The clacking of the machine’s keys was infernal, and became nearly unbearable within the first few moments of the day’s docket. Onyx keys lacquered with fluids of unimaginable origin; their characters intricate and involved, constantly morphing from one alien dialect to another. Oft times the keys became phosphorescent beetles that shifted and crawled to the desk below, or strange teeth that would snip at her fingers, or begin to chatter with intention to try and communicate, only failing in the attempt. Sometimes, if the stenographer took notice, she would see the voided mouths of where those teeth came from, those sitting in wait, along the side of the bench, shuffling thumbs and preparing to take the stand. The dictation machine was more than keys; it was an organic typewriter of sorts. She had memories of William S. Burroughs' insect typewriters; it would make her giggle thinking how those visions of old Bill were actually her reality here. Then again, knowing what she knows now, old Bill’s Tangier could very well have been the same place she now existed within; although he slipped in and out, where she was firmly stuck in place. There was nowhere to go. There was no way out. There was only the clacking.
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I would like to continue The Stenographer in installments.
Thanks for reading.
Please continue
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