draliman on life

Here is my story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. The supplied opening line is in bold in my story.

I had trouble merging a constantly nervous and tense woman with coins, but here it is all the same! Click on the blue froggy for all this week’s other stories.

Copyright B.W. Beacham

She lived a life that some would describe as being on edge. She was constantly panicking, especially when it came to make a decision. Watching Batman, she was terribly impressed by “Two Face”, making all his decisions by flipping a coin. Her salvation!

Rummaging around at the back of the sofa she found one, depicting a bison. Everything changed.

Everything was in the lap of fate. “No bison” – she binned her boyfriend. “Bison” – she stayed at her appalling job. “Bison” – she took an axe and found a family, letting the husband live, killing the wife, sparing the toddler and killing the teenager. The bison had spoken.

Karma caught up when the judge, staring her straight in the eye, flipped a coin, declared “bison” and sent her to the chair. Arriving at the gates of Heaven, the angel flipped a coin, declared “no bison” and sent her downstairs. Fate is a jealous mistress – once you give yourself to Her, She’ll never let you go.

Here is my story for this week’s Mondays Finish the Story, conceived and hosted by Barbara Beacham. We are given a sentence to start us off, plus a picture. The supplied opening sentence is in bold in my story below.

To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy. My story this week is a little bit gruesome! I blame the photo :-).

Copyright B W. Beacham

I watched the vulture looking at me hungrily as I lay on the ground bleeding and injured.

Well, “injured” is putting it mildly. I’ve been dead for days, but here I lie, waiting for… whatever. Maybe they’ve forgotten about me?

What’s that damn vulture up to now? Here it comes, right on my face. Great. There goes the other eyeball. I hope you choke on it, you stupid bird. Now I can’t see anything at all.

What happened to the chorus of angels? What happened to the bright light? Come to think of it, how will I even see the bright light with no eyeballs?

What’s that now I hear? Howling? Well, that’s just bloody brilliant, that is. Wolves. Marvellous. Here they come. At least they’ve scared the vulture away, the bastard. Yes, that’s it, feast on my intestines. No shoving, there’s enough for everyone. Bollocks.

Not that I have either of those left. The vulture had them yesterday.

Hello? Hello? Angels? Anyone? Is there anybody up there…?

Here’s my story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. We get a photo, an opening sentence (in bold in my story) and then 150 words to finish the story.

Click on the blue froggy for all this week’s contributions. Here is a silly little piece from me for this week.

Copyright B.W. Beacham

Now this is living the life of Riley.

He didn’t know exactly who this “Riley” was, nor whether Riley was upset that he’d had his life hijacked. He only cared that he was living it. Cuddles, food and water courtesy of his human servants, naps whenever he liked, he could pretty much do as he wanted. This “Riley” fellow could get stuffed.

That was fine by Mittens, because Mittens, like all cats, was pretty self-centred. He had his humans wrapped around his little paw. A purr here, some ball-chasing hijinks there and they’d do exactly what he wanted.

The life of Riley indeed! This was a summer that would never end!

Or would it? OR WOULD IT?

Across the street, a dark shape lurked in the undergrowth. It glared at the distant shape of little Mittens and growled. Black tabby Riley wanted his life back and Mittens would pay for living it.

Oh yes, Mittens would pay.

(Dum dum DUM)

Here is my story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. The photo was also taken by Barbara, and the supplied opening sentence is in bold in my story. On top of that we get roughly 150 words to finish the story!

To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy.

Copyright B.W. Beacham

Few knew about the castle hidden inside the island.

Prince Brian, Lord of the Island Isles, Protector of the Weak, preferred it that way. But now he crouched, hidden within the castle, listening intently.

There it was again!

A faint voice, distant but getting closer. His arch-nemesis, Grayvon. She’d found him! He huddled deeper into the corner of his castle, fear creeping through his body. This was it. This was the end.

“Brian!” screamed the voice.

Grayvon was approaching! Brian, brave and strong though he may be, was no match for her. He closed his eyes and waited for the end. Suddenly he was bathed in light as the castle roof was ripped off! He gritted his teeth.

“Brian!” snapped Grayvon. “I’ve been shouting for hours! Your dinner’s ready. And when you’re done, put all these cushions and blankets back where you found them, please.”

“Yes, Mum,” muttered Prince Brian, Lord of the Island Isles, Protector of the Weak, as he shuffled off to wash his hands.

Here is my story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. We get a photo and an opening sentence, which is in bold in my story. To read all the other contributions, click on the blue froggy.

I’m not sure what my story is supposed to be. Horror? Comedy? Comedy horror? It made me laugh :-).

Copyright B. W. Beacham

The A&B Building was made entirely from driftwood. But no-one in the sleepy town of Little Stickle would ever know the hideous truth. The sudden appearance of the building one morning had been quite a surprise!

The residents were cautiously excited.

The construction crew had horrible, blood-spattered flashbacks.

The police were baffled.

Also in the news that morning was the strange disappearance of a visiting 100-piece Country and Western ensemble. The townsfolk loved their Country and Western, and almost all had turned up to listen. What a disappointment they were!

The residents had booed.

The construction crew had thrown bottles and gotten terribly, terribly drunk.

The police had shaken their heads.

In the morning, there the new house was.

The residents wondered why it smelled faintly of dead animal.

The construction crew wondered what the sticky red substance on their tools was.

The police wondered what had happened to the rubbish Country and Western band “Driftwood”.

Here is my story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. We get a photo and an opening sentence to write 100-150 words. The supplied sentence is in bold in my story.

To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy.

Copyright B.W. Beacham

She lived in a mango tree.  She was shunned for it. Others turned their noses up, crossed the street when they saw her coming.

She’d known she was different from an early age. She didn’t feel she belonged. Nothing seemed quite… right.

It hadn’t always been this way, of course. When she was little she’d lived with her parents in an apple tree, just like everyone else. But when she came of age, she’d found herself a nice mango tree to call her own.

During the Great Apple Blight of 1973, people came from all around. They were happy for her mangoes then, oh yes. But once the blight passed they went right back to spurning her.

Every year she participated in the Mango Pride March. Times were changing, every year there were more marching with her. One day apple and mango-dwellers would stand together. But until then, she was proud to be different.

Here is my little story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. The supplied sentence is in bold in my story. To read this week’s other contributions, click on the little blue froggy!

Copyright Barbara W. Beacham

From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by.

She had no choice, actually. And the world went by really really fast. In fact, mostly it was just a blur. She could make out details, sometimes. When she’d cast the spell, people had clippity-clopped by on horses. Now they shot past in horse-less chariots!

It was that “time in a bottle” spell. Maybe she shouldn’t have substituted grapes for eye of newt? But eye of newt was awfully expensive, and grapes looked, well, roughly similar. She didn’t think the Goddess would notice, She was always so busy. And now the witch was the one trapped in time, her house the bottle.

Today, at last, the reversal spell was ready! She raised her hands, chanted… and with a thunderclap four hundred years caught up with her all at once.

It was weeks before someone found the little pile of dust where the witch used to be. Evidently, substituting cheap cotton for expensive silk in the “protection” element of the reversal spell was a no-no.

Here is my story for Barbara Beacham’s Monday’s Finish the Story. This week’s photo was provided by Marcy B. Ayanian. She also provided the opening sentence! The opening sentence is in bold in my story, and to view this week’s other contributions, click the blue froggy.

I spent all day yesterday holding on to a comedy story with grim determination, but couldn’t think of a decent ending so I’ve written this instead.

Copyright 2015 Marcy B. Ayanian

As her mount shifted uneasily under her, she grasped the brim of her old felt Stetson, gazed upwards and remembered Jean Pierre.

The way his eyes flashed with amusement at some joke. The way his body moved while playing tennis at their Paris manor. The smile on his face when he repeated “I do” at their wedding, the smile which remained throughout the reception, and later, when they were alone…

The way his beautiful eyes opened wide as saucers as the laced brandy took effect, the poison causing his heart to falter, then stop.

She even spared a thought (however briefly) for the maid, eyes streaming tears as she was lead to the gallows, lips protesting her innocence of a crime she didn’t commit.

Lady Genevieve smiled as she rode back to the manor – her manor now – and looked out over Paris.

In the shadows lurked her butler, sometime lover of the maid, a grim smile on his face as he watched her sip the cocktail he’d so carefully prepared.

Here’s my story for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. It’s slightly over the word count but I’ve already chopped out 40 words!

The supplied sentence is in bold in my story, and you can see all the other contributions by clicking on the blue froggy.

Copyright B.W. Beacham

The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.

However, the Devil was away on business and the minions were having a party! There was jelly and ice cream, little sausages on sticks and, of course, unspeakable torments.

All the best demons had turned up. All the worst demons too. Chamblezook, Defiler of Small Animals, had accidentally marked the invite “public” on FaceScroll.

Chamblezook watched in horror as the demons… “tore up the joint”, he believed was the “in” term. He gasped as he looked out the window to see Grigglebarg, Corrupter of Kitty-Cats, taking a leak on the Master’s prize-winning geraniums.

Then he heard a voice. “He’s mine, she’s mine, missed him…” The Master was coming, reading the graveyard headstones. He would not be pleased.

He was not pleased. In his rage the Master created Hell on Earth. He later admitted he may have gone too far, but billions of humans would now be subjected to the worst torment ever devised.

And thus the Reality Show was born.