Shelly was wrong. The winter was indefinite, the snowy floors were infinite. The initial welcome had soared to an indifferent cry for spring. The flowers were white, yet the trees were blank, but several rooms at Pete and Duke Inn emitted the stepping sound of typewriters, making sure the minds of people were never empty. Every week, a group of young lads would climb the third floor of the gloriously tired inn to deliver loads of white paper. Their sweaty smiles were never reciprocated but rewarded with serious glances and silent exchange of money. They were no conflicts, there were no debates on the quality of paper, but lads felt their buyers had a magnetic or rather intoxicating urge to resume their handicraft on the typewriter, to make sure the white paper would never be white again. It would contain the deepest thoughts of men and women,which would wreak havoc among the thoughless schemers of civilisation.The lads were often plunged into deep thoughts questioning the sheer meaninglessness of their living and would be feeed only when life knocks on their mind with matters of survival.
Until then,the young lads on the door would straighten up their hips, pull up their body on their heels to see the miracle that has been an off putting joke among themselves – the working of a writer’s mind. The meek bodies of writers were not strong enough to stop these lads, but the dry eyes and twisted posture was enough to stop the lads from spinning their attention to the interiors of the enchanted room.
On any such day, a lad just delivered a stack of paper and curiously climbed down the ladder. As with every hour of every day, a maid was cleaning the 2nd floor. The lad asked the maid – ‘ Excuse me, Do they eat madame? Do they speak like us? Do they hate us?’
The maid replied with a coy smile dripping off her lips ‘They do all sort of things boy. They are creatures far above us, or the very least they seem to think so’ He was astonished, but the skeptic inside him asked her again ‘Madame, forgive the arrogance of mine. How are you so sure?’ The maid continued ‘I am a maid boy, I am the maid.’ She walked past the lad in calmness and hallway was silent again except for the sound of thoughts on typewriters.
The boy waited there, and then he began to listen to the sound of typewriters. He closed his eyes and stood their thinking about the spring of his life in rhythm with the typewriter. Once or twice, he had seen the magic machine, one that would emit sound and reflect words on paper. He began to jog his memory and began to trace sound with words. He stormed his intelligence to trace the symbol from its words. The solitary yet strong spirited lad stood there without any sense of time and space. The other lads pulled him out of the state he was meddling his mind with. While he moved away from the inn, he felt a anomalous pull from the deep corners of his mind to get absorbed into melancholy of the 3rd floor. Yet he knew he was in streets now.