Sixteen Pages

"I held it as if at any moment it might have slipped from my grasp and I would have completely lost every part of my Dad forever"

Essie May Davis started her typewriter collection when she was nine. And now when her life has completely changed, She clings to the beautiful machines like they might slip from her grasp forever.

A story about love, loss and the overwhelming feeling of forgotten stories.

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5. Page Five

“Tea?” Queenie offered. I took the floral teacup and burnt my tongue. Then she and Felix urged me towards the door of the antique shop.

I’d woken up with both of them looking down at me. I must have fallen asleep on an old lounge in the shop because that’s where I woke up and that’s where they found me and I really didn’t see any other possibility.

“You realise that you’ll have to go outside someday, right?” Felix said while he tried to push me towards the front door.

“Not today, Felix. Just not today.” I huffed.

“I wasn’t going to do this but I’ll just have to carry you.”

“Come on Felix, you couldn’t even carry Essie’s typewriter.” Queenie said.

She laughed even harder when Felix tried to put on a tough face with an indignant “Yes I can!” but it all kind of spiralled down from there because Felix tried to prove her wrong and the cup of tea, still steaming, spilt down my front and I almost dropped the saucer.

He mumbled a “sorry,” and put me down again. I tried to wipe the scalding liquid off my top but gave up.

“Besides, I was minding the shop.” I whined.

“Oh come on Essie,” Queenie rolled her eyes at me, “no one even came in when you were here. It’s barely living.”

“Yes they did!” I was tired of having to fight her and if this didn’t work I was heading straight for my room, “Actually, he asked me to tell you he came. Um, what was his name-Ollie? Was it Ollie?”

“Ollie!” Queenie stormed off up the stairs to what I could only guess was her room.

I turned to look at Felix who said “History,” dismissively.

We sat there for a while, silently. I looked around at the shop and Felix did too. There was a ticking sound I’d never really listened to. It unnerved me so I got up and played something on the gramophone. I watched the spinning record.

“What do you actually use your typewriters for?” Felix asked. When I looked at him he wasn’t wearing his trademark frown.

“Anything I guess. English and History assignments, letters, just whatever.”

“Oh, I guess I thought you’d write poetry or something.” Felix smiled.

“Nah, I don’t think I could rhyme that much.” I said and walked back to Felix.

“Why do you have so many typewriters? You couldn’t possibly use them all at the same time.” He asked.

“It’s more about the memories. You know, the idea that they have stories I’ll never know.” I said lying down on the lounge in a strange sort of exhaustion from telling him what I though was my reason for loving an object like I loved typewriters. I don’t think it was. It was deeper than that but I don’t think I’d realised then.

“You should give it a try. Poetry might just be your thing. Or writing, maybe you’d like that better.”

“I don’t know, Felix.” I sighed, “Why?”

“Dunno, you’d be like Emily Dickinson, stuck in your room writing tons of poems about death. It’d suit you.”

“You do realise that just ten minutes ago you were trying to get me outside?” I said.

“Okay, maybe not Emily Dickinson but you could still write stuff.” Felix made a compromise that he probably actually preferred.

I shrugged, what else was I supposed to do?

“You know what, Essie May?” Felix smiled, “I’ve got some place to show you tomorrow.”

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