draliman on life

It’s Monday and that means it’s time for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story. We get a photo prompt and an opening sentence plus 150 words to complete the story. For this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy.

The supplied sentence is in bold in my story.

Copyright Barbara W. Beacham

The neighbours were not happy about my choice of yard art.

First they tries light hearted banter.

“Blimey, mate, what’s the ‘ell’s that? Not keeping it, are you?”

After a week they’re done mincin’ words.

“Listen, chum, I’m not meaning to be rude, but that’s an eyesore, ya know? You gonna move it or what?”

I ignore them, miserable gits.

Then it gets serious. I comes out in the mornin’ and find the Native American covered wi’ paint. Makes him look somehow diseased.

I says nothing. They says nothing. They know I know it were them.

Next day, someone’s shot holes in the bison with an air rifle. The day after that, the Native American has both his arms shot off. These neighbours come over from England couple a’ years previous. Settlers, you might say. Suddenly I got a diseased-looking Native American and a shot bison.

Funny how history repeats. Maybe tomorrow I’ll complete the cycle and scalp the bastards.

Here is my contribution for Barbara Beacham’s Mondays Finish the Story.

We get a photo and a starting sentence and then 150 words on top. It appears to be fairy tale time this week, so that’s what I’ve written! Thanks to my rather odd sense of humour, my story makes me laugh. Ha ha.

To read this week’s other stories, click on the blue froggy. The supplied sentence is in bold in my story.

Copyright Barbara W. Beacham

Once upon a time in a land far, far away there lived a pixie called Mike. Pixie Mike.

All the other pixies made fun of him. They all had cool pixie names while Pixie Mike was stuck with “Mike”. Floats With Flowers, Runs With Unicorns and Sleeps With Fairies never stopped taunting him.

Pixie Mike was very upset.

One day a great evil came to Pixie Land and all the other pixies ran to hide. Pixie Mike saw his chance to save Pixie Land! The other pixies would never make fun of him again. All he had to do was cross the Chasm of Terror and retrieve the Orb of Light.

He stepped tentatively onto the bridge and inched across. “I’m going to make it!” he thought.

But halfway across he slipped, fell into the chasm and broke both his legs. Because real life’s not a fairy tale. Bad things happen.

And nobody lived happily ever after. Especially not Pixie Mike, who finally got his pixie name. Stumbles and Splatters.

Here is my contribution to Mondays Finish the Story, hosted every week by Barbara Beacham. We get a photo, a starting sentence and 150 words.

I was very busy at work and couldn’t think of a story so I’ve done some dialogue. A little snippet of life, between two old friends, perhaps, meeting for lunch. Or maybe a husband and wife.

Click on the blue froggy to read the other stories. The opening sentence is in bold in my story.

“Pizza anyone?”

“Mmm, pizza. Food of the gods.”

“Food of the gods?”

“Pizza – Italian, right? Italy, Rome, Roman gods – Zeus and such. QED.”

“’Jupiter.’ Zeus was Greek, moron.”

“Whatever. Dig in! Mmm. Argh! Wait! What is this nonsense?”

“What’s wrong now?”

“A strange taste… in my mouth… little black globes of death…”

“Olives.”

“Olives? Urgh.”

“If you don’t like them pick them off, for God’s sake. Stop making a meal out of everything.”

“Ha! ‘Meal.’ Well punned.”

“Can I have your olives, then?”

“If you’re sure you wanna risk it, go ahead.”

“If you don’t like olives, why did you order olives?”

“You gotta take the good with the bad.”

“But you’re picking the ‘bad’ off.”

“It’s the principal of the thing. Pass me the garlic bread.”

“’Please’ would be nice.”

“Mmm, garlic bread. Argh! A strange taste… in my mouth… little shredded cloves of death…”

“That’s the garlic. Shoot me now.”

Here’s a cynical look at humanity to thrill and depress you for this week’s Mondays Finish the Story, a weekly 150 word photo/opening sentence challenge hosted by Barbara Beacham. The opening sentence, in bold in my story, doesn’t count towards our word count.

Click on the blue froggy to read this week’s other stories.

When the team heard the dam explode, they knew they had limited time to make it to safety.

Barry glanced behind at the raging wall of water as they desperately tried to steer towards the shore. He saw figures on the river bank.

“Help!” he screamed.

The figures were holding up phones. Were they calling for help? He could hear snatches of their excited shouts.

“Awesome… stats through the roof… YouTube sensation…”

A wave struck and he fell from the boat, smashing his head on a rock. Nigel was next, flying into the torrent, water filling his lungs.

There were more figures on the bank now, all holding up phones. Sebastian was thrown from the front of the boat, impaled and twitching on a tree branch.

Whoops of excitement issued from the bank. Finally the boat capsized to cries of “awesome!” and “mega!”

The onlookers didn’t see the final wall of water as it smashed their bodies to pulp. Fortunately, their final footage was already uploading to the cloud for the guilty pleasure of the masses.

This is my contribution to this week’s Mondays Finish the Story, hosted by Barbara Beacham.

Something about this photo of a big house away from the general populace combined with the word “Brigadier” made me think of that proud 19th Century British tradition of believing that the whole world should belong to Britain and that everyone else was somehow “in the way”.

The supplied sentence is in bold in my story and you can read this week’s other contributions by clicking on the blue froggy.

A body suddenly crashed through a plate glass window at the Brigadier’s house.

“I say,” exclaimed the Brigadier. “This won’t do at all!”

“Frightfully sorry about that, Sir,” said the Lieutenant calmly as he took a sip of Port and shot the interloper in the head.

“Oh, Lieutenant!” said the Brigadier indignantly, looking at the brains leaking onto the carpet. “My favourite throw rug!”

“My apologies, Brigadier,” continued the Lieutenant, swiftly dispatching two more attackers.

“What-ho! Watch the wallpaper! I had it shipped in ‘specially from Messers Smythe and Clarke of Dinkledum Street, you know.”

Before the Lieutenant had a chance to respond, one of the attacking natives pierced his heart with a long knife.

“I don’t understand,” barked the Brigadier as natives closed on him, knives gleaming. “We’ve brought you education, technology… all we ask is that you follow our rules!”

While the Brigadier’s soldiers, fighting for pay, cowered behind the furniture, the natives, fighting for their home, ignored the bullets and reclaimed their land.

It’s Monday, and there’s a story which needs finishing. Yes, it’s Mondays Finish the Story! This is a 150 word flash fiction challenge hosted by Barbara Beacham where we get a photo and a starting sentence (which doesn’t count towards the word count).

The supplied sentence is in bold in my story, and don’t forget to click on the blue froggy to read the other stories.

On March 9th, 2015, three objects were reportedly seen in the skies over the Borracho Todos los Tiempos Vineyards.

Major Dickens couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Corporal, any radar contacts?”

“No, Sir!”

Nothing on radar, but visible through his binoculars. Aliens! Aliens were invading Earth, and on his watch! He reached for the radio.

“General, three inbound bogies, alien origin!”

“Major, are you sure? You have been to the therapist regarding your alien fixation, yes?”

“Absolutely sure this time, Sir!” replied Dickens. Around him troops were staring at the sky, shrugging and shaking their heads.

“Right,” said the General. “I’ve contacted the President and mobilised our forces.”

“Yessir!” replied Dickens. He looked again. There they were, hanging above the distant trees.

The corporal, shaking his head, wiped the water from the Major’s binoculars with his sleeve.

“Ah, General…”

“Yessssss?”

“False alarm, sir! Rain on the binoculars, Sir!”

“Right, Captain, I’ll call the President back, shall I?”

“Um, it’s ‘Major’, Sir…”

“This isn’t good enough, Lieutenant,” continued the General. “Don’t let it happen again. Carry on, Sergeant.”

Here I am with my contribution to Mondays Finish the Story, hosted every week by Barbara Beacham. This is the challenge where we get a photo, an opening sentence and 150 words. The supplied opening sentence is in bold in my story.

I usually post this on Monday, but I had a germ of an idea yesterday and despite several hours of incubation it failed to become a full-on disease… okay, we’ll leave this metaphor now as it has become a little unhealthy-sounding.

Click on the blue froggy for this week’s other contributions and without further ado, here is my good old-fashioned story of love, romance and a willingness to do whatever it takes to find happiness.

When it came to a challenge, Jim Smiley just had to jump right in!

And what bigger challenge than the delectable Countess Josephine? “Jim Smiley, milliner’s son” would not do, and so he reinvented himself.

“Tarquin Farquharson-Smythe” had the right ring, he felt.

He took diction and “cor blimey, it ain’t ‘alf ‘ot today, guv’nor” became “oh, I say, frightfully warm for the time of year, what?” He learned table manners and etiquette.

When word reached him that the inestimable lady would be overseeing the 1865 leap-frogging championships, he entered. Long he practised his leaping, the better to make a bold impression.

The day arrived. The Countess looked exquisite. Jim leaped, jumped and won. Holding the winner’s plaque, he attempted to woo her free of her undergarments. She advised him, however, that she “preferred a bit of rough” and promptly ran off with the woodcutter’s son.

Undaunted, “Tarquin” became “Jim” once more and headed toward the snack tent where he had espied the delightful Lady Jemima taking tea.

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.”