It's 1925, downtown Detroit. A young man, named John Finch, was an avid reader and a talented writer. On October 3, of that year, it was warm and pleasant. Sitting on a park bench he began to scratch away on his note pad. This park always seemed to inspire his best work.
In the park, he saw two boys a long way off with sticks re-enacting a vicious duel. Ah! John's mind was already filling in blanks with vibrant color. He saw knights fighting for their king. Then the boys ran off to continue their play, for they got bored clashing sticks together. Again John was scratching away in his note pad about his newly received inspiration. Some time later, a young lady about John's age walked by. She had her hair curled, her lips were colored in the brightest red one can imagine, and her dress and shoes matched her lips. She was very attractive indeed and again John went to scratching away, for the park continued to give him fantastic inspiration.
In John's mind, the young woman became a fair maiden and the knights were given a trial by combat where he last one standing won the kings favor and his daughters hand. Yes, John's mind needed little to provoke his imagination. Then page after page he saw a story emerging.
Later that night, John sat down at his beloved typewriter, under the warm yellow glow of the light in the room. There he sat, typewriter in front, a smoldering cigarette and ash tray to his right, a glass of sweet brandy to his left, and his notes standing up on the desk against the wall. His fair maiden was meek and humble, her father a valiant king. What joy John gained creating worlds of his very own. The worlds that he made became alive to him as if it was happening right before his very eyes. John was pleased with his knights.
One was soft hearted and of good moral standing who deeply loved the princess, while the other was consumed with the greed of promised power. A promise of a strong kingdom and army at his beckoning call. The names of these knights were Sir Edmund and Sir William. Sir Edmund was the “good” knight and Sir William was the knight consumed with greed. The name of the princess was undecided by John. He was stuck.
John looked at the clock and saw the time, 1:37 A.M.. Knowing he needed to be to work in the morning he decided to sleep on his problem. So, he left the story at this point an went to bed.
Meanwhile, Sir Edmund was just sitting down to write a diary entry about his beloved princess, and the events of the day.
In the middle of the night, John was awakened by a familiar noise, his typewriter tapping along as if he was still writing. Getting up, he turned on the light to see what was going on but, he saw everything was just as he left it. The cigarette butt was in the ash tray, the empty glass was next to the typewriter, and his notes were leaning against the wall. Not seeing anything out of place he went back to bed.
In the morning, he went about his regular routing of getting ready for work. Breakfast, clean-up, shave, get dressed. As he went to put on his hat and overcoat, he looked back at his typewriter and read the last few paragraphs. Those last few paragraphs were Sir Edmund's diary entry. Although John had not remembered writing it, he was pleased with the entry. He figured the glass of brandy and his tiredness clouded his memory of actually writing the last half page. So, he took out the page and put in a fresh page for when he got home. Then he left for work.
Now, work was not John's favorite thing. He worked for an automobile company and was on the assembly line. For 8 hours everyday, he checked ad marked the inside of the door panel. When the line slowed, which happened several times a day, he would write a short poem on the door panel before fastening it to the car. This made the days go by faster....sometimes.
After work, John liked to stop by his favorite bakery and see what day-olds they had. Today, they had some loaves of panty bread for half price. So, he bought the loaves remembering he had some deli meat, in the icebox, back at the apartment.
Upon returning home, he took off his hat and light tweed coat and hung them on the hooks near the door. Then he went to the kitchen and sliced the bread, pulled out the deli meat, the nearly empty jar of mustard and made two sandwiches for himself. John sat down at his small dining table and began to eat his dinner. While he was eating, he was thinking where he should go with his new story. He finished his meal and washed his plate and knife. He poured himself a glass of brandy and lighting a cigarette, as he always did, he sat down to write.
After a while, John stood up to stretch. He lit another cigarette and stood out on his balcony just as the sun was going down. When his cigarette finally burned out he went back into the building. When he stepped in the door he heard his typewriter clicking away as if he was sitting there typing. As he walked up to the typewriter, he saw the keys bobbing up and down. It was writing on its own. He sat in front of the typewriter and read as it printed:
June 12, year of our lord 1439 “I question my choice to duel Sir William. Yet, I know in my heart this trial by combat is the only way to settle our dispute. We are a dying breed, being replaced by armies armed with cannons and matchlocks. I must not die during my trial for...”
John intervened, and took control of the typewriter and typed, “YOU WILL NOT DIE. You win and stand victorious in the end. Your order of knights will be great once again.” Now, Sir Edmund was greatly frightened and knew not what to do. His page suddenly lit up and words appeared in gold. This frightening sight before Sir Edmund was surely witchcraft or magic at the very least. He hadn't a clue what was happening.
Not knowing what was happening, Sir Edmund reluctantly questioned this act and wrote, “Who are you?” John wrote, “I am a story writer. Your are my character Sir Edmund. I know you must duel Sir William for your beloved princess and kingdom.” After some time going back and forth, Sir Edmund looked up from his pages because of a knock on the door and went to open it. The knocker was a close friend that Sir Edmund trusted. Sir Edmund told his friend a secret, the paper and the supposed creator.
John was amazed at what he saw. His stories really did come alive. Not wanting to tamper with the page or the typewriter, he simply went to bed. The next morning, John was very drowsy and did not wake up at his usual time.
By the time he sat up in bed, and was able to open his eyes, what he saw scared him beyond compare. He was not in his apartment back home. He jumped out of his bed and ran to the window.
There were no cars, only horses and buggies bustling about the streets. He recognized the streets but the buildings were different. There were trees everywhere. He went over to his desk. There was a typewriter there, but it wasn't his.
Looking at the page in the typewriter, he saw everything he had left there, except a few new lines which stated, “There is a man of the future who knows my fate. I can only begin to imagine what his life is like. He may live in a far off land yet to be discovered by men of my time. A land with cities of great size.” It was at that moment John realized his life was now confined to the imagination of Sir Edmund. John frantically tried to reach Sir Edmund through the typewriter. There was no response. John decided to try and ease his mind by going out and finding what year it was.
His clothes were where he left them except they were not what he left there. But they fit him so he got dressed and went out from the small house. John decided to see if there were any restaurants or stores, where he could make small talk.
He first came across a bank and realizing he had no money he figured he would see if he had an account. Going into the bank, he went up to the teller, who was a red-headed man with a thick Irish accent. He gave him his name and asked how much might be in the account. To John's surprise, there was actually $20 dollars in the bank, so John took it all out. Then he asked the teller what the date was ad the teller said, “It be Octoer fuhf ser.” “What year?” asked John. “If y' don't knew wot year it be, uh'd suggest ye be off tuh see a docter. It's eighteen furty two.”Thanking the teller, John went off to find something to eat.
After he found a restaurant and was satisfied, John went home to see if Sir Edmund had responded to his urgent message. Seeing that he didn't, John tried to think of another way to make things right again. He decided if he destroyed the story he could go back home, and end this horrible dream. He heard the typewriter start clicking again. Immediately, he pulled out the page from the typewriter and began tearing it to shreds as he did with all the pages.
Then like a tornado, a wind picked up within he room and the pages flew around, and with a blinding flash of light, the front door flung open. There, for a moment, John saw Sir Edmund sitting at a table dimly lit by a single candle. Then his sight became increasingly foggy until it went black.
Some time later, John's landlord came up to his apartment to collect rent. The landlord knocked once one the door and it squeaked open. He found John on the floor dead. His apartment looked as if it was ransacked. After calling a doctor, John was pronounced dead at the scene. The doctor stated the cause of death was mental shock.
Two worlds died that day never to be seen again. Whether the man was mad, or truly found new worlds, we shall never know. His work was grand, yet, under appreciated. It was all lost October 7, 1925.