draliman on life

It is time for Barbara Beacham’s “Mondays Finish the Story” here at the Drali blog. We get a photo and a starting sentence to prompt us to write our 150 word story.

My title this week is rather ironic since my muse is absent today. I blame it on a very busy day at work. The genre for my story this week, therefore, is “wishy-washy”. It’s a few words over, but after researching the invention date of the typewriter I had to make some last minute adjustments.

The supplied sentence is in bold in my story, and to read this week’s other contributions, click on the little blue froggy.

Copyright Barbara Beacham

The old typewriter had a mind of its own. A mind, and a flair for the creative.

As quill, pencil and typewriter, Underwood (for that was now his name) had steered many of the greats. Where would they have been without him? Austen with her ridiculously-titled “Pride and Peanuts”? Or Tolkein’s “The Hedgehog” and planned three-parter “Lord of the Hedgerows”? Underwood had soon put them straight, working tirelessly behind the scenes. Even stubborn Dickens had been persuaded to change direction only three pages into “A Christmas Singalong With Mulled Wine and Whatnot”.

Now everyone used computers. Pah! Soulless machines. He would never stoop to inhabiting such a beast. A typewriter he would remain.

So he couldn’t connect to Facebook. So what? One of the greatest muses of all time, reduced to a paper weight. Yesterday’s news.

So no-one was more surprised than Underwood when his owner’s son came in from school, threw his iPad on the bed, sat at the desk, loaded some paper – and began to type.

Here is my contribution for Mondays Finish the Story, hosted each week by Barbara Beacham. The goal is to write 100-150 words in response to both a photo and an opening sentence.

Of course, me being me, I wrote a story but forgot about the opening sentence. And there was no way to alter what I’d written to make it fit. So in disgust with myself I spent 15 minutes speed-writing another story. Never have I typed so fast. Maybe I’ll post the other one separately in a day or so.

Click on the blue froggy for the link-up. The opening sentence appears in bold in my story under the photo.

Copyright Barbara Beacham

Little did they know when the photographer took their picture that they would find themselves trapped in a painting. It came as quite a surprise to the photographer as well. Still, this “camera” thingy hadn’t been around very long. Perhaps this was supposed to happen? He wished now that he’d read the manual but, as his father had always said, “Real men don’t read the instructions.”

For years he struggled to find a way to release the little band of players. Their desperate faces as the years went by haunted his dreams. He pushed this button, he pressed that lever. All for naught.

Then it struck him. Opening the camera, he reversed the mirrors and activated the shutter. With a flash of light, the band was free! In celebration they began to play a jaunty tune.

The photographer covered his ears. What a racket! Quickly he reconfigured the camera and pressed the shutter, once more imprisoning them in the painting, never again to pollute the world with their annoying “oom-pah” parping.

Here is my story for Mondays Finish the Story, a weekly photo prompt by Barbara Beacham in which we also get an opening sentence. We get 150 words not counting the supplied sentence, in bold in my story below, which is called “Local Indifference”.

Dropping her line into Fool’s Lake, she patiently waited for something to bite. The two old men watched her as she fished.

“Only a fool fishes in Fool’s Lake,” said one.

“Aarr,” agreed the other.

Without any warning a huge creature shot out of the water, raking the woman’s belly and clamping its jaws on her head. The two men watched, shaking their heads.

“’Tis a terrible shame,” said the first.

“Aarr,” agreed the other, puffing his pipe as the woman’s headless corpse toppled forward. “‘Tis not safe, Fool’s Lake.”

The first man nodded as they watched the feeding frenzy, small piranha-like creatures tearing into the woman’s entrails as they dribbled into the water.

“Third one this week. It’s loike thar’s an endless supply o’ tourists.”

“Aarr, ‘tis a shame,” agreed the second.

Some time passed as the two puffed their pipes. Then the second man spoke again.

“Oi hear thar’s a whole bus o’ tourists due in tomorra’.”

“Oi heard that too,” agreed the first. “’Twill be a shame.”

“Aarr, a terrible shame.”

It’s Monday, and therefore time for Mondays Finish the Story, hosted by Barbara Beacham. We get not only a photo but an opening sentence too! We then write our story in around 150 words (not counting the opening sentence).

The supplied sentence is in bold in my story, and to read this week’s other contributions, click on the little blue froggy guy.

Diamond Jack had his hideout next to the Rattle Snake River.  Secluded, it was in the perfect location. Diamond Jack turned to his partner in crime.

“I think we got away clean.”

“Reckon we did, Jack,” replied Samson. “That was a close thing.”

Jack nodded and grabbed a beer from the cooler. “Cheers, mate.” Samson reached for his own beer, then froze, listening.

“Jack, you hear that?”

“Shit!” growled Jack, hearing the sound of a vehicle drawing closer. “They found us! How’d they find us?” The pair scrambled around.

“Shut the curtains!” yelled Jack.

“What curtains?” shouted Samson.

Footsteps came closer, closer. The guys jumped behind the table. The door flew open.

“Diamond Jack, you mangy cur!” shrieked a formidable-looking woman. “Come out of there!”

Jack crept out from behind the table.

“If you think I’m putting up with your weird family alone, you’ve got another think coming! Home, NOW! And don’t you stand there sniggering, Samson Beatman! Your wife’s right behind me!”