Iris stared at the spinning blades of the brass fan above her. It was mesmerizing the way it wobbled. Monte Carlo, she wondered, that’s a curious phrase to be written on a fan. A brand name she guessed. Iris groaned inaudibly as she slid her fingers under her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had begun the day sitting at her desk with impeccable posture but as the sun slumped across the horizon so had she slid down her chair. She had achieved mega-slouch. Ok, no more distractions Iris, she told herself, time to write. With a concerted effort, Iris pushed herself once more into a proper sitting position. She placed her hands against the cool metal typewriter and her fingers found a home against the keys. She took a deep breath in an attempt to clear her head but the words wouldn’t come to her. These stories usually write themselves, she thought, I’m merely a vessel through which creativity flows. She took a moment to revel in her own smugness and then decided that was a good enough place as any to start writing.
I am a vessel through which creativity flows.
She finished typing and pulled the line space lever to slide the page up. Well, it’s not a story but it’s a start. She peered at the freshly dried ink against the stark white page then cocked her head as she noticed that a few of the letters were faded. Great, she thought, I finally start writing and already I have technical difficulties. But secretly she was excited for the immediate distraction. Iris flipped the release switch on the side of the typewriter and the face popped open revealing the spools of the ink ribbon. She wriggled the spools until they came loose then tossed the worn out ribbon aside. The wooden drawer of her desk refused to open smoothly, but Iris knew just how to coax it. She tugged on the handle and it jolted open, jostling the knick-knacks inside. The contents were scattered in disarray but after a little rummaging she found the new ribbon she was looking for. She slid the spools into place and clicked the faceplate shut. Alright, she decided, let’s try this again. She pondered for a few moments and then let her fingers lead the way.
I can’t think of anything useful to type.
That’s strange, Iris mused as she gazed at the faded letters of the sentence she had just written, I just cleaned you. She scrunched her face in frustration but as she did so, something became hauntingly clear to her: the faded letters spelled something.
Iris
I can help
Iris’s eyes widened and she immediately jumped from her chair uttering an involuntary squeal as she did so. She looked around the room frantically and then her eyes landed on the bean bag chair in the corner. Without hesitation she bounded across the room and dove for the cushion. She rolled over it onto the floor and then pulled it over her head. Surely she was safe from whatever spectre dwelled in her typewriter as long as she remained in the comfortable cover of darkness. She curled into a ball for a few minutes until she felt brave enough to peek.
The room was still, save for the spinning of the fan. The gentle breeze filled the room with a peaceful coolness. The last lingering light of the sun cast a long pattern across the stained wooden floor. You’re being crazy, Iris. She cautiously oozed her way from underneath the beanbag like a snail wary of a boot. Iris stood up, dusted herself off, and confidently marched back toward her desk. Before she could take more than two steps, her slipper caught on an uneven floorboard and Iris stumbled. She rebalanced herself at the edge of the desk and looked around to make sure no one saw her faux pas and then remembered she was completely alone in her office. Smooth.
Iris sat back in her chair and swiveled to face the typewriter of doom. Against all odds, the machine sat completely still. I see what game you’re playing, you crafty devil. Waiting for me to make the first move. Iris darted her hand forward and mashed her open palm onto the keys.
awefljag
At first there were no messages hidden in faded ink but as Iris continued to type a paragraph of gibberish the faded letters returned.
just type whatever comes to mind and ill do the rest
Well, what do you have to lose, Iris? She removed the sheet of paper from the typewriter, inserted a blank one, and began to write. Her mind was razor sharp now - all distracting thoughts were buried underneath a newfound fixation. Her fingers danced along the keys as if performing a choreographed routine. Page after page flew from the typewriter as her story unfolded. After an hour had blazed past, Iris looked up from her work and realized that the sun had long since set. She checked her watch and was amazed that so much time had passed.
All around her, the desk was littered with pages full of text. She began gathering them, reading passages as she did. Wow, Iris smiled as she heard her own words in her head, this is good. She ordered the pages and then glanced around confused. Where was that first page? She dropped down to her knees and searched under the desk but it was nowhere to be found. She flipped through the pages of her manuscript and saw no signs of faded ink. That’s weird, thought Iris. She dropped the stack of papers on the desk and plopped back into her chair. I really need to get outside more.
Iris Beaumont - Writer's Block was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.
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