Ohlone College
Creative Writing Stories

Page 2
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Honestly, who needs them? I've got another idea, why not lose the whole formal deal and structure while we're at it.

You mean indents and periods and the such? That'll be utter chaos.

That's the idea.

So there was utter chaos for a time.

yeah okay sure sure yeah sure right then yeah sure yeah sure right oh sure who what who is what what is what who me you who is who let's stop there.

Okay.

Well that was confusing.

I suppose a bit of order would be good.

Maybe we should reconcile our differences with our good friend
the "".

And so it was. And we continued striking at our typewriters in that room full of others whom struck at their keys with equal vigor. There was silence for a time between us, and I decided eventually now that the condom had breached, to continue our exchange. So I asked him a question, about history--excuse me: hissstory: his-story: his story.

            "I'm continuing our conversation from when it left off."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Well, I have this disorder, you see. I can't doublethink. That is, I can't hold a conversation in tandem with thinking up and writing a story. My fingers are wired directly to my thoughts, which is directly linked to my mouth and ears."

So he smiled, then looked away, looked very hard as his fingers flowed over the typewriter. Then he stopped, looked back over at me, and smiled.

             "So, what did you write about?"

            "A boy who's shopping for happiness at a grocery store called Nost-Algia."

            "Hey, stop that. You're writing down my story."

            "Sorry, I can't help myself."

            "Oh yeah, I forgot."



           "So, continue."  

           "So, as he browses through the store, he finds various items that make him recall past memories (emotions). A jar of pickles makes him feel cold and wet. A can of beans make him feel gaseous and uncertain. And so on."

           "So does he find it?"

            "Find what?"

            "Happiness."

            "Well, I don't know. Let me think about it. Thinking: thinking: almost done. Yes. He finds it. In a jar of peanut butter."

            "Peanut..."

            "Yeah. Good stuff, peanut butter. Too bad you can't get it anymore."

            "Awful that."

Ding. So the bell signaled the end. The clickity-clack of several dozen typewriters deceased, and suddenly the room was full of sighing, sweating typists.

            "Maybe we should talk only so often. I can't have you stealing all my stories."

So we agreed, and we took a break. The duration was about three cigarettes worth; then it was back to work.

The bell sounded. Typewriters roared to life.