It was late afternoon on Skin's Island. The shadows from the coconut trees grew long as the tide changed. In the distance there was a tapping - first a couple of clicks, distantly spaced apart- which grew closer and closer. Hunched over a rock was a primitive, pressing letters on an old, mechanical typewriter. The primitive remembers hearing stories about monkeys and these noisy mechanical things from his childhood, and figures since he is a man, and not a monkey, that he could do better.
The primitive succeeded in making enough noise that he caught the attention of several others. Soon they came - peering around rocks, or from behind the coconut trees, hiding in the long shadows. Some were curious - others afraid. The clack-clacking of the keys is not something one hears on Skin's island. Too metallic to be a coconut getting broken open. Too hollow to be a drum like the ones used at the bonfires. A couple of the primitives try to dance to the rhythm of the keys, but quickly learn that the rhythm is imperfect, and the sounds of their chant 'ooga-chaka ! ooga-chaka !.. ' quickly drown out what little rhythm there is.
But all this doesn't bother the typing primitive, as he slaps keys more and more rapidly as the thoughts flow from his mind to his fingers. And one day, when the primitives find some paper that doesn't end up used in one of their intricate bonfires, a recording of those very thoughts will become the fabled 'words, that stay' that may be shared with other primitives at any time -- A record that says loudly 'I was here !'.
As the sun sets, and the bonfires begin, one can hear the clack-clacking continue. Fruitless, save for the joy this primitive has found, and the understanding that one day, the primitive will best the monkeys of childhood fables and dreams.
