Typewritten

The beautiful click of my typewriter sings out the story I inscribe, and those who listen closely need not even read the final work. This typewriter is unique, disturbingly unique. When it was the possession of the Rabid Witchlings they did something to it. No one knows how or why, but it was one of there greatest spells. The clans declared a truce for a day to conduct the spell together. It was the first time in four centuries the Rabid, the Deranged, and the Pustular gathered in peace, and it marked a terrible day for the enemies of the Witchlings. Everyone thought that unity had come amongst the clans and that the rest of the Dirving was doomed. But then we heard that all they had produced was this typewriter and that afterward a battle broke out over its possession so fierce that the Pustuler were almost annihilated and the Deranged and Rabid both took heavy losses. Eventually the Rabid got hold of it but all three clans were so depleted it was quiet in Dirving for almost a year.
But then strange things started happening. Grotesque creatures that stretched imagination began stalking the countryside, loud cries were heard from the sky, though there was nothing to be seen, and the ground rumbled underfoot as though something was passing through the earth. After the people got over the first terror they realized these things would never attack them, but still no one got close if they could help it. We found later that these were merely the witchlings fiddling with their new toy.
Only a twisted brain and a torpid imagination could discern why the witchlings gave this enchantment on a typewriter, but this is what they did and now I sit here typing on it, the white letters gleaming up at me from the black circle keys.
A group of us determined to visit the hermitsage in Flintockk mountains. We hoped he could tell us something of the strange spell. He took out a knife and slit his palm, causing us to gasp. Then he clapped his hands together terribly hard five times and then looked at the pattern of blood across his hands.
"It is a curse most powerful," he whispered. "It took the energy of thousands of witchlings to complete."
"We know that already, sage."
"Ah, but you do not know what it does do you. It is an illusion spell. Everything that is written upon its paper appears real."
"That is all," one of us said. "The witchlings united their strength just for an illusion machine. With that much power they could have created a spell to turn the world inside out."
The sage looked hard at us, "Ah, but what would they want with an inside out world. No, I think they would use this to intimidate all life into being their slaves."
"How can we destroy it?" I asked.
The hermitsage did not speak but went to a huge bowl filled with water. He plunged his hand in and the blood swirled and floated like red smoke. For two hours the sage stared at the water even after the blood had mixed so with the water you could not see it.
"If someone wrote upon this machine, the story of its conception, and then entered something else as though it was to be an illusion. The illusion would be true and then the machine would be destroyed."
"Why?" asked someone, after a pause. "That sounds silly to me."
"I do not know for sure, but the witchlings may have made it so in case we did not intimidate as easily and they wanted to, as you say, turn the world inside out before they died. This is what the took them so long to create the day of the truce."
There was a deadly silence while everyone waited for someone else to volunteer. Finally I spoke, "Alright you cowards, I will steal the blasted thing. But I'm going to need some help."
The cannons have started. I will try to write faster but it is hard to know all that I must write for this to work. The walls of this city will stand against the witchlings for some time, and we have a goodly supply of spellcasters ourselves. There is time yet, but I must hurry.
After being supplied with a cape of invisibility and a diminish bag I set off. I think I do not need to put the details of my journey down now and I must rush. They must wait and become a fireside tale. I managed to reach the room where it was kept and I slipped it into the diminish bag, for a typewriter is bulky and I could not move quickly with one in my arms. After folding up the bag and slipping it in my pocket I made my escape. Again the details must wait for the fireside, but I made it to the city in which I am now frantically typing this story. I was put up in a high tower to write and I pulled out the diminish bag, unfolded it and lifted out the typewriter.
Now that my tale is done all that is left is to destroy the witchlings. I do not know how I should word this but here goes. Lightening fell out of the sky and struck the witchling horde until they were no more.
It is now several minutes later and I must try again. After writing the violent death for the witchlings I went to the window to watch. Lightening fell upon the clans but after their initial shock, all realized it was just an illusion. The cannons are still booming and I must attempt it again. I'll try present tense. Lightening falls out of the sky and strikes the witchling horde until they are no more.
It is the same. Nothing happened. I'll try future tense. Lightening will fall out of the
sky and strike the witchling horde until they will be no more.

Text Omitted

I am sorry, but I think that you do not have the wish to read all the variations and different threats that I typed, but nothing worked. No matter what I wrote the cannons continued their merry tolls and the typewriter just clicked as I hit the keys. Finally I gave up hope and lay on the floor in despair. The cannons ceased and I knew what that meant, the witchlings had breached the walls. I heard footsteps pounding toward me and I rose, preparing to take one or two with me when I died. But when the door opened It was a messenger.
"We have won," he cried. "We have put off the witchlings in open battle and even now they are near extermination." He tore off again eager to carry the news to the rest of everybody.
I sat down at the typewriter and stared at it, my feeble brain trying to think. Then I thought of that hermitsage staring for hours into that bowl.
"The sneaky devil," I said aloud. "He must have seen this, not that hogwash about the typewriter self destructing." Then I wrote this last bit that you have just read. And now, when I put the final period on the end of my sentence and take the paper from the machine, I will take an axe and lay waste to the witchlings greatest spell.