This week type reigns supreme or at least staves off starvation. Temporarily? Perhaps but to whom? You the reader? What about The Typographer? Isn't he perhaps perpetually lost in font? Life is a sad affair. Best to take your pleasure where you can. Hopefully you'll find some here. Story is the only reason to live.
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Drown by Richie Otto
The Typographer was not a typographer at all but everyone thought he was. Or at least everyone called him The Typographer. It was difficult to tell what they thought that, these people with their masks. But The Typographer also thought he was a typographer. He lived in the words that he wrote by hand flawlessly. Words like Bodoni and Gill Sans and Baskerville. Helvetica. He imagined himself nestled in the counter of the “e” in Helvetica as if it were a bunk on a ship and he was a stowaway. Curled up with a blank page and a pencil and what words would he come up with were he swaying in a boat? He imagined being impaled on the sharp punji stick of the middle apex of the Baskerville “w.” It was a rebellious font but principled. Old fashioned even. All these fonts formed themselves perfectly in his mind. He bridged the nearly ligatured “fl” in Bodoni, murderous and assured. The typographer ate alphabet soup. He made his own pasta and cut out a Gill Sans g, the diving board enticingly pointing the wrong direction, in which to swim. Soupy, he said to himself. Type, he uttered and ate. The Typographer was happy. Alone. Or so everyone said.
- Stempel Schnidler
- Akzidenz Grotesk
- Bell Gothic
- Book Antiqua
- Vag Rounded
Lyle Rosdahl, a writer living in San Antonio, edits the flash fiction blog & best of in print for the Current. He created, facilitates and participates in Postcard Fiction Collaborative, a monthly flash fiction response to a photo. You can see more of his work, including photos, paintings and writing, at lylerosdahl.com.
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