Typo

Combo prompt today.  This one combines prompts from Monday’s Finish the Story and Sunday Photo Fiction.

The old typewriter had a mind of its own. The antique was part of Olivia’s inheritance. Originally, the possessed item belonged to a great-uncle. “Andy had talent,” Grandmother claimed, “With this it will seep into you.” Olivia ignored her; she was interested in its occult nature; keys that moved. The messages received – written by spirits. Olivia had to test it out in Casa rosa, whose unsolved homicides were infamous.

Casa Rosa was unoccupied; occupants didn’t last long. Sneaking in was effortless. Years of redecoration and the dwelling smelt of blood and rot. Olivia lit her candles and got to work. For once, the spirits came when called. The flash-light flickered while the temperature dropped in concert to the house Groaning. The keys clacked.

Get. Out.

Past the typewriter, the walls bled. Taking heed, she bolted.

Collapsed on the front lawn, she looked up a the sky awash with colours and laughed. Talent indeed.

–

The keys typed out a new message. I. Meant. Get ME Out.

Prayer for the dying.

I’ve borrowed this photo from Jeremy’s Thursday Challenge.  It wasn’t the intended prompt, I think, but it inspired me, soo… I give you this flash-fic.  I warn you it does deal with terrorism but from an alternative point of view because I, quite frankly, am tired of the muslim = terrorist/extremist notion. This is not directed at Christianity either, so please hold the flames. 🙂 And, as a final note, if you have lost loved ones as the result of extremist behaviour or have strong opinions on terrorism/religion, and may be offended please skip over this bit of fiction – no offence is intended.

Prayer for the dying.

On the bench facing the park a man sat in plain clothes with an open book in his lap. To passers-by he was reading. If they had ventured a closer inspection they would have noted he clutched a crucifix.

15:45

“May Christ, Who was crucified for your sake, free you from excruciating pain.”

15:45 10s

“May Christ, Who died for you, free you from the death that never ends.”

15:45 20s

“May Christ, the Son of the living God, set you in the ever green loveliness of His Paradise, and may He, the true Shepherd, recognize you as one of His own.”

15:45 40s

“May you see your Redeemer face to face and, standing in His presence forever, may you see with joyful eyes Truth revealed in all its fullness.”

15:46 The explosion tore buildings indiscriminately.

“Amen”

He rose and was lost in the confusion around him.

***

Abraham flicked on the evening news. “…tragic bombing of a London mosque has now claimed 56 lives with injury counts in 100s. Father Timothy Brown has been arrested for withholding vital information about the bomb. Police currently have no evidence linking him to the crime itself…” Abraham flicked the TV off. He might have known the old bastard would turn himself. “He never did have faith…”

By the time police raided Abraham’s home, he was long gone and a dangerous new terror threat was in the making.

Bottled brumbies

This lovely photo prompt has been borrowed from VisDare. There are so many ways I could have take this prompt but I went with an Australian western.

Short Glossary:

Brumby – A wild horse

Stockmen – hired ranch hands; usually responsible for the driving of cattle.

Jillaroo – Usually an apprentice stock(wo)men; feminine version of Jackaroo

Bob and his jillaroo daughter, Denise, watched as the stockmen drove the brumbies into a makeshift corral. He tilted his hat against the shifting light; even from here he could see the foaming flanks of the panicked animals. Bob began loading darts into his trank-gun as he spoke. “Keeping brumbies corralled is like bottling a storm. You’ll keep ’em contained for a bit, but eventually the storm will break through, and… Well you best not been in their path when they do, understand?” Bob looked at Denise. Denise nodded, but he could tell from her gaze she was already making her pic from the horses. Bob sighed, rested his weapon and kneed his mount into a trot. When they were close he signalled for the stockmen to fire. “Remember, only the healthy looking beasts! Leave the little’uns.” With the explosive sound of tranquillisers hitting the air the tempest broke free. That day Denise learned that even the weediest of critters has a nasty bite. Bob would turn her into a rancher yet.

Blood treaties.

Finally,  wrote my flash fic for Friday Fictioneers.

Hilda was the picture of a pampered royal. Her wine dripped down King Alfred’s face. “I refused to marry him!” Hilda stormed out of the room. Her father, Raymond, stammered an apology before looking beseechingly at his court advisor, Ilvay. Ilvay shrugged, and twirled his goatee. “Hilda’s impetuous nature can be remedied. Her ruby necklace, Alfred’s blood and a simple enchantment; your treaty will be affirmed by nightfall.” The Royals shared a look, then nodded in unison. “Very well, but… There will be Consequences beyond my knowledge.” Raymond drained his goblet; slamming it down.

“Damn the consequences!” Ilvay bowed; victorious grin hidden.

Kaptured

Here’s one for Monday’s finish the story.   I’m afraid I bent the rules a little today.  The original starting line is – “Little did they know when the photographer took their picture that they would find themselves trapped in a painting.”  I couldn’t keep the original wording and have it suit my piece.

Little did the victims know that when the photographer took their picture they would find themselves trapped forever in a 2-dimensional prison. They were the lucky ones.

Decades later and Professor Klein was still cleaning up after the serial killer Thomas ‘The evaporator’ Cline. His estranged grandson had earnt the moniker for the odd fashion in which he had made is victims ‘disappear’ – often from busy streets; without fuss or chaos. Thomas’s methods were sociopathic; he would send strange ransom demands along-side increasingly larger sections of the body to his victim’s families. No matter how his damned demands were met the lost souls never returned. The sadistic killer was eventually tracked down via postal routes but the method in which he made people vanish was never officially discovered. That knowledge belonged to the eccentric Prof. Klein alone. Once he finished freeing the poor souls from their photographic prison he would burn all his research, along with the cursed Kapture Kern* prototype and take the bitter secret to his impending grave.

*Kern is a camera of German design from the 1920’s