Only forwards
⟵ only steps the carriage back, so the next letter lands on top. Strike a word out with the x lever, or paint it over with correction fluid and type again once it's dry. Twelve brushes a day, and a new bottle every morning.
Stillcraft / Apps / Carriage
A notes app lets you rewrite every sentence until it says nothing. A typewriter doesn't: what you typed stays there, mistakes and all, and that makes a diary honest. Carriage is a typewriter on your phone, with all its friction kept on purpose. The bell rings before the margin, the ribbon wears out, the paper yellows, and the wastebasket under the desk waits until Monday. Free, no ads, no account, no internet.
Android 9.0+ · Free · English & Русский
⟵ only steps the carriage back, so the next letter lands on top. Strike a word out with the x lever, or paint it over with correction fluid and type again once it's dry. Twelve brushes a day, and a new bottle every morning.
The bell rings eight characters before the margin. At the margin the keys lock until you pull the chrome lever. Tap the sheet to roll the platen anywhere; “Write without looking back” hides everything above the line you're on.
Keys in chrome rings, Russian and English letters, a shift that locks on a second press. Every strike lands a little off the line, and the type bars clack: the sounds are recorded from real typewriters. A Bluetooth keyboard turns the phone into the machine.
The ribbon is black on top and red below. Flip the lever for what hurts or angers you, and every red line is gathered in one place. The underline key sends a word to the index.
A ribbon lasts about ten pages and fades as it goes. Wear one out and a new colour turns up in the box.
The office machine is heavy and loud, with a clogged o and a high e. The portable has smaller type, a leaning a and a k that barely prints. The electric is even and quiet: it hums instead of ringing and returns the carriage by itself.
A diary page is dated by the dater and goes into the binder. An index card holds a note, a recipe or a list; it's filed by its first line and can be typed again, with the earlier versions kept behind it.
A telegram is all capitals, its full stops become STOP, and it's paid by the word. A letter goes through carbon: send the original, burn it or keep it in the drawer; the copy stays either way.
Rubber stamps instead of tags, and you can have your own made. Case folders tied with string; any of them can go into the drawer, which opens with the phone's lock. The archive has search, the index and the red lines.
Paper yellows with age. The wastebasket is taken out on Monday morning; until then a ball of paper can be smoothed out, creases and all. Now and then a page from a year ago slips out of the binder.
Mechanical drums show how far the carriage has travelled, along with strikes, lines, bells, words struck out and ribbons worn out.
Send a sheet as a picture, a folder or the whole desk as a PDF. A backup is one file, saved wherever you like.












| Machine | Year | What it's like |
|---|---|---|
| The office machine | 1952 | Heavy and loud, a bell like a tram's; the o is clogged and the e sits high |
| The portable | 1964 | Smaller type and a lighter touch; the a leans and the k barely prints |
| The electric | 1983 | Every letter as even as the next; hums instead of ringing and returns the carriage by itself |
JDK 17+ (Android Studio's bundled JBR works) and the Android SDK. Kotlin, Jetpack Compose, Room, DataStore; the desk, the lamp, the machines, the paper and every strike are drawn in code.
git clone https://github.com/bigdevwhale/carriage.git cd carriage ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest assembleDebug # app.carriage.dev, next to a real install ./gradlew assembleDebug -Pdemo # app.carriage.demo: a desk half a year in ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest -Prender --tests '*RenderArt*' && python tools/shots.py # screenshots python tools/sounds.py # fetch the recorded typewriter sounds
Paint it over with correction fluid and type again once it's dry; you get twelve brushes a day. Or strike it out with x's and keep going. On a typewriter that's how it's done.
No. A sheet is stored as the ordered list of everything that landed on it, struck-out words and painted-over letters included. A crumpled sheet waits in the wastebasket until Monday morning.
Yes. Connect a Bluetooth keyboard and the phone becomes the machine: the bell, the margin and the lever all still apply.
It doesn't need any, not even the internet. Sheets leave the phone only when you send them yourself, and the drawer opens with the phone's own lock. A backup is one file that you save where you like.
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Intrusive thoughts as ships: the lighthouse beam, the evening watch, forecasts checked.
A magic lantern deals the glass; parent and child make up the bedtime tale.
A date night for two on a night train: a conductor's questions, the phone as the table between you.
The same questions to your child, yourself or a grandparent, year after year, laid as a mosaic.
Your mind is a kite on a string. A few soft tugs a day bring it back to here.
There is too much music. One album a week, a whole side at a time, on a turntable or a tape deck.
There's too much to watch. So nothing gets watched. Your watchlist as a nineties video rental store.
Every date is a quest. The two of you are a party of heroes, and the phone is your game master.
A cosy lucid-dreaming trainer. In a dream, the top never falls.
A cosy pixel-art meditation tracker. Sit still, and shy animals come out.
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Five pots for everything you've never tried: sow a seed from a catalogue of new things, water it each time you go back, and when it blooms it's yours.
A fridge door for two: the shopping list, whose turn, notes, worries face down and envelopes that open only together. The phones sync at home, with no server.
A pedometer where your steps carry the village post. You are the new postman of a small village by a river, and its letters, stories and seasons go on for years.
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Let your wishes age before you buy them. Every urge to buy goes into a bottle on the rack; when it's ripe, you open it without guilt or pour it into the barrel of your real dream.
Every walk is an assignment from the district paper. The editor wires one ordinary thing to shoot, with a twist; you bring back a frame, it's printed as a halftone, and on Sunday the week comes out as an issue.
Every shopping trip is a run. You keep a courier office of one: the household orders on the waybill, each shop learns its own shelf order, and every delivered waybill pays in brass tokens for a sign, a bicycle, a van one day.
The things of your hobbies come alive with practice. Every session lights a candle in a little pixel-art Japanese house; a guitar, a ball of yarn or a sourdough starter shivers, opens an eye, steps off the shelf as a house spirit and keeps growing for years.
A little movement all day long instead of an hour twice a week. Nine pixel-art tin toys on a shelf, each a family of movements; a minute or three of squats, balance or breathing winds one up for two hours and puts a pin in the day's music-box drum.
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A small present every day, from your past self. You can't surprise yourself unless you forget: fill a capsule machine with little presents for future days, let the words seal, and turn the crank for one a day.
A budget kept like a detective's case file. Spending is evidence, categories are suspects with police photos, and when the clues show a pattern, a case opens: you name the motive and hand down the verdict.
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Enamel pin badges for the small deeds of a day, each with an order typed out, a rubber stamp and a fanfare. Nothing to plan and no streaks: in the evening the commission asks what happened.
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A pet that lives under your bed and eats fear. Horror films and books feed it, anxious news is fast food, and your own fears it guards at night.
A bookshop of books that don't exist. Every day a customer asks for one, and you find it on the shelf by writing its title, first line and blurb.
Tarot with no bad cards. The Auntie finds the good even in Death, gives you an omen for the day and asks in the evening whether it came true.
A pocket field guide to the spirits of your real houseplants. Catch them with the camera; they live by the real sun over your town, ask you to touch the soil, grow, hatch from cuttings and fight real pests.
A talk by the fire with the people close to you: hold your stones together, and sparks bring the questions.
A diary of the cafés you keep coming back to: each gets a page and a sugar packet, and every cup leaves a coffee stain on the page.
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