Typewriter Tuesday Post 3 by DMG Byrnes

Typewritten Tuesday post 3

theatre

Her knees shook as she hid in the darkness of the shielding curtains and the low lit backstage of the theatre, the show was about to begin. She thought her heart would choke her, the way her throat constricted at the thought of performing before all of the hungry, waiting eyes.

The other performers and stage hands dashed about in the shadows like phantoms of the opera house. Usually she was as calm and collected as any other singer that has met audience and stage for more than a handful of years. No, it was not the usual crowds packing the theatre that set her trembling in her sequins and lace, the train of her dress more than capable of wrapping itself around her twice if not thrice.

It was the notice of the Queen’s attendance that set her blood to slow and her brain to let tumble loose all that she needed to remember as lead singer and actress in a performance attended by the Queen herself.

She imagined the stately crown perched on one of the velvet lined seats in one of the private balconies that would no doubt be near the stage. She imaged the regal woman’s rich robes draped over the wearing but well cared for cushions.

The boards creaked beneath her feet as a stagehand notified her of curtain call. She peered around the deep red curtains once more at the sea of faceless people as she searched for that aging face of the first Queen in a hundred years to visit the humble yet highly renowned theatre. Many shows had been performed within its walls. Royalty and peasant alike could find a seat at a show, on the right evening of course. They did not allow the general public to usually attend the same shows as royalty or state heads.

This was a special and possibly fortuitous night, indeed, if the good Queen enjoyed herself. Such a figure spouting kind words or even praise would be a boon to the company. As much as the uncertainty of the work gave her anxiety, the love she felt for the slowly rotting boards beneath her feet, the soon to be moth eaten curtains, all could benefit from the influx of interest in a play in favor of the Queen.

Once more she collected herself before turning to the darker world behind the stage, where worlds take shape, and people were born. Here we go, she thought, whipping the trailing dress behind her.

 


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Typewriter Tuesday Post 2 by DMG Byrnes

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The open road before her was as exciting as it was terrifying. Never before had she been left to explore so many miles of deserted road alone. She had so rarely been left alone her whole life…well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had never been trusted to be out on her own like this, with freedom instead of a demanding schedule with no room for error or deviation.

She could hear the gravel being kicked up by her tires as she sped along the lonely road highly spoken of in so many songs by weary musicians. Dirt clouds kicked up behind her tires as she flew over the pavement where the dirt kissed the hot asphalt with little warning.

Though the sun beat harshly over her head now, as evidenced by the increasing temperature in the truck’s cab, up ahead, just on the edge of the horizon, she could see a looming cloud above the high plateau and empty road.

Her tires began to beat an unexpected and unnatural rhythm against the pavement, an unwelcome indication of a flat tire. As if in answer to her cursed thought, the steering wheel began to shudder beneath her tanned hands and her tongue let loose a steady stream of curses that would have made her father laugh his howling guffaw while her mother scoffed in the corner.

Her truck rattled and jarred its way onto the uneven terrain of the barely passable shoulder of that deserted, unnamed stretch of highway. She begrudgingly cut the ignition, taking a now appraising glance at the horizon before opening the squeaky door and taking stock of her truck wheels to find the traitor.

 


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Typewriter Tuesday Post 1 by DMG Byrnes

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It was a cold, dark night that she heard the scream that chilled her blood to icicles within her veins. It resounded and echoed past the lonely walls of the decrepit manor she resided in as her father had commanded of her, his only daughter.

No, this was the type of scream that is not confined behind stone and mortar, it trailed and reverberated over the hills and moors beyond the Drake Manor, where few came, and even fewer seemed to ever come out.

The wild wind whipped up the wailing voice and carried it away, farther than any could have imagined. The wind carried it so far and howled so forcefully that the scream was lost amongst the tempest’s call.

She hugged the thin shawl closer to her wispy frame. If any of the servants rose from bed, they could easily mistake the Count’s daughter for a spirit or a ghost, her ghastly stricken face unable to mask the disquiet she felt in her heart since that shattering scream had shaken her from her uneasy slumber.

Even now, she trembled with the beating of her heart, with the promise of shattering her fragile ribcage in the persistent and vehement beating. Standing in the drafty corridor, she feared her booming organ would betray her to any unsoundly sleeping ears. Her lily white hand found purchase on her chest, as if to guard against the real threat of her heart beating out of her chest.

A scratching, snuffling sound startled her as the cold nose of one of the manor hounds shook her from her frozen form amid the cold, unfeeling stone around her, and the unfriendly night beyond the frosting window panes.

She let her tiny fingers play in the soft, inviting fur of the only hound that she was not afraid would turn on her and devoir her as they did the scraps of meat the dog masters threw to them. For this reason, this mutt alone was allowed inside the main wing of the house instead of in the pens with the other hounds. The large and wolfish looking Shepard was deceptively sweet, for all of his vicious stature and physique.

The opening of a door further spurned her into action and she deftly slipped back inside her fire lit chamber, with the black hound in tow, she carefully shut the door, listening for any signs of detection before retiring to her now chilly bed in futile hopes of returning to slumber. She snuggled close to the mongrel on the bed beside her, taking comfort from his warm and protective presence.

The morning could not come soon enough, so she thought…

 


 

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A Drop of Magic: Introducing Typewriter Tuesday

I remember being about seven or eight years old and begging my mother to let me play with her typewriter. It came in what looked like a massive hard backed suitcase, and the moment it opened and that beautiful machine was placed on the desk, my fingers practically sizzled with electricity and anticipation; I remember the smell of metal, ink, and paper, the smell of magic…

Maybe it’s the sounds, maybe the way the keys feel as you press them down with purpose, the way you have to use the carriage return to move to the next line, I couldn’t say, but ever since I can remember, I’ve been fascinated with and loved typewriters.

A few years ago, in a series of circumstances that screamed fate to this fiction loving fiend, including my birthday coinciding with finding a beautiful (incredibly priced), Royal Typewriter from the 20’s with the original typewriter handbook and included a new ribbon in addition to the one in the still working typewriter.

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As an author, I find it fun to sit down at this beauty on occasion and type whatever comes to mind. It’s one of the few times free writing works for me. There’s something about a typewriter with a waiting page that invites the fingers to strike the keys and watch the paper come alive.

I’ve sat down a time or two to type out some nonsense here or there just to play with the keys and the carriage return, to have a reason to hear the clicking, smell that ink and paper perfume. But then, I thought, perhaps I could do something a little more constructive with this typewriter love of mine.

My thought was to start a series of posts where I would take a few minutes and type out a few hundred words and see what comes out. After writing and putting together a couple of posts before launching (you know, adulting!), I started wondering how many others out there might have a love of typewriters and writing too! How many might even have a working typewriter and want to write a post of their own?

So I posted on Twitter to see who might be interested but on further thought, it might be easier to explain and see who might actually wish to participate here than in 140 character spurts on Twitter. Not all things work best with brevity.

So what am I looking for in a post?

  • Written on a typewriter (obviously); it doesn’t matter the year of the typewriter, or if it’s electric, no snobs here, just love of typewriters!
  • No minimum, but up to one full page
  • Topic and genre don’t matter; fiction, nonfiction, prose, poetry, send it all! (Please no extreme gore, unnecessary violence, or hate)

The rest is up to you! Surprise me, surprise yourself; let those fingers fly! I am not sure what to expect and have no idea how many people may have interest in or access to a functional typewriter, but I’ll never know without trying! So, starting next week (March 8th) I will launch my first Typewriter Tuesday Post!

I’d like to invite anyone and everyone with interest to send in your own typewritten piece to be posted on my blog.

Those interested should send:

  • An email to dmg@dmgbyrnes.com with the subject: Typewriter Tuesday
  • A Word document (or copy into the body of the email) with your post (for readability purposes)
  • A picture/scan of your typewritten post (both will be posted together)
  • A short bio (less than 50 words), a photo to go with it, and link to your website (if you would like)
  • A photo of your typewriter (optional)

I have no idea what to expect, but I’m excited about the possibilities!! 😀 Next week I will post one of my own to kick things off, but please send whenever you wish! There will be a weekly post every Tuesday, and one random guest each month with guest posts will be featured in my monthly Newsletter!

Please feel free to ask any questions, and of course to share with anyone you think might be interested. I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve got!

Remember, this is just for fun, something to get the writing muscles warmed up. Use time on your typewriter as a spring board for your creative juices, try something new, explore a character or setting, you decide! There’s no pressure, just a fun way to write and use typewriters, because

typewriters are cool doctor

Are you a typewriter fan? Why or why not?

 

 

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