I used to have an old typewriter. Click clack click clack, tiii. It was broken. Always halted me from typing the “e” key. Which kind of makes it really look stupid. Once I used the typewriter to type a paper for school, and I wrote in each “e” because my computer was broken. The teacher commented on it at the end, but I still got the “A+”!
The typewriter was the first “computer”. It was pretty happenin’ back in the Roaring 20’s or whenever it was made. My grandmother recently gifted me her typewriter from the 1940’s. It is pretty sweet but I need to find it a new ink strip so that I may write her letters from the past.
what i can’t find the paper to put in there and it really sucks. why can’t i never find any damn paper in this rat hole. paper, paper, where are you? grrrrr screw this. i didn’t even really want to write anyways and this headache is driving me crazy so the last thing i need is bang bang bang typing sounds.
sarah
A type writer was once one of the main ways we had to convey our ideas and communicate with each other. Nowadays we have many more ways to do this. But does this mean we’re saying more? Or better?
I really want a typewriter. I like typing on the noisy keys and moving the paper. They are so much fun. and they make me feel like i’m getting down to the real old fashioned writer inside me. They are great and i would really like a real working typewriter.
Jane
old typewriters are really interesting, I think. You see, ’cause they bring out such a nice font. I’d definitely love to have one and type with one. It might even give a boost to my creativity.
Noir Schist
The old typewriter sits in the attic, waiting. Wishing it was useful, wishing someone would press its worn in keys and make a memory. The days past and the typewriter sat in solitude, only wishing, waiting and wanting. It was lonely.
Jordan
The old ribbon graunches in the wheel. Nothing doing. An antique. Belonged to Grandpa. What did he write? Did he grieve those babies that drowned in the pond? Did he write prayers to another deity after he left the church? Were there letters to my father? What will I write if I can get a new ribbon inserted?
When I was a child, I had a toy typewriter. It was blue and heavy. When my parents were gone, and my brothers were in charge, I would get angry for no reason at all and run up to my room. I would lock the door and throw my typewriter into the ground over and over. James thought that I needed to be committed. No one ever asked why I was angry, and my parents never saw that side of me.
Typewriters are well, odd, to put it simply. Out of date. Old fashioned. And yet there’s something about them, something that appeals to me. They’re majestic, different. When using one you’re transported back to a different era, a different time and place.
She walked in, a long, slender cigarette dangling from her ruby lips. She sat, in the shadow beside my desk and waited. I was typing. I pulled the sheet out and gently blew over the ink. I couldn’t stand to look at her. I looked at the tip of her red high heel. It had tiny black flowers on the strap.
“What do you want, Doris?” I asked.
“You know what I want, Jeffery.” She said, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward into the light.
“I need that photograph. And the negatives for it. And I need them now.”
His fingers flew over the keys of the typewriter furtiously. He stopped only now and then to look at the clock. Only one hour remained until the deadline.
Sitting at the typwriter he soon realised that it had been far too long since he had used one of these things. So used to his new fancy laptop he was a little nervous to start using a machine that didnt check his spelling for him.
My parents gave me a typewriter for my twentyfirst birthday. They offered me a music system, but I asked for a typewriter. I’m not sure they every understood why. But it was my trusty companion for years. Even now I recall its heavy clatter with a hint of nostalgia.
life as an ant could be very confusing… sometimes, objects which obscure the sunlight can nontheless be carried, sometimes the ground moves independently… on this occasion, our protagonist, young anton found himself incorporated into the draft of a novel, but only in a physical sense… at his funeral, the pastor declared that in this life, timing is everything.
i love typewriters. they’re fun. my sister and i always make fake invitations to balls and stuff using the typewriters. not the balls you’re thinking of, but whatevs.hahhaa
i can just imagine it all in the old days sitting at a desk with that old machine, the lady with that old outfit and glasses… Writing everything. Just like me… I love writing, it’s what i do most of the time, i just write about my life. The moments shared, the memories…
there once was a little boy who never knew what to do, even after being told. he would scream and kick and make a fuss but it was no use, he just couldn’t figure it out. he found an old typewriter and began to type. he pushed each key delicately and felt a sense of safety that each letter he typed would show on the paper, never a different letter then the one he asked for.
alexander
a thing you use to write letters about; really retro
when you make a mistake, it sucks cause you can’t back space it like you could with a computer it writes what you type mistakes and all
Sylvia
tippity-tip tip tap tappity tap tap tap tap tip
tip
tip
that
ppoetry
you wrote
on the typewriter
was
a
deliberate
as a
brick wall
miriam prickett
clicking as you pound out the story. taking the time to think first before blindly writing. pulling the paper out and crumpling it into a ball.
typewriter helps us to write with speed.Its a great tool to write more words in lesser time.
fara
An old style, a place of solitude.
Clicking the time away, the noise of the keys turns into a symphony of creativity.
It almost creates an inspiration paradox.
Typewriters have keys. Pianos also have keys. Computer keyboards have keys. Music has keys. Cars have keys. Many items have keys. Keys rhyme with peas, which are delicious. Sweet peas are the best. The best on the west.
one day i had a typewriter. i wrote alot of stories on that typewriter. it was a good piece of machine. i used it for many days and many nights. my life was changed by that typewriter. typewriters also make me think of misery by stephen king. i would hate to be forced to use a typewriter. it would be very cruel, which would make me sad. some people are really cruel.
HAT
“Throw the frickin’ typewriter out the window!” shouted Andrew. “only outdated, middle-aged peons use such outdated technology.”
So Agnes, the new intern threw her Smith Corona out the window. It hit a hot dog vendor in the head and he died instantly. Three pigs rejoiced in their new lease on life.
When I was four or five, my grandparents still owned the hotel that they’d managed their whole lives. In its office sat the typewriter that my mother had learned to use when she was young. I loved to bang on its keys, but my family did not like this as much as I did. I was given a Bible to read, instead.
Bonita Violette
can you hear it as it clicks behind you? can you hear my thoughts as I look at your back, waiting for you to turn around and notice the one who is writing your words, following your every move with my eyes as my fingers capture the words dripping sweetly off your lips? I am here. recogizne that when I type I am saying I love you every time every day eevry clocik.
Kari
a piece of history. no longer will children remember what this contraption is. the loss of this will also be a sad loss to vital ways of reproducing print in the case of an emeergency for society. i am not a nutjob. i am a 22 year old colleg e studen
mike
Lisa looked down at the old typewriter sadly. So many stories told, so many words used. She almost couldn’t bear looking at it. “I miss you mom”, she said to herself.
Ginena
My fingers floated over these keys.my mind fueled with dreams. Whenever I write I feel as if no one can stop me.I feel amazing every time I write.my dreams come alive as if there real. Joy overcomes my face telling me this is my calling or maybe making others happy. Either way I think I know my way in life.
The sound of nostalgia. The frustration of making an error and everything that it implied in trying to correct it. The authenticity of the printed word seemed more real, somehow, using a typewriter.
John
A step back in time. one false movement and its all over. click clack click clack and stop. the beinging of what is now the worlds anchor. I can see why and howcwe got this far.
Joey Austin
I am a typewriter
The typewriter of the very story that my memories tell
So why shouldn’t I be allowed to tell my story
When 8th grades just write lol over every facebook wall in creation
Just take a step back and realize
You dont have to be a typewrite to tell your story
letter clack click , lost you, love you ,need you , summer time where did thou go. leaves, sticky keys, sticky heat. french horns and the sound of forgiveness.
the man can only do his finally job with ideas.
I used to have an old typewriter. Click clack click clack, tiii. It was broken. Always halted me from typing the “e” key. Which kind of makes it really look stupid. Once I used the typewriter to type a paper for school, and I wrote in each “e” because my computer was broken. The teacher commented on it at the end, but I still got the “A+”!
The typewriter was the first “computer”. It was pretty happenin’ back in the Roaring 20’s or whenever it was made. My grandmother recently gifted me her typewriter from the 1940’s. It is pretty sweet but I need to find it a new ink strip so that I may write her letters from the past.
what i can’t find the paper to put in there and it really sucks. why can’t i never find any damn paper in this rat hole. paper, paper, where are you? grrrrr screw this. i didn’t even really want to write anyways and this headache is driving me crazy so the last thing i need is bang bang bang typing sounds.
A type writer was once one of the main ways we had to convey our ideas and communicate with each other. Nowadays we have many more ways to do this. But does this mean we’re saying more? Or better?
I wld like 2 argue tht ths is not the cayse…
or i write quite poor
I have two! They’re pretty cool, ones blue and one’s black. It’s raiiinnnnning here. The typewriter is right nexxt to a giant Hamtaro.
Sometimes i wish people still used typewriters… Then i realize how much easier computers are.
I really want a typewriter. I like typing on the noisy keys and moving the paper. They are so much fun. and they make me feel like i’m getting down to the real old fashioned writer inside me. They are great and i would really like a real working typewriter.
old typewriters are really interesting, I think. You see, ’cause they bring out such a nice font. I’d definitely love to have one and type with one. It might even give a boost to my creativity.
The old typewriter sits in the attic, waiting. Wishing it was useful, wishing someone would press its worn in keys and make a memory. The days past and the typewriter sat in solitude, only wishing, waiting and wanting. It was lonely.
The old ribbon graunches in the wheel. Nothing doing. An antique. Belonged to Grandpa. What did he write? Did he grieve those babies that drowned in the pond? Did he write prayers to another deity after he left the church? Were there letters to my father? What will I write if I can get a new ribbon inserted?
When I was a child, I had a toy typewriter. It was blue and heavy. When my parents were gone, and my brothers were in charge, I would get angry for no reason at all and run up to my room. I would lock the door and throw my typewriter into the ground over and over. James thought that I needed to be committed. No one ever asked why I was angry, and my parents never saw that side of me.
Typewriters are well, odd, to put it simply. Out of date. Old fashioned. And yet there’s something about them, something that appeals to me. They’re majestic, different. When using one you’re transported back to a different era, a different time and place.
She walked in, a long, slender cigarette dangling from her ruby lips. She sat, in the shadow beside my desk and waited. I was typing. I pulled the sheet out and gently blew over the ink. I couldn’t stand to look at her. I looked at the tip of her red high heel. It had tiny black flowers on the strap.
“What do you want, Doris?” I asked.
“You know what I want, Jeffery.” She said, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward into the light.
“I need that photograph. And the negatives for it. And I need them now.”
His fingers flew over the keys of the typewriter furtiously. He stopped only now and then to look at the clock. Only one hour remained until the deadline.
Sitting at the typwriter he soon realised that it had been far too long since he had used one of these things. So used to his new fancy laptop he was a little nervous to start using a machine that didnt check his spelling for him.
My parents gave me a typewriter for my twentyfirst birthday. They offered me a music system, but I asked for a typewriter. I’m not sure they every understood why. But it was my trusty companion for years. Even now I recall its heavy clatter with a hint of nostalgia.
life as an ant could be very confusing… sometimes, objects which obscure the sunlight can nontheless be carried, sometimes the ground moves independently… on this occasion, our protagonist, young anton found himself incorporated into the draft of a novel, but only in a physical sense… at his funeral, the pastor declared that in this life, timing is everything.
i love typewriters. they’re fun. my sister and i always make fake invitations to balls and stuff using the typewriters. not the balls you’re thinking of, but whatevs.hahhaa
complicated mechanism. difficult to learn. admire people good on it. heavy. useful. typical fonts.
i can just imagine it all in the old days sitting at a desk with that old machine, the lady with that old outfit and glasses… Writing everything. Just like me… I love writing, it’s what i do most of the time, i just write about my life. The moments shared, the memories…
there once was a little boy who never knew what to do, even after being told. he would scream and kick and make a fuss but it was no use, he just couldn’t figure it out. he found an old typewriter and began to type. he pushed each key delicately and felt a sense of safety that each letter he typed would show on the paper, never a different letter then the one he asked for.
a thing you use to write letters about; really retro
when you make a mistake, it sucks cause you can’t back space it like you could with a computer it writes what you type mistakes and all
tippity-tip tip tap tappity tap tap tap tap tip
tip
tip
that
ppoetry
you wrote
on the typewriter
was
a
deliberate
as a
brick wall
clicking as you pound out the story. taking the time to think first before blindly writing. pulling the paper out and crumpling it into a ball.
they remind me of my father.
typewriter helps us to write with speed.Its a great tool to write more words in lesser time.
An old style, a place of solitude.
Clicking the time away, the noise of the keys turns into a symphony of creativity.
It almost creates an inspiration paradox.
Typewriters have keys. Pianos also have keys. Computer keyboards have keys. Music has keys. Cars have keys. Many items have keys. Keys rhyme with peas, which are delicious. Sweet peas are the best. The best on the west.
one day i had a typewriter. i wrote alot of stories on that typewriter. it was a good piece of machine. i used it for many days and many nights. my life was changed by that typewriter. typewriters also make me think of misery by stephen king. i would hate to be forced to use a typewriter. it would be very cruel, which would make me sad. some people are really cruel.
“Throw the frickin’ typewriter out the window!” shouted Andrew. “only outdated, middle-aged peons use such outdated technology.”
So Agnes, the new intern threw her Smith Corona out the window. It hit a hot dog vendor in the head and he died instantly. Three pigs rejoiced in their new lease on life.
When I was four or five, my grandparents still owned the hotel that they’d managed their whole lives. In its office sat the typewriter that my mother had learned to use when she was young. I loved to bang on its keys, but my family did not like this as much as I did. I was given a Bible to read, instead.
can you hear it as it clicks behind you? can you hear my thoughts as I look at your back, waiting for you to turn around and notice the one who is writing your words, following your every move with my eyes as my fingers capture the words dripping sweetly off your lips? I am here. recogizne that when I type I am saying I love you every time every day eevry clocik.
a piece of history. no longer will children remember what this contraption is. the loss of this will also be a sad loss to vital ways of reproducing print in the case of an emeergency for society. i am not a nutjob. i am a 22 year old colleg e studen
Lisa looked down at the old typewriter sadly. So many stories told, so many words used. She almost couldn’t bear looking at it. “I miss you mom”, she said to herself.
My fingers floated over these keys.my mind fueled with dreams. Whenever I write I feel as if no one can stop me.I feel amazing every time I write.my dreams come alive as if there real. Joy overcomes my face telling me this is my calling or maybe making others happy. Either way I think I know my way in life.
The sound of nostalgia. The frustration of making an error and everything that it implied in trying to correct it. The authenticity of the printed word seemed more real, somehow, using a typewriter.
A step back in time. one false movement and its all over. click clack click clack and stop. the beinging of what is now the worlds anchor. I can see why and howcwe got this far.
I am a typewriter
The typewriter of the very story that my memories tell
So why shouldn’t I be allowed to tell my story
When 8th grades just write lol over every facebook wall in creation
Just take a step back and realize
You dont have to be a typewrite to tell your story
letter clack click , lost you, love you ,need you , summer time where did thou go. leaves, sticky keys, sticky heat. french horns and the sound of forgiveness.