The Typewriter

Click-click. Click-click-clack-click. Pthump. Pthump. Pshht. Click-click. Click-click-ding-pshht.

Ophelia massaged the worn bridge between her weathered-by-life eyes. Click-click-clack-click. This piece was like the others; unfulfilling, not worth her time or talent, and less than a quick buck. Ding-pshht.

Click-click. Pthump. Click-click-click-click-clack-click. Pthump.

She remembered when she was sought after by the New Yorker, the Wall Street Journal, the International New York Times. She would bounce from paper to paper, delivering award-winning stories and reports with her sardonic wit, rhythm, and her remarkable capability to capture the reality of everyday transgressions happening around her and the city. Ding-pshht.

Click. Pause. Inhale from a homemade cigarette filled with Moroccan tobacco. Slow, savory exhale filled with the taste of warm vanilla bean, jasmine, and sandy memories of far off lands. Click. Pthump. Click-pshht. Ding.

Ophelia glanced up from her article, breathing in the smells New York City offered and folding into the sounds of sweet Harlem jazz. Click-click-click-clack. Pthump. Click-pshht-ding.

Click-click. Click-clack-click-click. Pthump. Click-click-clack-click-pthump-pthump. Click-clack-click. Ding-pshht.

Ophelia pulled the paper off the wheel – this would do for the penny papers. She'd make enough for another round of coffee at the jazz joint which she lived above. On the weekends she'd go down and listen to the sounds of young up-and-comers, young peoples just barely old enough to drink the cheap Italian red. The smooth flowing legato off the upright bass created a bed for the sultry trumpet to play and lay upon, bouncing from staccato to legato and back again, building and rising with every crescendo until the trumpet would play it's secret soul-sound of the white-hot noise that resided deep within the young musician's souls.

Ophelia sighed, took another slow inhale from her memory-filled smoke-stick. She might take that bassist up on his offer for a night of slow passionate love; the sounds from downstairs creating the atmosphere for the two one-night lovers as the shared vino fueled every kiss and stroke and fondle.

Ophelia exhaled, rubbing the bridge between her eyes. She'd take him up on his offer, but she had to finish another crummy story for another penny paper before she could enjoy herself. She put another piece of paper on the wheel.

Click-click. Click-click-clack-click. Pthump. Pthump. Pshht. Click-click. Click-click-ding-pshht.