The Year's 1943: A Short Story

The year is 1943. Situated in my little corner, I lie in wait, wondering if I will ever be cherished again. Times of long ago come to my mind, when every day, Michelle would come and sit at her little desk and type away. Such blissful times they were, when she would stride through that creaky, rustic door with a grin so cheerful, that it would light the whole room. Pulling back the chair, she would sit down and write optimistic tales. She would compose stories of princes and princesses and happily ever afters. Stories of daddies coming home from the war and being reunited with their families.
However, along with the joyful times, there were also dreary times. Times when Michelle would walk through that door with a shadowy cloud looming over her head of golden hair. When she was blue, she would tell me about all her woes, through the torrents of tears, she would write it all down, and she would feel better. She would confide in me with what she felt she couldn’t tell anyone else, and she found comfort in that. The worst, though, was when she would burst in fuming mad. Most of the time, she was exceptional at controlling her temper, in fact it took a great deal to madden her, but when she did get mad, she was
The frequent visits started to diminish until eventually, I never saw her anymore. Maybe she lost inspiration or was given some new gadget to play with. If only it would have ended differently, though. If she had wrapped me up and put me away, stuck me under a bed, I would feel a sense of closure. I wouldn't keep expecting her to walk through that door again. On the contrary, though, I was left here, sitting on her desk, and, like I said, I keep expecting, that one day, she will walk through that door again, with a vast smile on her face, ready to start a new chapter. Now I’m just an aged, forgotten typewriter, sitting in the corner, and I'm still