Once upon a time, there lived a little typo in a cottage by the sea, far away from the ruthless horde of proofreaders that had hunted him and his kind to the edge of extinction since the dawn of time (or at least since the dawn of editing). The little typo lived a quiet life. He didn't intrude into any great works of literature or dare to appear on the title page of an encyclopedia of philosophy, but now and again he made a little trip into a school paper, to the great vexation of hundreds of students and teachers. He was content with his lot in life.

But, alas, such happiness couldn't last. It was a cold winter day, and outside the little cottage, it was raining commas and semicolons, when suddenly someone started banging on the cottage door.

"Let me in!" someone shouted from outside. "Let me in, quickly!"

"Who is this?" the little typo demanded, quivering with fear. Had the proofreaders found him? Quickly, he reached into his cabinet and pulled out the badly leaking pen that was his only weapon. "What do you want?"

"It's me, Frid!" called the voice from outside. "Let me in!"

Breathing a sigh of relief, the little typo ran to the door, pulled back the bolt, and opened the door. In a tumble of wet commas and semicolons, Frid rushed inside. "Lock the door behind me!"

The little typo did as he was told, his fear returning in full force. Frid wasn't one to scare easily. If Frid was afraid, there was reason to be. Quickly, the little typo turned to face his friend.

Frid was a diminutive sort of typo. A strange misspelling for "Fred," he had made himself rather scarce ever since that name had gone out of fashion. But he was still, and would always be, the little typo's best friend of all the typos in the world. Right now he was looking terrified.

"What is the matter, Frid? You look as though someone had threatened you with an eraser!"

Frid shuddered. "It's almost as bad. My friend—they're coming for you!"

"They?" the little typo asked, though really, there was no need to ask. "Who?"

"The proofreaders!"

The little typo opened his mouth to ask how they could possibly have found him, but in that moment, a terrible noise rose outside over the roar of the rainstorm: the noise of an automated spellcheck. Maybe... maybe even an autocorrect.

The two friends went pale.

"The proofreaders!" Frid cried. "Run! Run for your life!"

"But I can't leave you here!"

"They're after you, not me! Run! They might mistake me for Fred, but you they will never believe to be correctly spelled!"

The little typo grasped Frid's hand and shook it. "Thank you, Frid! Thank you!"

"Go!"

Grabbing his leaking pen, the little typo threw a few periods into a bag as food for his journey and rushed out the back door. As fast as his legs would carry him, he rushed towards the gruesome grammar forest. Just before he vanished under the shadow of the trees, he saw the threatening, monstrous shape of an eraser looming over his little cottage.

Please! Oh please don't let anything happen to Frid!

With that last thought, he disappeared into the forest.

*********

For hours and hours, the lonely little typo wandered through the forest, lamenting his fate and feeling terrified for his friend. More than once he heard the distant howling of hounds hot on his tail. But things didn't turn really desperate until dusk.

"There! There he is!"

The little typo whirled around. There, silhouetted against the sinking sun, were the dark shapes of several proofreaders, armed with reading lamps and accompanied by huge, terrifying erasers.

"Get him! Catch the little bastard!"

The little typo turned and ran for his life. It was hopeless, he knew—no typo ever escaped the proofreaders once they had caught sight of him. But he still ran. He couldn't just lie down and submit to his fate, could he? Someone had to stand up against grammar, proper spelling, and all the other dark doctrines that threatened the peace of this world. So he ran. He ran for freedom. He ran for Frid, who had risked his life to save him.

But it was no use. The proofreaders came closer and closer. Soon they were only a few yards behind him. It wouldn't be long now. They would have him, and then...

The little typo shuddered and would have wept if he could. What would happen? The eraser? The delete button? Or, worst of all... the shredder?

"Hey, you!"

At the unexpected sound, the little typo whipped his head around. There, between the trees to his left, stood a dark, hooded figure. Not a proofreader. But who else could it be? Who would dare to be out in the forest of gruesome grammar this late?

"Come with me!" the stranger yelled and darted off between the trees.

The little typo hesitated for a split second, but if he didn't do something, he would be shredder fodder in a few seconds. He had no choice. Veering off to the side, he followed the stranger down a winding path, the proofreaders hot on his heels, shouting threats.

"Get him!"

"Kill the little bastard!"

"Always use serial commas in a list!"

"Use the present progressive tense for current action!"

"Kill him!"

The little typo could almost feel the bite of the eraser when, in front of him, the trees parted, and he and the stranger stumbled into a clearing with a little hut in the middle. The door of the hut was standing open.

"Inside!" the stranger commanded.

"But that little hut will never hold them off! They'll just break the door down!"

"They won't dare! Inside, I said!"

Resigned to a dark and desolate end, the little typo darted inside. The stranger rushed in behind him and slammed the door shut.

Miraculously, the shouts from outside ceased. The threatening rumble of the spellcheck disappeared. From one moment to the next, all became calm and serene.

"What in the name of all ink spots...?"

The little typo stared out of the window, watching in awe as the proofreaders slunk away, their faces grim, their hunt at an end. He turned to the tall stranger, whose face was still covered by his hood.

"Who are you?" the little typo whispered. "A magician? A god? What power do you possess that you can keep these hounds of hell at bay?"

"Oh, it's just a little trick I've perfected over the years." The man pulled back his hood, revealing an oval face, a half-bald head with longish hair, and a neat little beard on his chin. "Welcome to my home, friend. My name is William Shakespeare. But you can call me Willy if you like."

The little typo almost fell over his own feet. "William Shakespeare! But you are a world-famous literary genius! Why would you give shelter to a little typo like me?"

"Bah!" Willy waved his hand. "I've written my name alone in six different ways, not to speak of all the other words in the English language. I don't care about spelling. In a way, you could say I'm best friends with a lot of typos."

"Oh, my hero!" The little typo fell to his knees and clutched the hem of Willy's coat. "Thank you! Thank you so much! You don't know what it means to a little typo like me to hear you say that. We're always persecuted, laughed at, and ruthlessly hunted. And, after all, we only want to live in peace and bring a little variety to literature. Why is that so hard to understand?"

"It shouldn't be." Willy sighed. "But then, my opinions on this subject have always varied considerably from those of most other people. In recent years, I've heard that even my works have been"—he couldn't suppress a shudder—"edited."

"My condolences, Sir."

"Ah, well, one must forget one's grief and move on. Come, let me show you my latest work! I've found seventeen spellings for the word 'bag.' Isn't that interesting?"

"Amazing, Sir! Breathtaking!"

*********

The little typo stayed in Shakespeare's cottage, resting from the terrifying hunt through the woods. The very next morning, he entreated Willy to help him search for Frid, and the Bard of Avon readily agreed.

"If I can't save a good typo, what's my life's work worth?" With a determined look on his face, the poet threw on his cloak. "Let's go!"

They found Frid shuddering in a ditch not far from the clearing. After their disappointment on the hunt, the proofreaders had returned to the little typo's cottage and chased poor Frid through the forest, but, by some miracle, he had managed to hide his tracks by crossing a stretch of recycled paper.

"Let's get the two of you back to my cabin," Willy said and gathered poor little Frid up in his arms. "We'll soon have you back on your feet again."

They returned to the hut, and it was as the poet had promised. The little typo and his friend Frid were soon well and ready to spread grammatical confusion once more.

"But where shall we go?" the little typo asked miserably. "The proofreaders know what we look like now. They'll be searching for us in all the literary works they can get their hands on. With those new automatic spellcheckers, we won't even be safe in a schoolchild's essay!"

"Hmm..." Willy stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I might know a place where nobody would notice you."

The two gazed up at him, hope glowing in their little eyes.

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure whether you'd want to go, of course," the poet quickly qualified. "I mean, it's not a particularly modern living space. None of those fancy modern conveniences. But it does have a certain flair to it, if I do say so myself."

"What?" demanded Frid.

"Where?" demanded the little typo.

"Well, I don't think anybody would notice a typo more or less in Macbeth, do you?"

The two typos stood there, awestruck.

"Macbeth?" Frid whispered.

"The Macbeth?" the little typo echoed. "The Scottish play?"

"Well, yes. I know it's not to everyone's taste, but..."

Willy didn't get any further than that. The two little typos threw themselves at him, hugging him and squealing with happiness.

And so it came about that, in the great play of Macbethrx, the three witches tempted Macbethrx into killing his king, Duncan. And no matter how bravely he struggled against temptation, his scheming wife, Frid, finally seduced him into evil. And they all lived happily ever after. Or maybe they didn't because it's a tragedy. Who knows?

THE END

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My dear Lords and Ladies,

In case you're wondering what prompted this little story - it was a test for proofreading candidates. I wrote it on the spur of the moment, and inserted about 40 errors into it which the candidates had to discover. This version is completely edited, however. I hope you enjoyed it? ;-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob