it seemed to have just jumped into his head.

On the typewriter, it works like this: Every time the typist uses the letters B, L, O, D or the number 6, blood is drawn from his fingers by microscopic needles built into those keys. The loss of blood is minuscule and will not affect the typist at all. But the machine is not after the blood – which is replace tenfold within hours in any case. The machine is after the person’s life force, which is inside the blood.

Each time the mentioned keys are pressed the machine takes a microscopic part of the author’s life force. As all know, the life force is never replaced. All those small bits accumulates over time and as soon as a certain threshold is crossed, the body loses its balance and then the sickness starts. Once the sickness had started, there is no stopping it.

In addition, the author will not be able to stop using the machine. The typewriter will draw him as metal is drawn to a magnet. He will have to keep on writing, no matter how sick he is.

One can honestly say that with this typewriter the author really puts his soul into his writing.

And this is what has been happening with Alan Chase.

As the weeks and later months go by, he can feel how his body becomes weaker and weaker. He can feel how basically any germ can attack his system now and be victorious.

On a personal level, Solita cannot understand what happened to him and their plans to remarry, because he never mentioned it again. For Alan it is just logical not to remarry her and then traumatize her all over again when he dies soon afterwards. Leave things as they are and allow Solita to go on with her life.

He spent as much time with Irena as possible, taking her out, buying her stuff and just sitting, talking to her. He wants her to remember him for always and even tell her children about him one day. That is why he wants to make an impression that will last, no matter how miserable he feels.

He tells her the magical things that only a father will be able to tell a daughter. He tries to discourage her from becoming a writer, but can already see it is a losing battle. He knows when he was her age, no one would have convinced him not to become a writer.

“…and you must always remember that I love you and will never allow anything bad to happen to you, baby…” He would tell her.

Right through the summer, he works on his novel. Meanwhile he gets a building-crew to build a small extra room to his bedroom. When it is done, he moves most of his office, including the desk with the typewriter into the small room. He is close to his bedroom now and can go have a lie down when he feels he can’t type anymore.

It takes him three months to complete his novel. It is announced with great fanfare and the fans rush to the bookshops to get it. The strange thing, now that he is famous and people hang onto every word he says, it is not exciting anymore. He was always thinking of how great it would be if everyone were talking about his books, if everyone wanted his books, but now that he reached that goal it is not exciting anymore and just a normal part of life. Sometimes he even finds it a bit irritating.

He remembers Jack Sherman’s letter that he received so many moons ago: We have the world’s attention on us the whole time, but the light behind us shines so bright, that no one can actually see us. What they see is only a shadow of who and what we really are. To become part of this inner circle, which is in operation all over the world, you have to do certain things. Things that humans don’t like to do, as it is against human nature. Do you understand, Alan.

In order to be successful, you have to leave that which is human in you behind and become a writer. And that is not easy to do.

Jack gave him what he wanted. He has it now, but it didn’t give him the real satisfaction he always thought it would.

He will die a satisfied man, though, because his daughter will be safe and he will see to it that his typewriter does not find a new master who it can rule. That is what Jack Sherman should have done. He is not sure anymore if Jack Sherman was friend or foe. But whatever the case may be, he knows that he has very little time left. Surprisingly he does not feel sad at all. He accepts it and knows that he will leave the world behind as a better place and that he will live on forever through his work and also through his daughter.

One cloudy morning, ASRUHAHAL comes to fetch his final price. There are a lot of tears when Alan Chase dies.


Before his dead, Alan had the little office he built next to his room sealed up completely. The door opening was bricked up and then the wall was made to look exactly like the other walls in the house. It had no outside windows so no one would ever know that there was a room.

Inside that room stood the typewriter on the desk. Sealed in. Silent and powerless, cut off from all human contact. Its master dead. The typewriter will stay forever sealed in that room, because now there is nowhere it can return to.


“Thanks for allowing me to have dad’s old bedroom, Mommy.” Irena says as they eat breakfast in the sun-room.

“Come on, honey. This is your house. You can do with it what you want. I am sure your father would have wanted it that way in any case. You are a writer, just like him.” Her mother says as she smiles. “Only cooler…”

Alan has been dead and buried now for three months and most everything went back to normal. She and her mother moved into her father’s house, because it was just nicer than where they were living.

Her father was in the process of selling the house, before he died, but unfortunately, the whole transaction collapsed when the buyer was suddenly transferred overseas. Not all of the documents were signed as yet, so the lawyer could not go through with the transaction. And because the testament did state that Irena inherits all his possessions that also meant the house, because it was still in his name.

When they moved in, Irena insisted on taking over her dad’s bedroom. She believed that this was the closest she would be to him, now that he was gone.

In the space of a week, the bedroom was changed from a man’s bedroom into that of a teen girl, complete with big screen TV, and five-speaker surround sound system. She painted the room herself in her favorite pink, white and red theme.

The most important item in her room of course was her Dell desktop computer system. She did not only use this computer to play her favorite games on, but she also did most of her writing on it. Like her dad, she was a natural writer. Her dad’s success just inspired her more to make writing her craft.

She also used a big exercise book for her poetry, but was going more and more towards the computer to get her thoughts out of her mind and into the real world. She believe that for poetry she needed a pen or any other manual writing instrument. For her stories, she needed a computer, because that makes it much quicker and less laborious.

“Since I moved into that room, it seems I am writing better and easier mommy.” She says as she looks up at her mother.

“That’s good, baby. Maybe there is something of your dad left in your room and you are having the benefit of it now. What are you currently writing?” Solita asks as she bites into a piece of toast.

“I think we must have that left wall taken out. I have a feeling that there is something hidden behind that wall.”

“Something hidden behind the wall? What nonsense are you talking girl?” Solita asks as she looks at Irena with a question on her face.

“I don’t know if it is my imagination, but I always hear what sounds like a baby crying or a small animal that needs to be let out. It’s coming from that wall. I went to the other side of the wall, but it is only the garden there, so it must be inside the wall.”

“Maybe it’s just a baby somewhere in the neighborhood who’s crying you are hearing. Because it is quiet at night, sounds travel much further and it only seems to be coming from the wall.” Solita says.

“That’s what I also thought, Mommy, but there is something with that wall that is not right. I don’t know what it is. I want that wall taken out and a new wall built there. I don’t know why, but I just have that feeling.” The beautiful girl says as she looks at her mother.

“It is your house, honey and it is your decision.” Solita says…


Bonus Story

Alien Zoo

Alien Zoo

As Alice walks down the passage to her classroom, she is full of plans for the day. She is going to do gymnastics this afternoon after school, which means anything else that she wants to do; she will have to do during the day. She will have to do something in class to get Ted to ask her out for this weekend. She really wants to go on that camping trip, but she wants to go with him. Unfortunately, he can be sooooo slow with everything he does.

As she walks with a spring in her step down the passage, she takes out her Samsung Galaxy mobile phone and gives the screen a quick check. Yes, there it is. It must have come through just now. A text message from Ted.


She smiles as she text back.


Then she and Ronda will have to make their final plans for tomorrow afternoon. She wants to go to the mall straight after school. If it weren’t gym, she would have gone today, because she really-really need to buy her that cool and very sexy bikini set. That is exactly what she needs for the camping trip.

Then she is by the classroom door. Although class didn’t start yet, everybody seems to be there already. Even old Mrs Van Halen. This is English class and she simply loves to listen to the proper way that Mrs Van Halen pronounces the words. She pushes the door open.

As she walks into the classroom, everything around her seems to flicker out. Like an old TV set being switched off. For a moment, she does not even believe that what her eyes show her is happening and looks at Mrs Van Halen. It happens so fast that she is still busy walking and then everything that was in front of her moments ago are gone. She walks straight into what seems like a type of see-through, all white…nothingness. She turns back to see what this is all about. It is of no use, though. The passage she was just in is gone. Where the passage was is now the same white as in front of her. In addition, it seems to stretch into infinity. She is not in her school anymore.

What the hell is going on here?

What seems like a white wall, made of the same translucent material that is everywhere now, is close to her. It seems as if she can walk right through it. This is what she does immediately. It will be like walking into the mist. She walks into the wall and extreme pain immediately shoots through her whole body as she is thrown back by a very powerful force. She doesn’t even feel herself flying across the translucent floor as she blacks out.

She is young and very fit and it doesn’t take long before she gains consciousness again, though. She doesn’t know what is inside and outside, because everything around her seems to be stretching on forever. It looks exactly the same everywhere. However, she does hear noises, but can’t see what makes it. It sounds like grunts and squeaks, but not any sound that she ever heard before. At least not any animal she came into contact with, during her young life. The noises are definitely not human.

Reality seems to slip away from her, as what seems to be an infinite environment as big as the whole planet, seems to be moving now. After the extreme pain she felt when she touched that wall – if that is what it is – she stays in the middle, away from the ‘walls’. She doesn’t know how this environment can move, but that is what it feels like. This is something she never saw before, never experienced before. Not even in her wildest dreams. This is what a bad LSD trip must be like.

The grunts and squeaks now only come from the one side of the environment. It is also getting hotter inside. Very hot. She starts taking off her jacket and even the jersey she had on underneath.

She really doesn’t know what this is or how it could be happening. She knows that most of her friends, just like herself, like to play pranks on whomever they can. There is no way that any of them would be able to pull a prank like this, though. It is far too elaborate, unless they drugged her.

The heat inside is also still increasing. She has nothing more to take off. She sits down in the middle of the translucent floor if that is what it is. Her schoolbag next to her. As the environment moves along, she feels the heat stabilising. Still very hot, but at least not increasing any more. She is sweating in her T-shirt and jeans. She even took her boots and socks off.

She sees the other ‘walls’ now, but after that pain she felt, she is too scared to go near any of them.

What is happening here? She tried several times to see if she is dreaming, but she is a hundred percent sure that she is not asleep. Something like this is only possible in a dream. A very weird dream. This is definitely not reality. There is nothing around her, on the sides, up at the roof and down on the floor, but pure white translucence. Where she sits, it seems to go on into infinity on all sides, but if she moves closer, the ‘wall’ becomes visible. This alone totally disorientates her, as she had never seen anything like it. Like holding two mirrors up to each other and whatever is in the mirror then goes on forever and ever.

What she calls ‘walls’ are definitely not walls in the ordinary sense of the word. It seems more like clouds or something that is not defined. When she walked into the first one, it proved that it is very real…and dangerous.

She uses her bag as a reference point and walks to each side, now measuring her forward movement. She meets the walls on all sides after she had walked about twenty paces. This is a cage. A cage from which she cannot escape as she is held in by what can only be called a force field. A very painful force field.

As she turns around to return to where her bag and other clothes are she discovers that it is gone. How the hell could it disappear just like that? There is nothing around her, but a translucent whiteness. Almost like one would expect heaven to be. She can already tell, though, that this is definitely not heaven.

Then the movement of her environment suddenly stops. Very smoothly actually. There are more grunts and squeaks now and then there is a slight shaking of her cage. It seems that her cage is being pushed powerfully into a place and as it is pushed the walls on the left and right hand sides seems to open. On both sides, she sees a man in the same predicament as herself, with one major difference.

The man on her left hand side is young, she would say about twenty-five years old, while the one on her right hand side looks a bit older, perhaps in his middle forties. Both are looking at her now.

The difference is that both are stark naked and she can see that the younger one immediately shows that he is very happy to see a girl…

We Are Humans

“Oh, my darling little chickie…you are one hell of a beauty. A young schoolgirl. Our masters couldn’t have given us a better gift than this. I really hope you are still a virgin…” He smiles cruelly as he looks at her.

Alice is immediately scared. A different type of fear. This is unadulterated fear that she never felt before in her life. Since she was born, she was always protected. What is this guy talking about… masters? In addition to it all, the partition between them seems to be open. Why doesn’t one of them approach her when they can clearly see it is open?

“Behave yourself, Terrel.” The older man on the right hand side says. “I am really sorry for Terrel’s behaviour, missy. But some of us turn into animals in no time, it seems.” The older man says in a nice deep voice, which she immediately likes. She automatically moves a bit closer to his side. He seems like protection and that voice sounds so nice.

“You behave yourself, Plato. When I get out of his cage, I will come for you first. This time I will kill you without remorse.” The younger one screams at the older man as he struggles to look over to him.

“You do that; just remember what happened last time you tried it.” The older man says. Then he looks over at Alice. “I am Ewart Pipes, but everyone around here calls me Plato. That animal on your other side is Terrel Williams. We are all in the same damn predicament here, but that stupid became a real animal and is now playing the game the aliens want us to play. Remember this; whatever happens, do your best to stay human.” He speaks in his calm voice. She immediately has an idea why they call him Plato.

“I am Alice. Did you say aliens? What is happening here? Where is this and what are they doing to us? This is all just too…unreal?”

“Unfortunately it is much-much worse than that. Before I tell you let me ask you one thing: Did you kiss your mother and father this morning when you left home?”

“As a matter of fact I did. I do it every morning…,” she says as she thinks about home. Although it happened only about an hour ago, all that suddenly seems to be so far away and so long ago. She also instinctively knows she is not going to like what Plato is going to tell her.

“Well, that was the last time you’ve seen them. You will never see your parents or any of your friends ever again. This is your new home. Get used to it as quickly as possible.”

“What the hell do you mean…?” she says as she starts to cry. She does not want to cry, but she just cannot help herself. She suddenly feels like a little girl again. Helpless, powerless. She is completely on her own, with no one to help her. She is in an environment that is completely strange to her and she does not even know where she is.

“Firstly, you are not on Earth anymore. But even worse than that, you are not even in your own universe anymore. I really couldn’t figure out what the name of this planet is, but we are on another planet in a completely different universe. I really don’t know if this is a parallel universe, but it is not something to our liking.”


“Yes. All of us – and there are ten of us at the moment – you can’t see the others from where you are. All of us have been kidnapped from earth and brought to this planet by an unknown means. Remember that white cloud you walked into, wherever you were when they trapped you, that was the one-way door you walk through. You will never find that door again. It must be some kind of dimension-hopping device. It was created especially for you and it dissipated once you appeared in this universe. In addition, the aliens designed it in such a way, that you walk straight into one of these cages as you step out of your own dimension. According to how I figured it out, these cages are going to be our homes for life.”

“How do you know all this?” She asks as she sits down and looks over at him with tearful eyes.

“Let me answer it in this way, Alice. I see that you stay away from whatever you perceive as a wall. Therefore, you have learned one thing already, although it would be but only a bit more than an hour that you are here. I have been here for what I think is a year and have learned many things. On this planet, we are nothing but animals. We are here in a zoo. Call it an alien zoo, if you want to, but here we are the aliens. Alien-animals. The aliens are looking at us even now as I talk to you. They are looking at us, not to study us, but just for recreation. As we gaze at wild animals in the zoo.”

She looks around fearfully now, but everywhere she just sees the translucent white. Left, right, up, down.

“Where? Are the aliens invisible?” She asks as she touches in front of her with her hand.

He gives a slight laugh at this.

“No, they are on the other side of the force fields. From their side they can look right through it and see us. We are like animals in the cages in a human zoo. Difference is that there the animals can also see us, but here we can’t see the aliens looking at us. They make the partitions one way for the aliens. On the other hand, the partitions between the cages are see through on both sides so that we can see each other. I think the aliens realised that seeing each other and being able to communicate will keep us calmer as we are social animals.”

“Oh, my god, what do we do to get out of here?” She asks as she looks intensely over at Plato.

“That is what I told you at the beginning. There is no way to escape. This is your new home forever.”

“Did you try to escape?”

“Of course. All of us have. There is no way to escape.” He says

She hears the cruel laughter from the other side of her cage as Terrel looks on upon the two of them.

“And soon it will be the mating sessions.” Terrel adds. His voice and the way he says it drives needles of pure fear through her heart.

“Do the aliens know we are intelligent?”

“I really don’t know. They don’t interact with us at all. They are like psychopaths are on our planet. They don’t seem to have any feeling towards us. They don’t care if we are hurt or anything like that.” He says as he sits down in his cage. “The things that they do care about, you won’t like. That is the mating and the fighting.”

“Mating and fighting?”

“Yes, those two draw huge audiences, it seems. I only guess that, because at the time that happens, there are much more noises outside than usual. By the way, that grunting you hear outside, is the aliens communicating with each other. I don’t know if they use money on this planet, but if they do, then I think there is some of that also involved.” He looks away and then over at Terrel.

“But you still didn’t tell me what mating and fighting means.” She now almost begs him.

“It is exactly what you think it is. For mating four males are going to be allowed entry into your cage. The men can fight if they want to, or they can all have their way with you – it is up to them. The wilder it is, the more the aliens like it. Fighting is simply a bunch of males in a cage, who will then have to fight until only one man is standing. I don’t know what the aliens’ plans are with Earth, because I don’t even think our fellow humans know anything about these kidnappings. As I see it, you will simply be reported as missing and you will never be found, no matter how hard they look for you. But no one will think that you have been kidnapped by dimension jumping aliens. Anyone who even suggests something like that, will simply be seen as crazy. And even if they knew, what can they do, humans don’t have this kind of technology.”

“By god, Plato, is all this true?”

“Every word of it, chickie…, and you are all mine. I can already feel it. Maybe the aliens will set me free, when they see what I am going to do to you.” Terrel screams with laughter from his cage.

Alice can see now that although it seems that there is nothing between them, the forcefield is still there. The one will not be able to go to the other’s cage, without walking into the force field. This is the worst thing that could happen to her. With all this, she is not even on Earth anymore.

“Do they give us food?”

“Does any of us look like we’re starving, Alice…?” Plato laughs. “They give us very rich nourishment, but not something we will call food back on earth. They must have studied our physiology to the last drop, because they give us exactly what our bodies need and in the exact correct amount. But unfortunately it is absolutely tasteless.”

“My god. And where does one…you know.” She asks, as she blushes a bit.

“Any place in the cage, doesn’t matter where. It disappears almost immediately, how I don’t know. These cages are totally empty, but also totally clean. They must have some unknown technology to do it with.”

She remembers her jacket and bag…how that disappeared.

“They are going to strip you now.” Plato suddenly says as he stands up and walks to the middle of his cage. “Remember they are much more intelligent and faster than us. And they have better technology. Like the squares used to say back on earth, resistance is futile.”

She hears what he says. And she understands. But she was never on a losing side. She has most of the information that she needs and she had already decided that she was going to dedicate her life to escape from this hellhole – a place where she did not ask to be. No man, no alien – no matter how powerful, is going to keep her in a cage her whole life long.

She is still busy standing up when there is suddenly an incredible loud noise. Then everything goes pitch black in an instant.

No Way Out

As suddenly as the pitch-blackness appeared, it is gone again. She sees the alien standing in front of her. It is much smaller than a human is. Its arms and legs are so thin that one can only describe it as spidery. Leathery looking grey skin, with a face that can only be compared to that of a hippopotamus on earth. Its eyes are cold and unmoving. Why could the men not beat this…this creature down? Even she will be able to do it.

She sees that the alien does not even take much notice of her. At least not like one intelligent being would take notice of another intelligent being. Almost like one would be when you walk into a stable full of cows. You will give attention to the cows, but not individual attention.

“Why are you keeping us here in a zoo?” She asks the alien as she looks down at him. “We are intelligent beings like you…”

The alien pushes her back in no uncertain terms and takes out something, which she suddenly feels on her body as it starts disintegrating the clothes from her.

She looks to the left and to the right for Terrel and Ewart, but there sides have been locked off and she cannot see them.

“Don’t do this.” She screams out as a sudden rush of anger fills her. She feels the shirt and bra falling from her. It falls to the floor from where it disappears almost instantly in front of her eyes. It is not as if its falling through a hole, it seems to disintegrates and just disappear without leaving a trace. The anger makes her grab out at the alien, as her jeans starts to disintegrate.

This sudden movement makes that huge straps appears seemingly out of nowhere and at such a great speed, that it is around her legs and ties her arms to her body, before she can scream out. When she screams out, the alien had already pushed her helpless body down to the floor. His instrument is still working on her, slowly disintegrating her clothes, without harming her body. But even so, she can feel the force coming from it and she knows that if he should aim that at her body, she would be dead in seconds. These aliens have some serious technology. They should have if they could abduct her and other humans from another dimension. That is serious energy expenditure, which means serious technology.

That does not make them invincible, though.

“Don’t you understand what I am saying to you?” She screams out. No reaction from the alien, but the straps wraps themselves tighter around her, almost driving the air from her lungs. The tightening of the straps is all she can think of now and she doesn’t concentrate on the alien zoo keeper anymore. She is struggling to breathe as the straps go tighter. She cannot hold out any longer and she falls away into a deep well of darkness.

When she comes to, everything is as it was before. The straps are gone. Ewart and Terrel are visible again. Only difference. She is also stark naked now. She automatically puts her arm over her breasts as she sits down so that her privates are not visible.

Terrel is now even more excited. She can clearly see it and he does not try to hide it at all. Even Ewart now seems a bit excited. Well they are full-blooded men and she is a beautiful young girl. What else did she expect? Is this what the aliens want? To humiliate them like this? The aliens will not understand that this is not human behaviour at all. Or is it?

She feels absolutely powerless. Like a sheep must feel inside an abattoir. Nothing she can do here, can safe her from a faith worse than anything on earth. She starts to cry again.

“It’s okay, Alice. I hope that things will get better. You will get used to it in no time. Don’t worry…” Ewart says in that beautiful voice of his.

“It’s no use, Plato. Everyone knows you are just warming her up for yourself. The reality is, however, that all of us will be in that cage with her, and we will first come for you. After that, we are going to decimate her. The masters like that kind of violence. There will be nothing left of her. Haha…” Terrel laughs cruelly as he looks at the helpless girl.

This brings a new kind of anger into Alice.

Then there is that loud, very ugly sound again. She prepares for the light to go out, but a pipe suddenly appears in the one wall.

“That is our food, Alice.” Ewart tells her. “You go there and you suck on it until you had enough. The pipe stays there for about an hour if my time keeping is still up to date. It is not nice, but it is nourishing so take in as much as possible.” He explains as he starts sucking on his own pipe.

She feels hungry. After all this excitement, she had forgotten all about eating. She doesn’t know what time it is currently on earth, but she is sure by this time she and her friends would have been sitting in the cafeteria eating and chatting. How far away that life seems now.

She approaches the pipe cautiously and puts her mouth to it. She sucks carefully. God…she spits it out immediately and without thinking. He said it was tasteless. It is not tasteless, it is awful. Cornflower mixed with grass. Yech. It is smooth and consistent. Like the food, one would make for a pig on a professional pig farm.

She knows, though, that she will have to keep herself nourished if she is going to resist her incarceration. The food is nourishing, so she will have to get it inside her. She goes back to the pipe and starts sucking until she feels full. Then she goes sit in the one corner.

“You enjoy it, while you’re alone in that cage, little chickie…” Terrel mocks her from the one side. “Soon it will be only hell for you.”

“When did you become such an awful person?” She asks him as she looks at him where he stands with his obvious erection leering at her.

“I was always an awful person – even on Earth. You know all of us were kidnapped here straight from jail. Even old Plato over there…” he laughs evilly.

God, that on top of everything else, she thinks to herself. This mating sounds like the most evil thing ever. In addition, she is the only female here. She heard there are ten of them. The problem is that each one can just see the cages on his two sides and not those further away. This is not how she expected it to be at all. She has been saving herself all these years for this? Convicts who have been kidnapped into another dimension. Life can play cruel tricks.

“What happened to the other females?” She asks Plato. Immediately after she asked that question she can clearly see that he does not want to answer that question. He tries to look away

“I don’t know…I…”

Terrel starts laughing in a very rough and rude manner.

“Guess you will have to wait and find out…haha…nobody around here is going to tell you…”

Alice feels how the cold fingers of absolute fear moves through her whole body like long, cold needles. Why did this have to happen to her? How could this happen to her? What did she do to deserve this?

Alas, she was always a determined girl. She sits in the middle of her cage and starts making her plans. In her old life, she was a top gymnast. She has been practising gymnastics since she was nine years old. She is very fit and strong. She did some martial arts training, although she is not good. She knows that she will fight much better than usual, because she will be fighting for her life this time.

She starts crying softly, when she thinks about all this. However, she sees that Terrel loves that and she quickly dries her tears and looks at him with a determined face.

“You will not get me…,” she tells him in a defiant manner. “You are going to find me a very hard target.”

“I WILL get you. What will you be able to do? We are four and all four of us are bigger than you. No one will help you, as I will see to it that old Plato over there is out for the count. If I were you I wouldn’t trust him at all.”

She was always one of the popular girls in school. She always kept herself fit and she is still fit as she sits there in that alien cage. She knows there will have to be something that she can do. In the first place, it is a pity that they cannot see the aliens. In that way she would have been able to learn more about them. In fact, she only saw the one zookeeper who came into her cage. The fact that he came alone into her cage, she who is much bigger and stronger than he is, means that they are very sure about their technology. It is clear, though, that without that technology they are nothing in comparison to almost any human. Even a ten year old child will be able to destroy anyone of these aliens, if they all look like the zookeeper. If she can get her hands on their technology, things are going to be much more equal than what it currently is.

She stands up and looks to the side where she assumes the aliens are staring at her as they visit the zoo.

Then she suddenly collapses to the floor as half-digested food comes out of her mouth.

“Alice…” Ewart screams as he automatically runs towards the wall. There is a loud sound as the wall kicks him back to the centre of the cage. He is also out for the count.

When he gets up, he sees that Alice is still lying dead still on the floor of her cage. They poisoned her. Why did they poison her?

Even Terrel looks a bit worried and disappointed now. This never happened before.

There Will Be Hell To Pay

Ewart looks over at Alice’s cage, where she still lies on the floor. It seems that she is dead. The aliens also think so and he sees one of them rushing into the cage via a part of the ‘wall’ that suddenly dissipates to leave an opening.

They call him The Vet. The men know him very well. He wears a different uniform than the others and in addition has a different smell to them. He is the one who always comes to give them that special injection.

Ewart sees The Vet lifting Alice’s head and looking at it through an instrument he holds in his hand. Then he sees something he never saw a human do since he arrived here.

The girl comes into motion. Smooth and lightning fast. He had never seen a human move that fast. She tries to grab the alien, but despite her great speed, the alien is still faster. He jumps back and Ewart sees the bands appearing as if out of thin air.

However, it seems she has anticipated that and she is suddenly not where the bands are. She moves like lighting towards the one side of the cage, making sure that she stays well away from the wall. When she looks again, the alien-vet is gone. The cage must have opened for him where he was standing.

The very loud din of alien noises is now heard on the outside of their cages. This little show of Alice must have excited the alien onlookers to the extreme. He really wonders what she was trying to do. She is out of breath and her muscles shows tight and strong through her perfect skin.

“Gosh, Alice. What was that all about?” He asks

“I just wanted to show them we are not as powerless as they think we are.” She says as she moves closer to his side of the cage, showing him with her eyes to come closer.

She shows him what is in her hand and which she afterwards hide in her long hair. He gives a gasp of shock, but says nothing.

“When is it lights out?” She asks him later on. She looks much happier now than before.

“It is never lights out. It always stays exactly like it is.” He tells her. “I don’t know if they have a twenty-four hour zoo – or whatever goes for time around here or what. However, you can sleep anytime you want. Maybe you didn’t notice it, but the temperature always stays the same. It makes our cages very comfortable, despite our nakedness. However, when you go to sleep it gets a little bit warmer. You can’t accuse these aliens of not taking good care of us. It must cost them a pretty penny to acquire us, so… In any case, you sleep on the floor, but it is not so bad. You don’t even have to get used to it.”

She just nods with her head. Her eyes are almost glowing.

This is another sort of girl. The aliens made a mistake messing with her. The situation is totally hopeless, but still she tried something. That is more than any of the other girls did before. Most of them sat there crying all the time. All of the men tried one or the other method to escape, but none of them tried something like this.

“I really wonder if they know we are intelligent beings. I mean with the technology they have, they are supposed to know that, don’t they?”

“I really don’t know.” Ewart says.

“When is this mating thing starting?”

“I have lost all concepts of time. You will know beforehand. That guy who came into your cage just now, he will come into ours and give us what seems like an injection. This must be something to make us aggressive, because that is how we feel afterwards. The opening between your cage and the adjacent four cages are then opened so that we can move freely between them. That will be four males coming into your cage. We fight each other and then we mate with you.”

“Mate with me?”

“God, I have been here so long. That is what we came to call it after a while. I guess one becomes an animal when you are treated like one for so long. The one who overpowers the others then attacks you and have sex with you. As much as he wants. The others, who can still move can join in once he is done.”

“Does this kill the female?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Alice. The one thing that you must know about me is that I am not like that at all…but…”

“…what they inject him with will change him into a raging animal. Even old softhearted Plato is going to rip your guts from your body. That is after he had his way with you, of course. Only this time, he will be last. He will only be able to do it with your carcass. What they inject us with, fills us with such rage that we rip the body into bloody tatters once our sexual urges are met. I am sure they feed the girl to us afterwards, because our food always tastes better and meatier after such a session.”

“God, Terrel…you didn’t have to tell her that…”

Alice listens and absorbs. She finds that she is suddenly not scared anymore. She is only getting more and more determined to show these aliens that she is a human and not to be messed with.

“Is there any way we can talk, without mister violent hearing us?” She asks Plato quietly.

“Yes, over in that corner. Meet me there later on so that he don’t suspect.”

About an hour later, the two of them have a quick conference in the corner. Alice’s temperament gets better and better as time goes by. She knows that death awaits her, but what can be sweeter than death when you have to live in an environment like this? Locked up in a cage for the rest of your life and not being able to see the outside world. That is not good enough for her and that will never be the way that she lives her life.

She is not going out without a hell of a fight. She had four fights while she was still on earth and she won every one of them.

Forever Mine

Alice goes to sleep in the middle of the cage. At the moment she sees herself alone, with no one she can trust. She knows humans very well and it is very clear that the aliens see them purely as animals. She considers herself as on her own. Ewart might be an ally, but she can never be sure of that. She knows, though, that at the end nobody is going to help her, but herself.

If she dies in the process, so be it. Death is better than living in this hellhole.

She is actually surprised that she almost immediately falls into what seems like a deep sleep. She thought it would be difficult to get to sleep under the circumstances.

She immediately sees her father shaking her as she wakes up in her own bed.

“God, girl…you must have had a terrible dream. You were screaming and kicking your blankets from you the whole night. What is wrong?” He says as he smiles warmly at her. She sees her mother standing behind him, with her arms on her father’s shoulders. Her mother is also smiling warmly down on her.

Was it all but a terrible dream? Is she going to get up now and prepare to go to school? She is scared to go to school. What if the dream becomes true? She…

Then that harsh noise again. She wakes up instantly and is on her feet in no time. When the cages become pitch black, she comes into motion immediately.

She was never the best student in her kung-fu class. Although she never took her martial arts training seriously, she memorised all the moves and can do it without even thinking about it. She knows that is not going to help her much here, but she will at least try.

As the light returns to her cage, she sees that the force fields between her cage and the other cages are gone. The ones at the back and in front are still there, though. She sees the men already in the middle of her cage where they expected her, but she moved too fast for them. Then she comes into motion again. She knows that no movement can be wasted now. This is either life or painful death.

She grabs the man closes to her and brings him down to the floor. Her bare foot kicks out hard into his face and she knocks him into unconsciousness. She is already on the move again. With four cages open, she knows she has much more space to manoeuvre in.

She can hear the excited grunts and squeaks on the outside of their prison. There is a new sound; something that almost sounds like applause and cheers.

As she runs at top speed to the other cage, she feels the men following her. Three left. She turns around unexpectedly and brings the one closes to her down with a sudden movement of her one arm. She punches an artery in his neck with her bunched fingers, very hard. The attacker’s body becomes limp as it falls down to the floor.

Boy, her body can remember all those boring moves. She runs and suddenly she is trapped close to the front wall. Here the noise coming from the aliens are loudest. Terrel is one of the men still standing. She sees now that the first one she knocked down was Ewart. The one she knock down last and the other one she do not know. Terrel approaches her unafraid now.

“Tired, huh and I know your moves now…” he laughs cruelly. She can see he is very excited and ready to bring her down violently. He did say that he was prepared to have sex with her carcass if necessary. And she sees what almost seem like a red glow of rage in his eyes now. He is determined to bring her down, but he knows now it is not going to be easy.

He jumps at her – suddenly and unexpectedly. As he makes contact with her, she opens her hand and holds out the alien’s instrument, which she swipe from the vet when she pushed him backwards. This sinks away into Ewart’s face now. He falls down squirming with pain to the translucent floor. She brings her fist down hard in his face, helping him into the darkness where he belongs.

Then the danger really increases. Her cage suddenly opens from the back as two black clad guards comes in to subdue her.

She has been waiting on this moment.

Ewart now jumps up like a bat out of hell. He learned a few things by watching Alice. Move as fast as you can and never stop moving.

They worked it out that the guards would enter there, because that was the place where the zookeeper disappeared when she attacked him earlier. Therefore, the entrance had to be there. The technology is unknown to them, but nothing that cannot be figured out with a little brainpower. That is what humans are known for.

An entrance is also an exit.

Ewart now brings the first guard down, takes his weapon, which looks rather familiar and throws it to her. Ewart is still moving at great speed and sees to it that he does not stay for too long in one spot. He moves with haste away from the second guard now.

Alice shoots the second guard with the weapon without any hesitation. As he falls down, Ewart grabs his weapon, still on the move. They both move without thinking now. There is no other choice.

Ewart is out the opening within seconds. He just hopes that she makes it, but he did see her moving towards it at great speed.

As Alice approaches, she sees the opening starting to close, with the force field flickering back into life. She slides over the floor right through, feeling some pain and having the top of her hair singed, as the force comes back full force, but she is outside with Ewart. They both made it.

All this happened in one or two seconds. Anything less would have been disastrous.

For the first time they both see what the planet looks like. It looks like a strange city, with strange and very high buildings. There are even roads with almost recognisable vehicles moving on them at great speed. The zoo seems to be in a quieter part of the city, if that is what it is. Further away they both can see mountains and what looks like huge plants. Maybe this is what counts as the wild out here. Whatever the case may be, they both know that is where they want to be. First get out of the city and then regroup to plan.

They are at the back of the cages, but they can hear the loud noise coming from the other side. Therefore, the other side must be open to the public, while this side is more for the personnel. That is if other dimensional aliens arrange their things exactly as earth-humans do. Whatever the case may be, there are not a lot of aliens this side. But the ones who are there, are the unlucky ones.

Alice and Ewart fire their weapons now at any alien they see in front of them as they just keep on running. The weapon fires some sort of force field that simply disintegrates its target. Very close to playing a video game, something that Alice as a teen and Ewart as a convict did a lot on Earth.

Alice is just glad that they did not fall down dead immediately when they arrived on the outside. That was one of the things that she thought about when she worked out her plans. It nearly made her abandon her escape plan completely, but she still decided that she preferred death to being a prisoner her whole life long.

She figured out that the aliens might breathe in some completely different gas than humans to stay alive. If that was so, then they are providing them with the exact combination of oxygen and nitrogen that humans need to stay alive. Being outside the cage on the other hand might be an immediate death sentence.

Luckily, for them it seems that all living beings breathe in oxygen mixed with nitrogen, no matter in what universe they are. The air that they breathe in, taste nice and fresh. Unfortunately, it is cold outside. Alice knows that they will not last long with their naked bodies in this temperature.

Alice is surprised to see there are no other guards in the vicinity. The aliens became too complacent and thought that two guards would be enough. Maybe she should have worked out a plan that would also have allowed for the others to escape. That would have created real chaos. Unfortunately then, on the other hand, she and Ewart would then have been hunted by two parties.

“This way…” Ewart says as they see a vehicle approaching.

It is clear that the aliens in the vehicle do not know of the escape at the zoo yet. These look like ordinary citizens if one can call it that on this alien world.

Ewart points his weapon at the driver. The driver immediately brings the vehicle to a stop. Alice pulls the driver out and throws him hard down on the road. She is much bigger than he is. Obviously also much stronger. In hand to hand fighting these aliens will not even stand a chance against a ten year old human child, let alone an enraged adult.

She points her weapon at the second alien, who immediately jumps out the other door after seeing what Alice did to the driver. Ewart jumps in and Alice drives them quickly off. The vehicle is much smaller than what they are used to. They sit hunched up and thus fit in a way inside the alien vehicle. The vehicle makes almost no sound but feels powerful and like something that can put on speed when needed. There is also enough heat on the inside to keep them comfortable, despite their nakedness.

The vehicle is also very easy to drive. Due to playing video games since she was born, the girl immediately and instinctively knows how to drive the vehicle as it only has a joystick with which to steer. Pushing the stick forward makes it go forward. The further you push it forward, the faster it goes. For turning left you turn the joystick left, etc.

“Head towards those mountains over there.” Ewardt urges her. “I think the big guns will be here soon now. I don’t think it will be easy against them.”

She knows what he means. They have been fighting against the equivalent of zoo-security guards so far. Now the police or even army would have been called in and if they are like Earth police or army, the will not play with what they see as extremely dangerous animals.

Ewardt is still shooting aliens through the window as they drive along. This must be his revenge for being locked up for ten years.

She feels glad that he is doing it. Just like him, she has no love for these vermin who abducted her. This escape of hers is only the start of what she plans. Once she is relative safe, she is going to plan and then she will come down and kill every last one of them. She is not an animal. She will show them that they messed with the wrong specie.

She moves the vehicle down the road at speed. Strangely, they meet no other resistance. Then she sees a place where she can turn off between two huge buildings towards the open mountains. Soon the city gets smaller and smaller behind them.

It is strange that no one or nothing is following them, unless the aliens have other plans with them.

An hour later, they are deep inside the mountains, which seem totally devoid of life. The vehicle seems to move like a hovercraft, they don’t know how, but one can travel anywhere with it, even over the water.

“It will be difficult for them to find us here. I think we are free for now. These weapons are going to keep us free for very long. Any alien we see, we shoot.”

“Yes,” Ewardt says. “These guns seem to generate their own power, which means we will be able to have other uses for them too…after some conversion, of course.”

“That’s good. We must check out their technology and adapt it to our own needs. After that we can almost say that we have a planet of our own.” She smiles as she says this, thinking back to how scared she was at the beginning. “These aliens just never realised who they were messing with.”

They come around a bush and then they see the girl. She looks about ten years old. When she sees the alien vehicle, she runs immediately. Then she sees it is humans. She stops and turns around. She looks at them and smiles. Alice smiles back.

This place is even stranger than she thought it was. It seems the adventure had just begun.

Thanks for reading. You can download the book here: https://goo.gl/NV4Cn2

Thanks for reading my book.

The Typewriter

The Typewriter will lead you on a path where all writers want to be. A path that the ordinary human being will never understand. The price, though, is heavy and very few are prepared to pay that price. There are a few who know what the score is and that not all is what it is made out to be. There is a world beyond our world. A world that is much more interesting than the world we ordinary humans know. The Typewriter will lead you into that world. Follow with caution.

  • ISBN: 9781370115013
  • Author: Simon Black, Sr
  • Published: 2016-08-12 00:35:12
  • Words: 26802
The Typewriter The Typewriter