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|Short Story. . . (standard:humor, 1200 words)|
|Author: Charles Reap, Jr.||Added: May 16 2006||Views/Reads: 1971/1100||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
SHORT STORY... By Charles Reap, Jr. Here I sit, quietly. I meditate. I hear the wind sounds from the noisy air conditioner, and yes, there's the slight and occasional drip from that darn thing onto the so-called drip pan. And, as I turn my unshaven face towards the grimy window, I see two silly birds trying to build a nest on the window sill. They make a lot of noise. Actually, they sound happy. I wonder what they are saying to each other in bird-speak. And, who's boss? The darker one? Or the other? I now find myself fronting my computer monitor and its keyboard here on my dusty desk. The small green light on the big gray box stares relentlessly at me. The black keys are winking up at me. . . daring me. . . threatening me. I want to type, but yet, nothing evolves. I hold my trembling fingers over the keyboard, but they don't respond. It's almost as if the keys are saying to me, “Go ahead, dummy. Type something intelligent. What's the matter? Are you dim-witted or something?” Maybe I am. Although, I am not certain those ominous objects are directing their intimidating influence at me. Maybe others have had their turn at this inane keyboard. Maybe these other folks have already used up all the information contained in this black ogre. I wonder if that could be the problem. Maybe the manufacturer would know. However, I don't have the desire to investigate. There is a name printed on the top, the same as the one on the face of the screen staring angrily at me. I wonder if the two silent pieces of machinery are in cahoots with each other. Are they saying to each other, “Let's have some fun with this idiot.” I think. I saw a fantasy movie once where some fellow was somehow absorbed by a computer and it controlled him; made him speed along various undesirable microscopic pathways. I wonder if this machine could do that to me. I hope not. After all, in reality, all I have to do is walk away from the darn thing. However, that might make it mad at me. Maybe I had better try to keep it friendly to me and peck away at something. After all, presumably, I'm here to write some intelligent gibberish. I wonder if it knows what I am writing. Somewhere I heard that bad guys (no, I have to be politically correct—bad people) can send viruses, worms, Trojan horses and the like into your computer and obtain a record for themselves each time you push down on a key. That's not a nice thing, if you ask me. Occasionally, I wish I knew more about this confounded machine. Not always, however. Actually, I suppose I could go somewhere and take a course, but I don't really want to do that. Too much trouble. Does that mean that I am lazy? Maybe so, but at the moment, I don't care. The heel of my right hand caroms off my sweating forehead. However, the jarring only seems to increase my tension and begin a headache. I wonder. . . I wonder if anybody else has used this keyboard. That is to say, was it put through some magical series of trials before it was transferred to the store where I bought it? Was it tested for supreme precision? If so, which keys did they press? All 104 of them? 104? Now that I look down at them, I astutely distinguish that many of them have more than a single use. In addition, even though I don't understand all there is to the inner, tangible workings of a computer keyboard, I have learned over time that if you push specific ones of these dark-side buttons, and then a second one, you can get yet another result. Well, Heaven's to Betsy, I surely don't know how many results a person could have in such an instance. Infinitesimal? Nah, I think not. Surely, there must be a finite number of combinations in there somewhere. I think I'll leave that up to the monkeys. I recall reading somewhere that if you place several million monkeys in front of several million typewriters (remember those?) and left them alone for several million years, they would finally type out some glorious and spellbinding piece of literature. Could that be? No, I think not, because you would have to feed all those “cousins” in order to keep their fingers working. Furthermore, who would feed them? Another million monkeys? Maybe a million or so humans. Then, what would be the purpose of all that folderol? Just to be able to prove it could be accomplished? Seems somewhat pointless to me. I wonder if this magnificent computer keyboard has built-in memory. If so, which button should I push in order to recall any previous messages? Or, which several buttons? Or, would it be the space bar? Or, maybe, just maybe, a defined combination of several keys simultaneously. But, here I am, not a member of the monkey tribe (I don't think so, anyway) and I am finally pounding on these semi-worthless keys. But, am I saying anything worthwhile? Am I composing the latest great American novel? Will this make me independently wealthy? I think not, but what do I know? I ponder. . . will some motion picture producer want to make a Click here to read the rest of this story (26 more lines)
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