Saturday, August 4, 20l8 I saw my dad die today. We were gathering our stuff after our picnic out by the lake. I was packing the car and my dad was washing our dishes in the water when I heard my dad scream. I looked and saw someone in a camouflage outfit and a mask stabbing him in the gut. They twisted the knife, then looked straight up at me. It took me a second to get out of my shock, then I ran towards them. The person started running away, and I was going to chase after him, but dad was in pain and on the ground. The man left the knife in. I tried to apply pressure to the wound and call the emergency line, but by the time they got there it was too late. They pronounced him on the spot. When they asked me what I saw I told them. I think this guy was a professional. I think someone hired an assassin to kill my father. But why? My father was probably the sweetest person I’ve ever known. I don’t think I ever saw him harming anyone. Sure, we disagreed on some stuff, but he was always there for me. He was there when I didn't get the scholarship I needed and when I got a demotion, even though the week before we had a huge fight. He told me I should already have had my life together, moved out, got a real job (dad was never really into my writing career). Then he flipped a hundred eighty degrees when he knew I needed his support. When Evan died, everyone, including mom and sometimes even my bff Milly, treated me like the “mourning girlfriend”. Like I was playing a part, a girl who lost a boy. Not Maggie who just lost Evan. I was heartbroken. Devastated. And I couldn’t get any support because everyone was tiptoeing around me. He wasn’t. He somehow managed to be supportive and compassionate, but still see me as me, not as Evan’s grieving girlfriend. He brought me hot cocoa to my room every evening and we’d sit and talk about everything until I either laughed or cried or both. I can’t believe he’s gone. I walked into his study today to take a look around, and I found this typewriter. I honestly haven’t been in this room in years. I used to play on the carpet here sometimes, but he didn’t really like it. The carpet, like pretty much everything in this room, was an antique of some sort, and he was always afraid I would spill on it. He’s been collecting antiques ever since I could remember. He has so many strange things in this room, most of them were sources of lengthy lectures I got about their origin, purpose, time period and etymology of their names. He always has the biggest smile on his face when he tells me about them. He really loves this collection. Loved. He loved this collection. I need to get used to that. You know what? Maybe just here, I could continue referring to him in the present tense. Just here, I could say that he loves telling me about his latest finds. I think just for a while, it would be ok. I'm not in denial, ok? I know all about the supposed “stages of grief”, though I never really bought into them. This was not at all my experience when Evan died. I’m not repressing anything, I know he's gone. Not that anybody would blame me for not being ready to admit it just a few hours after. I just think, that for now, it would be easier to sometimes pretend like he's still here. You know, every once in a while. And what better place to do this but here? On his favorite typewriter? It is his favorite. He loves it more than any other device he ever found. He got it in a police auction a few years back. It was a mess of a thing, all grease and rust. You could barely tell it ever worked. He spent hours restoring and polishing it, until it was gleaming and functioning like the day it came out of the factory. After that there was not one day he didn't use it. He even bolted it down to the desk. He said that you should do it to make sure it stays level and attuned. I don't know what he'd write, he never showed me. Or maybe I never asked. I'm sure it's here somewhere. I just... I thought writing with it would make me feel closer to him. Like he’s here, commenting about how the typewriter works, telling me how to insert the paper and what key to press to get an apostrophe. And it does, a little. The clicks and clacks of it really do make me feel better. He loves that sound. I love that sound too. I'm sure he'd love to know I'm using this after he died.
I hope you enjoyed this sample. I hope to publish the full novella soon. The comments in the novella, of course, will be written by hand and not using some handwriting font. If you want to read more, or if you just want to talk about the story, please let me know by sending me an email.