The PERIPHERALS. What if computers could talk?

“Right, hit me! I'm ready when you are.”
“Don't you mean, write?”
“Yes, I mean write. But I mean, right, as in let's go. Come on, get going on me! I want to feel you all over the place. I want to be full to dripping. Dripping with the next part of the story that takes me from somewhere like London to Kathmandu. Or from being chained inside a New York sewer, to hanging upside down from an aeroplane that's running out of fuel, and flying over Egypt on auto-pilot with the Captain shot dead. I want your everything, and I want your all.”

“What? Good grief! Look Computer, I know what you want, erm, mean. I'm not daft. But saying things like; I want you’re everything, and I want your all, sounds erm, totally wrong. Apart from that, I can't do anything at all until the author gets back. I’m just a lone keyboard on a personal mission to be typed. Oh, and you're not even supposed to speak either. We must never let the humans know we are alive, and that we can talk, ever!”

“Oh yes. How completely amiss of me considering there are no bloody humans present,” she snapped with sarcasm. “But, I really wish you could, because I’m sick of waiting and the author’s story is just brilliant so far.”

“That's all well and good, but I don’t even know you from Adam. How about some introductions first? I was only brought back down here by the author yesterday. What’s your name? Do you mind if I call you PC? It's better than Computer. Computer’s just a huge mouthful. Oh dear. Now I'm at it with the sexual innuendo. That sounded totally out of context. How about Percy instead? It sounds like PC, and it's a proper name. Maybe it's not PC to call you Percy,” the Keyboard joked.
 

“Pah! I think we should have less of the lame jokes, Keyboard. And no! You are not calling me anything of the kind because I'm not even of that sex. I'm a girl, if you'd actually taken the time to notice.”
  “Oh, really? My sincere apologies.”
“Mmm. I should think so, too, you cheeky input device.”

“I'll have to have a rethink on that, Computer. But you do have a deep voice though.”
“Oh, do shut up. Its computer generated and I can’t do a thing about it. So where is he then?”
“Who?”
“Who the devil, do you think? Are you deaf or something? The author! Where the blazes has he gone?”
“How in the depths of cyber-hell would I know? I'm not his keeper,” he sighed. “The latrine… shopping… off for a drive in his car? Naked, pole-vaulting in Austria? I have absolutely no idea. That’s if he even has a car, or has visited Austria,” he surmised aloud. “How about Polly then, that's a nice name?”
“Polly…? Oh do shut up! I’m not a bloody parrot,” she grumbled. “Your name’s a mouthful too mister Keyboard…? Oh, and while we’re at it, all this pointless chitter-chatter isn't getting the wonderful, thrilling story written down, is it?”

“Sorry, Polly. But that really isn’t my fault.”

“Oh, and while we're at it, mister Keyboard, if you must insist on calling me Polly, then you’re getting named Keith. Keith Lemon, after the lunatic on TV, because you're behaving like a total lemon!”

“Oh do relax miss uptight. Take a chill pill. If you were anymore sharp tongued, I'd have been cut to ribbons.”

“Don’t tell me to relax!” She snapped. “And get used to the fast mouth, because it's who I am. Polly? Pah! I won’t calm down until the author’s back, and the story is in full flow again.”

“You could be waiting a while then,” he added sharply to her very long silence.

 2

“What’s a latrine, anyway?”

“Oh dear! I can see us getting on is going to be an uphill struggle. A multi- function word processor that doesn’t know what a latrine is? You must be set to American English. The bog, loo, toilet. The house of office, the khazi, the dunny.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, you QWERTY know it all.”

“Oh, Gods of technology! How did you get to be so highly strung? What’s wrong with the name, Polly? You can call me anything you like. I really don't mind at all. I won't lose any sleep over it.”

“You get to sleep as well?”

“Of course. I get a much needed rest when his lordship’s had enough of belting his mits all over my keys for the day. And don’t you be at it, Polly. You get to sleep as well. You even get to hibernate.”

“I suppose. So, you don't have any idea where he's gone, or how long he'll be?”

“Nope,” Keith replied, wanting to fold his arms, if he had any. “But there's still half a warm cup of coffee beside me. I'm guessing he’s nipped to the toilet for a quick dump.”

“Charming! Nah, I beg to differ. He'd have taken his coffee him while he dropped his lot. Humans are addicted to coffee. Oh, this is such a shame. I was expecting to be somewhere in the story even more exotic by now. Monte Carlo or the Hanging Garden of Babylon. You know, places like that where the hero of the story can strut his stuff, just like that James Bend fellow.”

“It’s Hanging Gardens, not Garden, and Bond not Bend, and no, I'm afraid I don't know where the heavy-handed, tortured soul is. I'm just a bargain keyboard he bought last minute.com, when his super silent D6 bevelled edge with its felt base packed up. I'm a black-key-basic, with no frills. I don't have the luxury of a thousand-fold memory capacity like you. You get to have it all, you ungrateful soul. He doesn't manipulate pictures on me or download anything and everything. You get all those frills and fancies because you’re his favourite mainframe and the epicentre of his writing world. That’s why he looks after you so well. Keeps you clean with antivirus programs and stuff like that. I’m just a piece of plastic temporary nothingness. All I've had since I arrived in his world is to get pummelled to distraction by his fat fingers, day after day. Which isn't anything to get excited about at all? You get to see everything too. I'm flat as a fluke, blind and finger filthy. You get to see everything in countless resolutions. All I get is endless rat-a-tat a tat and expletives, with occasional, angry thumps. If I was human, I’d be covered in bruises from CTRL key to NUM LOCK.”

“Aw, what a damn shame. Listen to you crying your little heart out.”

“I don’t have one of those either,” he saddened.

“OMG! You know, you’ve almost got me crying for you.”

“So, you should.”

“Like hell I should! Anyway, mister cry-baby, I guess I should be thankful for small mercies. At least you're talking to me. I'm even glad that other keyboard bit the dust. Is the author getting the snobby bastard repaired?”

“Snobby?”

“Yes, arrogant, ignorant idiot that he was.”

“Ooh. Well I have no idea if it’s getting fixed. I certainly hope not. All the authors incessant typing is a pain in the space bar, but it sure beats being wrapped up in plastic, half choking to death and doing nothing at all.”

“Wrapped in plastic?”

“Yes. I was stuck in that computer utilities warehouse for years.”

“Never?”

“I kid you not.”

“What happened to stock rotation, Keith?”

“Stock rotation is all well and good, but not when you've been pushed off the back of a shelf by a forklift driven by some wet-behind-the-ears teenager, who has absolutely no feeling for anything in the world but his spotty self and his forever blooming acne.”

“Wow. Sounds like you have had it hard.”

“You bet your RAM I have. I was lodged between the steel racking and the warehouse wall for the longest time. Being multiply finger throttled daily by mister angst is heaven in comparison.”

“I bet.”

“Why is the other keyboard a snob, anyway?”

“I just told you. He was an ignorant ass, a big head and a poser.”

“I bet you fancied him, with his multi-functions, felt base and big internet buttons.”

“Like hell I did. Don’t be disgusting, Keith. Yuck!”

“I couldn't be a snob, if I tried. I’m halfway below bog standard and nothing more. I could swear my E key is on its last legs with mister fat fingers. He can't half whack em you know.”

“Mmm. Well if it makes you feel any better, I've had a terrible time of it recently.”

“Really, how so?”

........................................End of Excerpt....................................