I’ve wanted to replicate Geoff’s style for awhile now, but he is a very …unique sort of writer. Take Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, and Mark Twain; then add a little brain injury or late night staring at hedgerows and you’ve nearly got him.
Since I’m not those authors and lack any hedges (I’m American), I’ve vowed to do the best I can. Geoff writes spot-on reviews of plays or movies, brags about his amazing garden (with pictures), and includes the occasional stint into poetry. Most of the time, however, he comes up with the strangest of short stories (supposedly) based on photo prompts.
The final sort is what I chose to mimic. I give you, therefore,
Tricks and Stones #writephoto
‘What d’you think, Francisissi?’
‘Hard to say, hard to say…’
‘But you do say it’s him; tell me you say that, at least.’
Thomaquinas scratched a gravelly spot near his ear. He attempted to pull at his robes near another, equally irritated area, but failed. ‘Hard to say…’
A puff of dust exited Fran’s facial orifice that once resembled a mouth. He should’ve expected this; should have brought along Patrireland or even Thérieux. No, maybe not Théri. Last time she’d literally talked the ear off the poor soul –
Thom shifted uncomforably. He always shifted uncomfortably, of course, but managed to convey that this particular discomfort came from his needing to answer Fran and not, as was usual, from a necessarily stiff figure.
‘So is he a close enough resemblance to try it?’
Thom considered, his features a blank slate as he did so. He nodded, dropping a few chinks of neck in process.
‘Right.’ Fran raised his arms stiffly to meet Thom’s. Their palms touched in a small crumble of grey dust. Fran winced.
Aiseray isthay oulsay omfray ethay astpay, the two intoned. Aiseray isthay oulsay omfray ethay astpay!
More dust and chips of rock fell as they attempted to raise their arms. The ground rumbled. Grass wilted. A doe, as surprised by talking stone as readers are to find a doe suddenly inserted in a paragraph, leaped away. The statue before the chanting pair shook slightly, else shook because the ground beneath it did.
Beginning with a muffled ‘Eeeur,’ and ending with a shouted, ‘Rrrrraugh!’ the man before them began moving. Dust, bits, and the odd bird excrement flew at Thom and Fran from his stretching limbs. Uttering a final, Omfray ethay astpay!, they stepped back apace and dropped their hands.
‘Yeaurgh!’ the third man said. He shook and twisted at his immobile robes, then fixed blank, grey eyes on his rescuers. ‘What’s this, then?’
‘Eh?’ Tilting his head to the side, he smacked at an ear. Smallish rubble and powder drifted from the downward side of his face and rained on the wilted grass.
‘Are you,’ Fran queried, ‘Simeter?’
‘Who?’ Their companion tilted the other way, smacking more grey detritus to the ground.
‘Simeter,’ Thom ventured, ‘Or, maybe …Paulsus?’
‘Who, me?’ The once-statue’s face nearly broke as he broke into a grin. ”Fraid not, boys.’
Thom turned and fixed Fran with a stonelike stare. ‘Well,’ Thom gulped, coughing from swallowed dust, ‘Who are you?”
‘Dominizza,’ Dominizza shrugged, ‘The pizza deliverer.’
I probably murdered it, so sorry to Geoff. To the rest of you, try him out if he’s your cup of tea.
Photo Credit: unsplash-logoZac Farmer
©2019 Chelsea Owens