A Royal

The silence was deafening as I sat before my typewriter. My deadline is in two days and all I have is a non-descriptive title. Why is it so hard to write about a presidential election? All the drama and glitz and glamor that the muse would need and yet nothing goes from my finger tips to the keys to the paper. The only thing that takes my attention away from the blank white piece of paper rolled into the machine is the pile of wadded up white paper where I had unsuccessfully started this five hundred word report. Maybe it's the sudden letdown after months on the campaign trail and now for a couple of months all I have to do is write this stupid report and
relax.

I long for the ding of the carriage return, the tapping of the keys as they hit the paper, the scent of white-out covering the mistakes. I look at my old gray typewriter and wonder how it will look on my desk in the oval office. It should fit in perfectly, after all it is a Royal.