Category Archives: Build A Story With Bryan

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Still Saber Rattling

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Photo by brdavids

Many thanks to our regular contributors who’ve been keeping this thing rolling. I’m happy to announce you’ve helped us reach a personal best in word count (almost 1400), and this tale feels like it’s got a lifespan of at least 4000. If you’re a new reader or you’ve been following along for awhile and haven’t proffered a sentence yet, go ahead and give it a shot, we’d love to get your creative stamp on this story.

Here’s what we have so far:

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

 She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

 “What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

Woah. Looking forward to  where the next sentence takes us. Let it be your sentence…

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Still Dancing

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By elail 479

Most people don’t realize that although our ancestors ultimately chose the bunny rabbit to represent the commercial aspect of Easter, that role was originally embodied by the dancing circus bear.  They finally had to make a change, however, because too many children were being eaten during the Easter egg hunts. And they had to blame somebody for it.

Just a little trivia to put you in the holiday spirit.

Of course what should really put you in the holiday spirit is the chance to add onto the continuing saga of Mrs. Blendinson and her circus-related adversaries. Please lend your eyes to our story-so-far and then build on with a sentence of your own in the comments. Thanks for playing, and a Happy Easter and/or Passover to you all.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

 She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

I don’t know what happens next, but I bet you do…

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Story’s Got (Furry) Legs

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Photo by Ashtoncircus

The skies are gloomy today in Los Angeles, but I don’t need to buy a bucketful of sunshine from that strange guy on the street corner.

Not when I’ve got Build A Story With Bryan to brighten my day.

I really hope you’ve been as consistently entertained and surprised as I’ve been by where these stories have taken us. Though they occasionally reveal their genre-trappings without warning, each story has managed to find a voice, a tone, and then stick with it no matter the sensibilities of its various contributors. There is, it seems, a collective unconscious after all.

This Round 5’s no different.  And it’s still got legs, literally, and furry ones at that. Read what we’ve got so far and you’ll see what I mean. Then build this story further with your own sentence and surprise us some more.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

 She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

What happens next is in your hands…or paws, if you happen to be a bear.

 

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Building Momentum

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Photo by Clive Warneford

I know what you’ve been asking yourself, and your loved ones, and all your neighbors recently: “I wonder what that crafty old Mrs. Blendinson’s been up to?” Well, the blog’s been on a bit of a hiatus recently, but today we return to answer that very question. And if after reading our story-so-far you’d like to influence the direction of her life (and who wouldn’t want to do that?), please build onto it by leaving us the next sentence or two in your comments.  As always, thanks for playing!

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

 She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

What’s in store for Mrs. Blendinson? Let your sentence put her on the path to her destiny…or at least inside the caravan for a quick smoke.

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Mrs. Blendinson Marches On

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Photo by Keoni 101

Hello story-builders, Round #5 has entered the beautiful month of March! Not only is spring right around the corner, but so is Mrs. Blendinson. Be sure to keep one eye open in the back of your heads and two hands on your wallets and purses.

Good work, you made it safely past. Now give our story-so-far a read and add a sentence or two to keep Mrs. Blendinson occupied on something other than your hard-earned cash.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

 She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

What’s going to happen next? Will Ruffy and Mrs. B team up? Only you and your sentence know…

 

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Mrs. Blendinson Lives On

1 Reply

Thank you story builders, thank you for coming through once again and extending the life of our dear Mrs. Blendinson. Let us continue, shall we? Give our story-so-far a read and take this thing to the heights of your imagination. Don’t hold back just because Mrs. B is a 70-something. As you’ll read, she’s also vengeful and has secrets inside her dress.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when her and Issey (that is Mr.Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham.

What’s next? Only you know the answer…

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Mrs. Blendinson Wants To Live

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Photo by Robert Cudmore

It’s like we’re building a wooden bridge one plank at a time, and right now our (not so innocent) Mrs.  Blendinson is in danger of falling to her death. She may have her flaws, sure, but look into your heart. You don’t really want Mrs. Blendinson to die, do you? Well, at least not this way. If she must expire let your sentence do the dirty work. Yes, have a read of our story so far and lay down your wooden plank of words, and whatever happens our leading lady will accept the consequences. (She would prefer to live, just so you know.)

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

What happens next is in your hands….

Build A Story With Bryan #5

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Photo by Reinhard Kraasch

Wait! Put down that gun, everything’s going to be okay. Build A Story With Bryan is back!

What? Oh. You weren’t distraught over Build A Story’s prolonged hiatus? You say you’ve got a groundhog problem? But Groundhog’s Day isn’t until tomorrow.

And today we’ve got to start construction on this story, which means you’ll need both hands and no blood on them.  As usual, I’ve started us off with an opening sentence and now leave it to you to take it from there. Remember, it’s first come first serve, so when you leave your sentence in the comments be sure it’s building off of what preceded it. And I thank you (and the groundhogs thank you) for participating.

Here’s the opener:

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained some foolish thoughts in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, yes, this foolish thought, if acted upon, would finally put her back on top.

Where we go from here is up to you…

Build A Story With Bryan #4 – The Completed Story

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Photo by The Enchanted Gallery

At long last, here’s our completed piece for Round 4 of Build A Story With Bryan! Thanks to everyone who contributed, as well as to those who read along as it was being created. Round 5 will probably begin in the next few weeks, but until then please enjoy the fruits of Round 4’s labor, and let me know if you have a suggestion for a title.

 

He said there’s nothing to be afraid of and soothed his bitten hand with our last stick of butter. He wasn’t thinking about how fond rats are of butter. Suddenly, there were scratching and squeaking sounds coming from under the floor boards. This was soon followed by a distinct shaking sound, which grew louder by the second.

“What is it?!?,” I screamed.

I’d never seen this man before in my life. A pleasant dinner with open windows and screen doors leads to this. Teacups vibrating off their hooks, shattering on the countertops. I pushed Bobby behind me and backed into the dining room. The house was coming apart.

Suddenly everything was still, and I could hear my own heart beating wildly.

Bobby lunged in front of me and shouted, “What is that?” As he pushed me under the dining room table I caught a glimpse of something I hadn’t seen in years. After all this time, I thought I’d successfully disappeared, but it found me again.

Yes, it was the magician, come back for the audience volunteer who had vanished from his Chinese box all those years ago, and this time he had a blunt instrument!

“I’ll be blunt,” he sneered menacingly.

Bobby erupted in menacing laughter as I leaped toward the gaping hole that had been my dining room wall just minutes before. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him pull out a gleaming blue magic wand and point it at the magician. 

“You know what I’ve done, but not what I’m capable of doing, you nefarious fiend,” he snarled; I had no idea he was capable of sounding so menacing, so otherworldly.

I could scarcely believe what I saw next. I pinched myself to make sure I really was awake, and I was!

Bobby morphed into a creature that can only be described in small bits: green scales here, smoke coming from his three nostrils there, leathery wings that shone with an inner light sprouting from—what were those things? My son! I thought, but was he?

This emerald imp grasped the hem of my dress as it struggled to rise on one horribly deformed foot. As we came eye to eye the skin below its nostril split and that gaping wound grew until it formed a mouth large enough to hold a human head. Its breath was foul.

And like some monstrous chicken it squawked one terrible word: “Mama.”

That word. It snapped me out of my terrified paralysis and an icy calm came over me. I knew what I had to do. I crawled across the floor and opened the desk drawer. I knew what I was looking for was there somewhere. There it was – the letter I’d kept secret all these years, with blood-red sealing wax still keeping its secret intact. Was it finally time to break the seal?

No time for that now I thought. Must find that crossbow. I had made sure to buy a desk with extra large drawers for the sole purpose of storing my crossbows there.

Now, where did I put the key? There, already in the lock. I snapped it open, grabbed the closest bow of nine arrows with one in the pull and spun.

The magician was advancing on Bobby. I brought death to my shoulder and sent a needle through his throat. Blood coughed outward and landed on the floorboards in one great sheet. I spun the iron tensile mechanism I’d invented, so the string drew back on a ratchet and dropped a new arrow into the groove.

Bobby took two strides toward the magician and unleashed a vomit of white flame that did exactly what I imagined. He writhed in the heat storm, yet grew, morphed, metastasized into an undulating giant, too big for the room. It pressed the now burning roof outward like doors to some giant meat cellar. The fire burnt down around it and we found ourselves staring up at a giant forty foot rat, formed by the clawing bodies of thousands of individual rats. If it’s possible, it grinned.

I slung a twenty-count bow onto my back, whistled, and Bobby joined me. He picked a crossbow, the first he’d been given, still flecked with blue and red paint. Together we stalked back into the bathroom and the yard beyond. If only it would be that easy.

As the bracing night air hit me, I turned to my still-mutated son and said, “Um, Bobby, what… I mean how… um, I mean…”

“No time for that now, Mom,” he snapped, “The world as we know it could end within moments if we make one false move.”

We speedily moved through the neighbor’s backyard, the neighbor who lived alone, always kept his shades drawn, rarely left the house, only kept one light upstairs illuminated, and made everyone wonder. The neighbor’s upstairs light went out and the front door opened slowly, revealing a darkness that felt deeper than the moonless night that surrounded us. This was the kind of darkness you only hear about from people who have been in very dark places, both physically and mentally.

I felt Bobby’s claw take my hand and understood its meaning. We both stepped in. A cool breeze met us, misted us, and spurred us on even as I looked back. There was no door behind, only blackness. My instincts told me there were no walls within any distance I could conceive. I shrugged free of the crossbows. We wouldn’t need them here. Our handhold tightened and we continued pacing. Bobby said nothing but tugged twice with meaning, jogging my memory.

“Oh, yes,” I said, and reached into my pocket.

I brought out the envelope, ran my thumb across the wax seal. Bobby’s center claw cut through it and immediately a thin golden light creased its edges searching to be freed. I opened it, the brightening light brought my son into focus, returned from his genetic exile, his big brown eyes filled with the wonder I had known. The light grew and grew into blinding rays of starfire, obscuring everything. I drew Bobby into my arms and held the envelope aloft; the final trick, stolen from a bitter magician who deserved nothing.

And in the distance, if our ears were to be believed, Christmas bells beckoned. It would seem we had made it through another year, after all. We walked toward their promise.

 

 

Build A Story With Bryan #4 – Last Day!

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Photo by Steve Ryan

Yes, it’s Friday already and the last day for this Round 4 of Build A Story. What better way to usher in the holidays (and the end of this story) than with the gift of your imagination wrapped up in a sentence or two. Let’s take this thing home today!

This is not only the year’s last installment of Build A Story, but also my last blog post for 2011. Thank you to everyone who has read and contributed to my blog since its debut in April. I wish you all a restful and peaceful holiday and New Year, and look forward to the exciting opportunities that 2012 will bring.

Now then, let’s complete construction of this story. Here’s what we have so far:

He said there’s nothing to be afraid of and soothed his bitten hand with our last stick of butter. He wasn’t thinking about how fond rats are of butter. Suddenly, there were scratching and squeaking sounds coming from under the floor boards. This was soon followed by a distinct shaking sound, which grew louder by the second.

“What is it?!?,” I screamed.

I’d never seen this man before in my life. A pleasant dinner with open windows and screen doors leads to this. Teacups vibrating off their hooks, shattering on the countertops. I pushed Bobby behind me and backed into the dining room. The house was coming apart.

Suddenly everything was still, and I could hear my own heart beating wildly.

Bobby lunged in front of me and shouted, “What is that?” As he pushed me under the dining room table I caught a glimpse of something I hadn’t seen in years. After all this time, I thought I’d successfully disappeared, but it found me again.

Yes, it was the magician, come back for the audience volunteer who had vanished from his Chinese box all those years ago, and this time he had a blunt instrument!

“I’ll be blunt,” he sneered menacingly.

Bobby erupted in menacing laughter as I leaped toward the gaping hole that had been my dining room wall just minutes before. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him pull out a gleaming blue magic wand and point it at the magician. 

“You know what I’ve done, but not what I’m capable of doing, you nefarious fiend,” he snarled; I had no idea he was capable of sounding so menacing, so otherworldly.

I could scarcely believe what I saw next. I pinched myself to make sure I really was awake, and I was!

Bobby morphed into a creature that can only be described in small bits: green scales here, smoke coming from his three nostrils there, leathery wings that shone with an inner light sprouting from—what were those things? My son! I thought, but was he?

This emerald imp grasped the hem of my dress as it struggled to rise on one horribly deformed foot. As we came eye to eye the skin below its nostril split and that gaping wound grew until it formed a mouth large enough to hold a human head. Its breath was foul.

And like some monstrous chicken it squawked one terrible word: “Mama.”

That word. It snapped me out of my terrified paralysis and an icy calm came over me. I knew what I had to do. I crawled across the floor and opened the desk drawer. I knew what I was looking for was there somewhere. There it was – the letter I’d kept secret all these years, with blood-red sealing wax still keeping its secret intact. Was it finally time to break the seal?

No time for that now I thought. Must find that crossbow. I had made sure to buy a desk with extra large drawers for the sole purpose of storing my crossbows there.

Now, where did I put the key? There, already in the lock. I snapped it open, grabbed the closest bow of nine arrows with one in the pull and spun.

The magician was advancing on Bobby. I brought death to my shoulder and sent a needle through his throat. Blood coughed outward and landed on the floorboards in one great sheet. I spun the iron tensile mechanism I’d invented, so the string drew back on a ratchet and dropped a new arrow into the groove.

Bobby took two strides toward the magician and unleashed a vomit of white flame that did exactly what I imagined. He writhed in the heat storm, yet grew, morphed, metastasized into an undulating giant, too big for the room. It pressed the now burning roof outward like doors to some giant meat cellar. The fire burnt down around it and we found ourselves staring up at a giant forty foot rat, formed by the clawing bodies of thousands of individual rats. If it’s possible, it grinned.

I slung a twenty-count bow onto my back, whistled, and Bobby joined me. He picked a crossbow, the first he’d been given, still flecked with blue and red paint. Together we stalked back into the bathroom and the yard beyond. If only it would be that easy.

As the bracing night air hit me, I turned to my still-mutated son and said, “Um, Bobby, what… I mean how… um, I mean…”

“No time for that now, Mom,” he snapped, “The world as we know it could end within moments if we make one false move.”

We speedily moved through the neighbor’s backyard, the neighbor who lived alone, always kept his shades drawn, rarely left the house, only kept one light upstairs illuminated, and made everyone wonder. The neighbor’s upstairs light went out and the front door opened slowly, revealing a darkness that felt deeper than the moonless night that surrounded us.

How will this story end? Only you know the answer…