| Short Story |
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Typing Towards Death
By Steven Diggs Jr.
I wished it would stop staring at me. Why did it have to tease me like that?
Every time the minute hand moved, it came closer to my demise.
`“Stop it!” I yelled. My voice echoed down the hall. The keys on my keyboard
cracked as I fiercely typed my historical book about the mid 1990 technological
development in China. Going through pages upon pages of notes I took about
computer company Lenovo and the province of Shenzhen’s records. And now, I
had to worry about this. That evil, maniacal clock. It bore down on me. Any time
now, I knew Alec, my agent, would call me.
So, I had even more to worry about. When was he going to call? Anytime that
day would have been too soon. The research for this was a lot harder than I
thought. I figured, “Oh, I can just go online and get any information I need on
any of these companies.” It was far from the truth. The deadline I set was a
month too short, a shortfall I always gave myself.
Damn, Alec, for making this the deadline. As the clock ticked to three, I knew
that at exactly three thirty, he would call. He had a knack for calling when I had
two and a half hours left before a deadline. I needed to write, write, write.
“China becoming a member of the World Trade Organization now gives them a
say in what happens with their goods when they are shipped to other countries
allowing for lower tariffs and the removal of non-trade barriers.”
Off I went. Now if I could continue to do that. I only needed one more page to
wrap it up.
Ring. My annoying telephone buzzed through the cracked plastic casing like a
honeybee trapped in a window blind.
“Yes,” I said figuring it was Alec.
“Have you finished?” His voice didn’t seem the same. It was much raspier.
Maybe he had a cold. Something else was peculiar: it sounded like there was
nothing else behind it like he was in a large room that somehow had no echo.
Either that or he was in space.
“I’m trying to,” I said tucking the phone against my ear and my right shoulder to
continue typing. Furious clicks of the keyboard were as loud and obnoxious as
Alec calling me at that time.
“The story you are about to finish is your masterpiece, or at least it will be, if you
actually finish it.” If this was true, I could finally buy a home that didn’t flood
every time it rained. But, he was just urging me to finish. It was as common for
him to pull something like this as seeing a woman with long hair.
“I hope so,” I said staring at the lines I just wrote. Only a closing paragraph to
go now before it is complete.
“If you finish this book, this will be your legacy, your major contribution to the
world. However, it will come at your own life,” the voice said in a deeper tone
then any voice I had ever heard. The only voices that even came close were
undercover agents that wanted to keep their identities secret on TV.
“What?” I was on the last paragraph. A few sentences summarizing how China
was a modern nation thanks to its hard work in the technological sector and I
would be finished.
“I am here to merely give you the chance to live. However, if you chose to live,
this book will be destroyed and you will write in obscurity for the rest of your life.
This is no joke.” My hands, which were planted on my keyboard, dropped into my
lap as the keyboard disappeared. It vanished instantly along with the flat screen
monitor I purchased a few months back that was easier for me to see text.
“Where did it go?” Looking around, my desktop was nowhere to be seen. It
was gone including the cord that connected it to my tower.
“I need an answer…”
“I’m…”
“Now!” When I dreamt of being famous, I wanted to relish in it. I dreamt of
going to colleges and giving speeches that would spark millions of people to go
live their lives to the maximum. I never thought of dying, and then, become
famous. What was the point of that? Sure, writing was my life, but dying
because of it? Never.
“I need an answer,” he (or it for all I knew) said. Was dying worth not being
able to ever see Prague or retiring and soaking in the sun every morning in
Florida just to become famous? Would it be worth it? This book could be the
game-changing history book that I envisioned since I was in college. A new
generation of people could be shown the wonders of benefitting of what we know
of other cultures, other customs, and other ideas.
“An answer?” he said again. My TV, lamp, and all my other commodities
beside my clock disappeared. I wasn’t sure. However, I had to look at my
contribution to the world. I would help the world more by dying. I was a writer
and nothing else. I could not draw or build houses or fix cars. I wrote. That was
it.
“Let me finish the last few sentences.”
By Steven Diggs Jr.
I wished it would stop staring at me. Why did it have to tease me like that?
Every time the minute hand moved, it came closer to my demise.
`“Stop it!” I yelled. My voice echoed down the hall. The keys on my keyboard
cracked as I fiercely typed my historical book about the mid 1990 technological
development in China. Going through pages upon pages of notes I took about
computer company Lenovo and the province of Shenzhen’s records. And now, I
had to worry about this. That evil, maniacal clock. It bore down on me. Any time
now, I knew Alec, my agent, would call me.
So, I had even more to worry about. When was he going to call? Anytime that
day would have been too soon. The research for this was a lot harder than I
thought. I figured, “Oh, I can just go online and get any information I need on
any of these companies.” It was far from the truth. The deadline I set was a
month too short, a shortfall I always gave myself.
Damn, Alec, for making this the deadline. As the clock ticked to three, I knew
that at exactly three thirty, he would call. He had a knack for calling when I had
two and a half hours left before a deadline. I needed to write, write, write.
“China becoming a member of the World Trade Organization now gives them a
say in what happens with their goods when they are shipped to other countries
allowing for lower tariffs and the removal of non-trade barriers.”
Off I went. Now if I could continue to do that. I only needed one more page to
wrap it up.
Ring. My annoying telephone buzzed through the cracked plastic casing like a
honeybee trapped in a window blind.
“Yes,” I said figuring it was Alec.
“Have you finished?” His voice didn’t seem the same. It was much raspier.
Maybe he had a cold. Something else was peculiar: it sounded like there was
nothing else behind it like he was in a large room that somehow had no echo.
Either that or he was in space.
“I’m trying to,” I said tucking the phone against my ear and my right shoulder to
continue typing. Furious clicks of the keyboard were as loud and obnoxious as
Alec calling me at that time.
“The story you are about to finish is your masterpiece, or at least it will be, if you
actually finish it.” If this was true, I could finally buy a home that didn’t flood
every time it rained. But, he was just urging me to finish. It was as common for
him to pull something like this as seeing a woman with long hair.
“I hope so,” I said staring at the lines I just wrote. Only a closing paragraph to
go now before it is complete.
“If you finish this book, this will be your legacy, your major contribution to the
world. However, it will come at your own life,” the voice said in a deeper tone
then any voice I had ever heard. The only voices that even came close were
undercover agents that wanted to keep their identities secret on TV.
“What?” I was on the last paragraph. A few sentences summarizing how China
was a modern nation thanks to its hard work in the technological sector and I
would be finished.
“I am here to merely give you the chance to live. However, if you chose to live,
this book will be destroyed and you will write in obscurity for the rest of your life.
This is no joke.” My hands, which were planted on my keyboard, dropped into my
lap as the keyboard disappeared. It vanished instantly along with the flat screen
monitor I purchased a few months back that was easier for me to see text.
“Where did it go?” Looking around, my desktop was nowhere to be seen. It
was gone including the cord that connected it to my tower.
“I need an answer…”
“I’m…”
“Now!” When I dreamt of being famous, I wanted to relish in it. I dreamt of
going to colleges and giving speeches that would spark millions of people to go
live their lives to the maximum. I never thought of dying, and then, become
famous. What was the point of that? Sure, writing was my life, but dying
because of it? Never.
“I need an answer,” he (or it for all I knew) said. Was dying worth not being
able to ever see Prague or retiring and soaking in the sun every morning in
Florida just to become famous? Would it be worth it? This book could be the
game-changing history book that I envisioned since I was in college. A new
generation of people could be shown the wonders of benefitting of what we know
of other cultures, other customs, and other ideas.
“An answer?” he said again. My TV, lamp, and all my other commodities
beside my clock disappeared. I wasn’t sure. However, I had to look at my
contribution to the world. I would help the world more by dying. I was a writer
and nothing else. I could not draw or build houses or fix cars. I wrote. That was
it.
“Let me finish the last few sentences.”
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