August 2039<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat the hell is that?\u201d asked Kyle, his voice muffled by his own shoulder. He could<\/p>\n\n\n\n
almost taste the steroids pulsing through the bulging veins that stuffed his mouth as he struggled<\/p>\n\n\n\n
to get out of the pretzel position that he fell into. One misplaced step found him intertwined with<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the trash heap he was so carelessly gallivanting over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKyle, where\u2019d you go?\u201d Craig called out, finally catching his breath from laughing so<\/p>\n\n\n\n
hard at his friend\u2019s misfortune. As he ran up to meet his fallen friend, he continued, \u201cYou just<\/p>\n\n\n\n
disappeared there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShut up and help me up,\u201d Kyle retorted, still face to face with the rusted phantom below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With a grimace and a grunt, Craig hefted his friend out of the valley of debris (he could easily<\/p>\n\n\n\n
bench four hundred pounds, and Kyle was only two-fifty), and they both turned to see the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
imprint of Kyle\u2019s sudden impact. His two hundred and fifty pounds of pure unnatural muscle<\/p>\n\n\n\n
made a distinct impression on the landscape of twisted wire and tattered scraps of careless lives<\/p>\n\n\n\n
before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDude, check it out. I even dented that baseball bat,\u201d marvelled Kyle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI think that was dented before you. But what the hell did your big ugly face do to<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that\u2026thing?\u201d Two brass spindles framed a crooked iron smile, with some thirty odd arms of<\/p>\n\n\n\n
keys jutting out the top with a chaos that gave the creature the composure of a ginger Einstein.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some keys remained; Craig thought he could make out an \u201cE\u201d and a \u201cK\u201d, or was it an \u201cX\u201d? Most<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of the others had fallen through the cracks of bent bike tires and old tree carcasses into some<\/p>\n\n\n\n
deeper circle of hell, while their host remained in purgatory, a poor soul with too many teeth<\/p>\n\n\n\n
punched out to speak; to call out for help. And so, the ghastly face stared up at the two friends,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
more exposed to their eyes than to the elements that had slowly eaten it away. \u201cIt looks just like<\/p>\n\n\n\n
you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShut up\u2026\u201d The two stared down at the beast in silence as the dusk descended into night,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the sky more blue than black, but sprinkled with satellites and the odd star. A shiver reawakened<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Kyle, whether brought on by the chill of the sunless air or the sight before him, he did not know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Either way, Kyle broke the silence with a whisper. \u201cWe should get out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Craig nodded, their late-summer adventure spoiled, and they turned back and began to<\/p>\n\n\n\n
traverse the landfill they were trespassing on, careful lest they be forced to confront another<\/p>\n\n\n\n
ghost.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
March 1952<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A wash of ombre light filled the room as the two Edison bulbs hummed to life, silent<\/p>\n\n\n\n
music to the aging ears of Richard Cartwright. He enjoyed the dimness, the warmth of these<\/p>\n\n\n\n
bulbs in his dark oak office, the musk of old books and cardigans almost visibly wafting in the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
coiled rays of light. The room was but the preferred ambiance to the setting of his work, that old<\/p>\n\n\n\n
mahogany desk with a brighter, new lamp on one corner and a picture of his wife and two young<\/p>\n\n\n\n
boys on the other. Richard switched the lamp on with a little click at its head, and sat with two<\/p>\n\n\n\n
little clicks at his knees, the leather of his wing-backed chair softly squeaking beneath him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Centred on his desk was his prized possession, it\u2019s thirty odd teeth smiling up at him. It\u2019s jetblack<\/p>\n\n\n\n
casing reflected the light directly onto the paper pressed within its upper lip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With a yawn, Richard slowly reached his arms behind his back, pressing his knuckles<\/p>\n\n\n\n
deep into the middle of his back and simultaneously cracking both. He leaned forward, arms<\/p>\n\n\n\n
outstretched, and began the familiar dance of his fingers. Reaping only a faded, grey fruit, he<\/p>\n\n\n\n
groaned and reached into the upper right drawer of his desk, returning to his beloved device with<\/p>\n\n\n\n
a new double spool of ink. He caressed the temples of his friend, and with an outward and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
upward motion popped the upper casing off. Resting it to his left, he withdrew the old, warn<\/p>\n\n\n\n
ribbon and dropped it in the black wire trash bin at his right leg. Then, threading in the new life,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
he began to hum \u201cYankee Doodle\u201d, snapping the lid back on at the final note.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With a sigh and a stretch, he once again commenced his work, the virtuosic clicketyclack<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of the keys playing their old familiar song. Surrounded by great works, his own on the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
shelf to his right, and the works of \u201cthe many greats before\u201d, as he would say, to the left, he<\/p>\n\n\n\n
passed three, maybe four hours (he didn\u2019t care) in the spell of his true companion. It was given to<\/p>\n\n\n\n
him as a gift for his twenty-fifth birthday by his ever-encouraging parents. Both gone now, he<\/p>\n\n\n\n
felt they lived still in the gift still before him, and every session was a happy reunion. Every great<\/p>\n\n\n\n
book he wrote was written with it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot every book I\u2019ve written, mind you,\u201d he\u2019d joke to what few friends he had, \u201cbut<\/p>\n\n\n\n
every great book.\u201d Together, they wrote late into many a night, and this night would be<\/p>\n\n\n\n
celebrated as they finished the next great Richard Cartwright novel. He knew he wouldn\u2019t live<\/p>\n\n\n\n
forever. But, like his parents, he hoped he might too be enshrined in his beautiful typewriter, at<\/p>\n\n\n\n
least in memory, if not in spirit. He hoped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
June 2042<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Riley felt on top of the world as she crested the peak of potential treasures. The mid-day<\/p>\n\n\n\n
sun drew glistening beads of sweat across her forehead as she tied her violet hoodie around her<\/p>\n\n\n\n
waist. Scouting the horizon, she was amazed by the tall grass percolating up through the debris<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of domesticity. How resilient it must be, she thought, surviving through decades of dumping,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
managing to grow in such a congestion of non-compostable crap. She imagined she was like that<\/p>\n\n\n\n
grass, always managing to find the sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is dumb!\u201d Kelsie interrupted. Still seeing sunshine, Riley insisted in her mind while<\/p>\n\n\n\n
drawing a deep breath. Kelsie and Ryan crawled up behind her, both desperate for breath and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
trying not to get a tetanus-assured scratch from the materials they were scaling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIsn\u2019t this beautiful, though?\u201d asked Riley, more as a plea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a dump,\u201d retorted Kelsie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLiterally,\u201d Ryan added as he straightened his back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, yeah,\u201d Riley began, desperately, \u201cbut it\u2019s also a well of possibility. We\u2019re being<\/p>\n\n\n\n
actual treasure hunters right now. Who knows what we\u2019re gonna find.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have a hunch we\u2019re gonna find garbage,\u201d groaned Ryan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay, but one man\u2019s garbage is-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t,\u201d interrupted Kelsie. Riley sighed, her shoulders sinking a bit. I\u2019m like the grass,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
she reminded herself, returning to her optimistic posture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, with that attitude, I\u2019m definitely gonna find something cool before you!\u201d Riley<\/p>\n\n\n\n
called out as she began to run down the mound. Kelsie and Ryan rolled their eyes at each other<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and sauntered behind her. Riley had never been more alive. The breeze she made blew her hair<\/p>\n\n\n\n
back, a golden river in the sunlight. Like a mountain goat, her eyes darted between finding her<\/p>\n\n\n\n
next precarious footing and absorbing the iron and plastic wilderness around her. Eventually<\/p>\n\n\n\n
overcome by the latter, a careless step brought her down, face first, with all the speed and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
whimsy she brought with her. She gasped, \u201cOh my God!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh no, what happened?\u201d Kelsie called out, now (finally) running to meet her friend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid you get impaled?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo, look!\u201d Riley responded, propping herself up and pointing down. As Kelsie and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ryan made it within reach, she announced her triumphant find. \u201cA typewriter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA what?\u201d Ryan asked, half earnestly and half testing Riley\u2019s patience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, come on. You know, a typewriter. Like what they used to write before computers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDidn\u2019t they use pencils to write before computers?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Riley, her patience sufficiently tested, snapped, \u201cThey used them to type before<\/p>\n\n\n\n
computers, smartass.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With a bit of a grin, Ryan finally approached enough to see the ancient treasure. There<\/p>\n\n\n\n
wasn\u2019t much to see, however. The rust had passed the point of mere discoloration, with visible<\/p>\n\n\n\n
holes speckled as much as little flecks of jet-black paint across the bent and beaten hull. The keys<\/p>\n\n\n\n
appeared to be held together by the spiderwebs sprawling between them. There were no signs of<\/p>\n\n\n\n
ink, no cartridge or ribbon, just two empty brass spindles like two sad eyes lamenting a long-past<\/p>\n\n\n\n
better life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat piece of junk?\u201d Ryan asked, dealing another blow to the poor trinket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s incredible!\u201d Riley responded forcefully, desperate to defend what little dignity it had<\/p>\n\n\n\n
left. \u201cI\u2019ve never seen one in person.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you think it still works?\u201d asked Kelsie, finally joining the conversation with a<\/p>\n\n\n\n
question not worthy of being a part of the conversation. It was met with the slow, synchronized<\/p>\n\n\n\n
turn of both Riley and Ryan\u2019s heads, a piercing glare in both their eyes. \u201cWell, I don\u2019t know,\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
was Kelsie\u2019s defence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre we just gonna look at it?\u201d Ryan asked in a tone that made Riley question why she<\/p>\n\n\n\n
brought him along at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe should take it to a museum,\u201d Riley said, trying to maintain what little wonder<\/p>\n\n\n\n
remained in the moment. \u201cHelp me grab it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not touching that,\u201d blurted Kelsie. Riley turned to Ryan and was answered with a<\/p>\n\n\n\n
vigorous shake of his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay, fine!\u201d Riley snapped, plunging her hands into the heart of the gravesite. As she<\/p>\n\n\n\n
tenderly began to lift, she felt tension, something clinging to the artifact. She felt underneath to<\/p>\n\n\n\n
find some wire wrapped around one of the feet. Blindly twisting around and around, she finally<\/p>\n\n\n\n
felt her find become free and she brought it directly to her chest, an embrace the only natural<\/p>\n\n\n\n
thing for her to do. She rose to her feet, and with the true defiance and optimism of the grass<\/p>\n\n\n\n
around her said, \u201cCome on. People are gonna love this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
November 1966<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Blake and Arnold Cartwright didn\u2019t know how to grieve. When their mother died five<\/p>\n\n\n\n
years ago, their father did enough grieving for all of them. He never wrote again. Now, at his<\/p>\n\n\n\n
own passing, the world made up for the Cartwright boys\u2019 incapacity for grief. They were<\/p>\n\n\n\n
composed upon receiving the call: Blake, in the middle of an important meeting in New York,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and Arnold while still waking up from a nap in his New Mexico home. They were stoic at the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
funeral, refusing to make a scene in front of the hundreds in attendance. And they were<\/p>\n\n\n\n
completely emotionless, heartless even, as they settled their father\u2019s estate. Each already blessed<\/p>\n\n\n\n
with half their father\u2019s wealth and royalties, they were eager to be rid of their father\u2019s junk and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
have the matter over and done with.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you want his cardigans?\u201d Blake asked his brother as they rifled through their father\u2019s<\/p>\n\n\n\n
oak-lined sanctuary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNah,\u201d Arnold answered, emptying the drawers of the desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMe either. I\u2019ll just chuck \u2018em.\u201d With that, Blake threw them over his shoulder into an<\/p>\n\n\n\n
increasingly large pile of ill-fated treasure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat about the books?\u201d Arnold asked, reaching around himself to crack his back and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
knuckles together, a habit unknowingly inherited from his father. He might have rejected that<\/p>\n\n\n\n
too, had he ever seen his father do it. \u201cThey ought to be worth a few bucks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah.\u201d With that, they were stacked into boxes and added to the only other pile, the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
estate sale pile. Never had the brothers considered creating a third pile, the one their father most<\/p>\n\n\n\n
hoped would emerge: the keep pile. With little left to throw away, and even less to sell, the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
brothers were tired and cranky and eager to be done with the day and the task at hand. They<\/p>\n\n\n\n
couldn\u2019t stand the dim lighting in the room as the sun made its way to the other side of the earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The smell was even more daunting. It smelled like their father, who was there no more, and this<\/p>\n\n\n\n
confused the brothers. Arnold leaned against the desk, lurking over their final, tragic victim.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat about this?\u201d he groaned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo one\u2019s going to buy that. Look at how worn out it is, you can\u2019t even read most of the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
letters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGarbage it is, then.\u201d And with that, it was over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
January 2055<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHome of the Last Typewriter\u201d read the banner that was rapidly singed from the bottom<\/p>\n\n\n\n
right corner up. The museum should have known better than to so boldly advertise something so<\/p>\n\n\n\n
defiant. Museums weren\u2019t safe. Libraries weren\u2019t safe. Nowhere was safe. For the sake of \u201cthe<\/p>\n\n\n\n
future\u201d, the mob set fire to the past. Shattered windows reflected little tiny fires consuming<\/p>\n\n\n\n
artifacts of glass, fabric, paper, metal, wood, and stone. The building was brick, but as the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
wooden trusses at its heart became coal, the whole museum groaned; no, it wailed. It grieved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And with a final haunting scream, two stories of suspended time collapsed into a single, shallow<\/p>\n\n\n\n
grave. Nothing survived the fire. Not the two nighttime custodians, trapped in terror. Not the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
museum, or it\u2019s benefactory foundation. Not a single artifact. Not the typewriter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
December 1966<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The valley echoed the shrill beeping of the reversing dump truck. The white truck<\/p>\n\n\n\n
appeared brown by the mud it trudged to get there. The beeping stopped as a worker stepped out<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of the passenger door of the truck. With a little hop, he slammed the door shut and wrapped<\/p>\n\n\n\n
around the truck until he was in sight of the driver\u2019s mirror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah, you\u2019re good!\u201d the worker called. With that, there was a whistle and a hiss, and the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
truck sprang to life, its contents slowly beginning to pour out the back. The worker waved as the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
truck inched forward, spilling more and more trash in its wake. He froze his hand in the air and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
called out. \u201cWhoa! There\u2019s something stuck here!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The old transmission groaned as the driver shifted it into neutral and pulled the parking<\/p>\n\n\n\n
brake. He hopped out of the driver\u2019s door and joined his co-worker.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs that a typewriter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah, and a nice looking one, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy would someone throw that away?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy do people throw away most of this shit?\u201d the worker asked as he yanked at the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
typewriter, pulling it out from the nook of the truck that it was caught in. He examined it a<\/p>\n\n\n\n
moment, flipping it from one side to the other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou gonna keep it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat, you think I write?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, it might be worth something.\u201d The worker paused a moment, deep in thought and<\/p>\n\n\n\n
seemingly entranced.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNah, not worth the hassle,\u201d he decided. He chucked the typewriter deep into the pile of<\/p>\n\n\n\n
trash, and a baseball bat echoed as a corner of the typewriter bounced off it, leaving a sizeable<\/p>\n\n\n\n
dent. The relic sunk deep between the wires and branches and old bike tires, settling slowly into<\/p>\n\n\n\n
its long, but not final, grave. \u201cToo bad though,\u201d the worker remarked as he climbed back into the<\/p>\n\n\n\n
truck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh well,\u201d said the driver as they left it all behind. \u201cNothing can last forever<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"