THE BITTER TYPEWRITER

Milo Rydell had always believed in the power of words and his unparalleled talent for misusing them.

So, when the ancient typewriter arrived on his doorstep, wrapped in paper that looked suspiciously like a foreclosure notice, he thought, Finally, the universe recognizes my genius. Sure, it smelled like moldy books and bad decisions, but who cared? Great art often started with questionable origins. He signed for the package without hesitation, ignoring the delivery man's muttered warning:

"Return policy's a bit... complicated."

Milo didn't bother to ask what that meant. He was too busy imagining the headlines. Local Literary Genius Discovers Ancient Artifact. Writes Masterpiece. Changes World.

He lugged the beast of a typewriter into his apartment, grunting as he shoulder-opened the door. His neighbor, Mrs. Quigley, watched him from across the hall, her disapproving glare as sharp as the knives she probably used to fillet the spirits of hopeful creatives.

"You bought another piece of junk?" she sniffed. "Did the pawn shop finally run out of Elvis clocks?"

"It's called investing in my future, Mrs. Quigley," Milo said. "You should try it sometime."

"Hmph. The only future you're investing in is mine - when I sell this dump to a quieter tenant."

"Lovely chat, as always," Milo muttered, slamming the door shut with his foot.

Inside, he cleared a space on his desk, shoving aside unpaid bills, half-empty coffee mugs, and a stack of rejection letters with phrases like "not what we're looking for" and "please stop submitting." This, he decided, was his moment. His comeback.

The typewriter gleamed under the flickering light of his desk lamp. Its keys, oddly pristine for something that probably predated the invention of sarcasm, seemed to beckon him. He ran a finger over the metallic frame, noting the faint inscription near the roller:

"Write wisely."

"Cheesy," he muttered, but he was already pulling a sheet of paper from the drawer. He fed it into the roller with the reverence of a knight unsheathing a sword.

"Alright," he said, clenching his knuckles like he was ready for combat. "Let's make history."

The first key clicked with satisfying resistance. He typed:

"The greatest critic in the world was about to die, and he didn't even know it."

The typewriter dinged, and Milo grinned. It was perfect - ominous, intriguing, and self-aware enough to catch an editor's eye.

Then, to his utter shock, the typewriter spoke.

"Well, that's presumptuous," it said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "What makes you think you're the greatest critic? You couldn't spell 'relevance' without autocorrect."

Milo froze. His fingers hovered over the keys like they'd been caught mid-crime. He gazed at the typewriter, which, defying common sense, was looking back.

"Did you just...?"

"Yes, I spoke," the typewriter interrupted. "Shocking, isn't it? Words, they're kind of my thing. You, however? The verdict is still pending.

Milo blinked. His first instinct was to assume he'd lost his mind. His second was to argue.

"You can't talk."

"Oh, brilliant deduction. Care to type something useful next? Or is this your magnum opus - denial in prose?"

Milo leaned in, peering at the typewriter like it might suddenly grow legs. "What are you?"

"I'm a typewriter. You're a hack. Any other obvious questions, or shall we skip to the existential crisis?"

Milo leaned back in his chair, torn between terror and indignation. This thing was mocking him. It dared to criticize his work, and it wasn't even human.

"Okay, let's say I believe you," he said slowly. "What's your deal? Haunted? Cursed? Or just bad at customer service?"

The typewriter gave a mechanical sigh. "If I had a ribbon for every time someone asked me that, I'd be a fax machine by now. Let's just say I grant wishes. Sort of. But I don't work for free."

"Wishes?" Milo perked up. This was interesting. Maybe even inspiring. "You mean like… genie-style?"

"Sure. If genies charged interest and had a wicked sense of irony."

With his ambition outpacing his common sense, Milo rubbed his chin. "So, if I wished to write the greatest novel of all time..."

"...you'd probably end up in a lawsuit with Shakespeare's ghost," the typewriter cut in. "Look, kid, I don't do guarantees. Do you want brilliance? Earn it. I'm just here to make sure the price gets paid."

Milo frowned. "What price?"

The typewriter's keys clicked on their own, spelling out a single word:

"Consequences."

Milo stared at the word "Consequences" on the paper, his mind spinning faster than Mrs. Quigley's rumors about his rent payments.

"Okay," he said finally. "What kind of consequences are we talking about here? Like, miss-a-deadline-get-a-nasty-email consequences? Or sell-my-soul-to-the-devil consequences?"

The typewriter clicked once. Its carriage shifted, resetting with a sinister precision.

"Depends," it said, voice cool as ink. "How good are you at reading the fine print?"

Milo reached for the manual with it, but the box was empty, aside from a crumpled receipt. He smoothed it out:

'No returns, no refunds. Management is not responsible for physical, emotional, or existential damage.'

"Classic lawyer nonsense," he muttered, tossing it aside.

"Cute," said the typewriter. "Shall we move on, or do you need a tutorial?"

"I don't need tutorials," Milo snapped, glaring at the machine. "I've written three unpublished novels. I know how words work."

"Oh, I bet you do," it replied. "Let me guess. 'A misunderstood genius battles inner demons while navigating an unfair world.' Was I close?"

"First of all, it's called narrative depth. Second, you don't even know me."

"I don't need to. You're exactly like every other fool who sat in that chair, convinced they were one good idea away from greatness."

The words stung, partly because Milo was one good idea away from greatness - or so he told himself every night. Still, he refused to let a glorified office supply belittle him.

"Fine," he said, crossing his arms. "If you're so clever, what should I write?"

The typewriter didn't respond immediately. Then its keys began to move, punching out words with a rhythm that felt both deliberate and foreboding.

"Write your wish."

Milo frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," the typewriter said, "stop wasting my time and tell me what you want. A bestseller? A Pulitzer? Maybe just enough royalties to cover your coffee addiction?"

"I don't have a coffee addiction."

"Sure, you don't. And I'm just a regular typewriter."

Milo narrowed his eyes. The typewriter had a point - he was on his fifth cup today but wasn't about to admit it. Instead, he focused on the promise dangling before him.

He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, sliding it into the roller with newfound determination.

"Alright," he said, his fingers hovering over the keys. "Let's test this out."

The typewriter chuckled - a low, metallic sound that chilled Milo's spine.

"Careful, kid," it said. "Wishes have a way of getting messy."

Milo flexed his fingers like a concert pianist preparing for an unforgettable performance. His mind raced through possibilities. Fame? Fortune? Critical acclaim?

"Alright," he muttered. "I'm keeping it simple. Nothing crazy."

The typewriter made a faint click-click noise like it was tapping its nonexistent foot.

"You're stalling," it said.

Milo ignored the jab, staring at the blank page before him. Finally, he began to type, each letter landing with deliberate force:

"I wish to write the greatest novel ever written."

The typewriter dinged. The paper glowed faintly, the letters shimmering like liquid gold.

Milo held his breath momentarily, waiting for inspiration to strike. He envisioned himself possessed by genius, his fingers dancing across the keys as brilliance poured out.

Instead, the typewriter let out a long, wheezing groan.

"Wow," it said. "Groundbreaking. Truly revolutionary."

"What?" Milo frowned. "What's wrong with it?"

"The greatest novel ever written. That's your wish?”

"It's a perfectly reasonable wish!"

"It's lazy, is what it is. But hey, your funeral."

The typewriter's keys began to move independently, clacking out words with eerie precision. Milo watched, transfixed, as a new paragraph formed on the page:

"Congratulations! Your wish has been granted. Prepare to be immortalized. P.S. Refunds are not available."

Before Milo could respond, the typewriter emitted a sharp ding! The paper shot out of the roller, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird. He bent down to pick it up, finding the page completely blank.

He held it up to the light and exclaimed, "What the hell?"

"Patience, kid," the typewriter replied. "Greatness takes time."

Milo's phone buzzed on the desk. He grabbed it, expecting a notification from one of the dozen literary agents he'd emailed last week. Instead, it was a news alert:

"BREAKING: Lost Novel by Literary Legend Unearthed."

As he read the article, his heart raced. A dusty old manuscript, long believed destroyed, had mysteriously surfaced at an auction house. Experts were already hailing it as a masterpiece—an unparalleled work of genius.

"But... I didn't write that," Milo said, looking at the typewriter.

"You didn't specify how your wish would come true," it said smugly. "You wanted the greatest novel? Voilà. It exists. You're welcome."

Milo's jaw dropped. "This isn't what I meant! I wanted my novel to be the greatest!"

The typewriter's keys clicked in what sounded suspiciously like laughter.

"Details, details. You humans are always so vague. Next time, try being specific."

Milo's face flushed with anger. He grabbed another sheet of paper, slamming it into the typewriter.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "Let's try this again."

He typed furiously:

"I wish to write a novel that makes me rich and famous."

The typewriter hummed, its keys moving with unnerving speed. Another sheet of paper emerged, this one bearing a single line:

"Granted. Enjoy your fortune."

Milo didn't even have time to argue before his phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't an article but an email from a publisher.

"Dear Mr. Milo, Congratulations! Your submission has been accepted for publication. We're thrilled to offer you a $2 million advance for your novel, 'The Goldfish Who Cried Shark.'"

Milo blinked. "The Goldfish Who Cried Shark? I didn't write that!"

"Not yet," the typewriter chimed in. "But don't worry - you will. I've already scheduled the deadline."

"What do you mean scheduled?"

A calendar notification popped up on his phone:

"Manuscript Due: 24 Hours."

"Are you kidding me?" Milo shouted. "How am I supposed to write a novel in a day?"

"Not my problem," the typewriter chirped. "Better get cracking. The time is rapidly approaching."

Milo stared at the blank page, panic clawing at his chest. He'd wished for fame and fortune, and now he had them - along with an impossible deadline and a title so ridiculous it made him physically ill.

Taking a deep breath, he gripped the typewriter tightly as if it could grow legs and fled.

"You've ruined my life," he muttered.

"Don't be dramatic," it replied. "I've given you exactly what you asked for."

Milo groaned, slumping back in his chair. He could already feel the consequences creeping in. And the typewriter just sat there, humming contentedly, waiting for him to make his next mistake.

Milo stared at the blank page, sweat pooling in the hollow of his back. The title The Goldfish Who Cried Shark glared back at him from his phone screen, mocking him with its absurdity.

"Okay," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Think like a goldfish."

"That's your big plan?" The typewriter said, its voice dripping with condescension. "Channel your inner aquarium enthusiast?"

Milo glared at the machine. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Watching you squirm is endlessly entertaining."

"Fantastic," Milo grumbled. "Now shut up so I can work."

Milo started typing.

"Once upon a time, in the vast blue depths of the ocean, there lived a humble goldfish named..."

He stopped, tapping his chin. A name. It needed to be memorable - something that would leap off the page.

"Greg," he said aloud. "No, wait. Maurice. No… Kevin. Kevin's good."

"Kevin?" the typewriter said. "A goldfish named Kevin. Groundbreaking."

"It's relatable!" Milo snapped.

"To whom? Suburban dads?"

He groaned and erased the sentence, starting over.

"Once upon a time, in the vast blue depths of the ocean, there lived a humble goldfish named Max."

"That's worse," the typewriter said.

Despite the temptation to abandon the typewriter, Milo continued to type.

"Max, an ordinary goldfish, had an extraordinary dream: to be feared like a shark."

"Let me guess," the typewriter cut in. "He spreads false shark rumors; chaos ensues, and the moral of the story is, 'Don't lie or everyone will hate you.'"

Milo froze. That was the story. He pushed back from the desk, pacing the room. His deadline loomed like a predator, and the typewriter wasn't helping.

"Alright," he said, stopping mid-stride. "If you're so smart, why don't you write it?"

The typewriter let out a mechanical sigh. "I'd love to, but I'm a bit... limited."

"Limited how?"

"Let's just say I can't create from scratch. I need a spark. A muse. Someone with just enough ambition and recklessness to make it interesting."

Milo glared at the machine. "You mean someone stupid enough to make a wish?"

"Now you're catching on."

He sank back into his chair, defeated.

"Fine," he said. "Help me brainstorm."

The typewriter hummed thoughtfully.

"Alright. What if Max the goldfish is a shark - but he doesn't know it? He's been gaslighting himself his whole life."

"That's ridiculous."

"Or," it continued, "he's not a shark but cursed. Every time he cries 'shark,' one appears. Chaos ensues. Real page-turner material."

Milo paused. "That's… not terrible."

"Obviously," the typewriter said smugly. "Now, let's add a tragic backstory. Maybe Max lost his family in a... tuna net incident. Classic trauma. Very marketable."

Milo sighed, rubbing his temples. "This is insane."

"And yet, here you are. Shall we continue?"

Milo stared at the blank page, feeling the weight of the impossible deadline pressing down on him. Chaos may be the only way forward.

"Fine," he said, placing his hands on the keys. "But if this flops, I'm blaming you."

"You're welcome to try," the typewriter said. "But trust me, kid - failure is your natural state. I'm just here to make it entertaining."

By the time Milo hit page three, he had realized two things.

First, writing under pressure was like threading a needle during an earthquake; second, the typewriter sabotaged him.

"Did you seriously just erase that paragraph?" he shouted, jabbing a finger at the machine.

"It was garbage," the typewriter said without remorse. "You're welcome."

"It wasn't garbage! It was a pivotal character moment!"

"Oh, you mean the part where Kevin - I mean, Max - pondered the unknowable depths of his goldfish soul?”

Milo groaned and collapsed back into his chair. The clock on his wall ticked mercilessly, each second carving away at his dwindling deadline.

"Fine," he said. "If you're so invested in this story, what do you suggest?"

The typewriter's keys began to clack rhythmically as if warming up for a performance.

"Let's make Max a tragic antihero," it said. "A goldfish consumed by his delusions of grandeur. He's convinced he's destined for greatness, but every time he cries 'shark,' chaos ensues, and he's forced to reckon with the destruction he's caused."

Milo frowned. "So... you want me to write a goldfish version of Macbeth?"

"Exactly. Call it Fishbeth."

"I'm not calling it Fishbeth."

"Fine, The Goldfish Who Ruined Everything. That's more your speed."

Milo rubbed his temples, wondering if getting a migraine from sheer frustration was possible.

"Alright," he said finally. "Let's try this your way."

He started typing, his fingers flying across the keys as the typewriter hummed approvingly. For the first time all night, the words flowed effortlessly:

"Max the goldfish had always believed he was different. Special. He was destined for something more significant than the plastic castle in his tank. But greatness, he would soon learn, comes at a price. "

The story began to take shape, darker and more absurd than anything Milo had ever written. Max's cries of "shark" summoned real predators, terrorizing his underwater community. The other fish turned against him, branding him a traitor. Alone and desperate, Max vowed to prove his worth - only to discover that the true enemy had been lurking in the shadows all along.

"Not bad," the typewriter said as Milo hit the halfway mark. "Dare I say, almost competent."

"Thanks," he muttered, too tired to argue.

The clock struck midnight. Milo leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow. The manuscript was finished - a ridiculous, chaotic, shark-filled epic that defied all logic.

"Done," he said, holding up the final page. "What now?"

The typewriter chuckled, emitting a low, mechanical sound that raised the hairs on his neck.

"Now," it said, "we'll see if you can handle the consequences."

Before Milo could respond, his phone buzzed. It was the publisher - again.

"Congratulations, Mr. Milo! Early reviews are in, calling your novel a modern masterpiece. Expect widespread coverage tomorrow!"

Milo blinked, stunned. "That… that was fast."

"Speed is a perk of the supernatural," the typewriter said.

For a moment, Milo felt a surge of pride. He'd done it. He'd written a bestseller.

Then, the second email came through.

"URGENT: Animal Rights Groups Protest 'Harmful Stereotypes' in Bestselling Novel. Social Media Backlash is Growing."

His stomach dropped.

"What the hell is this?" he said, scrolling through the dozens of angry tweets.

"I simply gave you the tools. You wrote a story about fish-on-fish violence," the typewriter chirped.

Milo groaned, his moment of triumph crumbling around him. The typewriter, meanwhile, clicked contentedly as if enjoying the chaos it had wrought.

"Cheer up, kid," it said. "You wanted fame, and now you've got it. You're trending worldwide!"

"This isn't fame - it's a disaster!"

The typewriter's keys clacked out a single word:

"Exactly."