ladyofastolat (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ladyofastolat) wrote2020-03-27 02:58 pm
ladyofastolat) wrote2020-03-27 02:58 pm
Typo fics
So. Many years ago, when fanfic writing, I wrote a series of "typo fics" set in that fandom. It occurs to me every now and then that it would be fun to revisit the idea in a more general way, not tied to a fandom. Now seems like as good a time as any to start. So while isolation lasts, I intend to write and post a typo story every day - or at least until I run out of ideas.
By "typo" I mean the following:
- typos where the finger has just misaimed on one letter
- mistakes with homophones and near-homophones
- malapropisms
Day one
"You saved him!" The girl on the beach was splashed with purple, and weeping. Big sister, Jim thought, although it was hard to see any family resemblance beneath the sticky pulp. He would have to be stern with her later, but not now. Now was the time for comfort.
"Back ashore and safe," he reassured her. "We just need to check him over, but he'll be fine. Tired and scared, but nothing worse, I think."
She collapsed to the sand as if only dread had been keeping her upright, and now the dread had gone, she was left with nothing. Wasps buzzed around her sticky hair, but she seemed unaware of them. "I tried," she whispered. "I tried to pull him out, but I'm not good at swimming, and it was too much. They were too much."
"They are," he agreed. He could have said so much more. The desperate attempt to steer, trying to get in position in the seething purple sea. The dreadful fight, weapons smashing through flesh. He favoured a meat mallet, now red to its tip. Others roared threatening war cries – "Ribena!" and "Roast turkey… with all the trimmings!" – while Alex from London, always precise, somehow managed to wreak crimson havoc with a garlic press. An enormous smoothie maker was attached to their prow, their very own skull-and-crossbones. Perhaps it helped, perhaps it didn't, but none of them would ever dare take out a boat in the bay without one.
"But he'll be okay?" The girl looked up, tears marking lilac tracks on the purple of her cheeks.
"He will." It was time. Jim crouched down beside her, his face stern but his voice gentle. "But you know he should never have gone into the water. There are loads of signs. You must have seen them."
She nodded; shook her head then slowly nodded again, as if the very movement hurt her.
"No swimming at any time," he read aloud. It felt cruel, but it had to be done. "No swimming, because…?"
She said nothing, so he finished it for her. "Because of the strong and dangerous currants."
--
Day two
"…and ninety-seven hamsters," the voice said. It paused. Henry always hated that pause. "Wearing crowns of woven celandines."
It was the sheer tonelessness of the computerised voice that made it so unbearable. Had it gloated, had it hissed in menace, somehow it would be easier to cope with. He could even take an occasional cackle of maniacal laughter. But instead he had this. Just this.
'What are celandines?' he wrote on his pad, holding it up to the rest of the team. They failed to notice. Most of them were still busy wrestling the goat. Torn pink satin littered the incident room.
The goat. Yes. That was a thing. He clutched the phone tighter. "Do you still want us to, um, with the ballet…?"
"You were too slow," said the voice, impassive, merciless. "Our desires have changed."
Henry waved, trying to draw attention. 'Leave the goat,' he tried to convey, wiggling his fingers to mime horns, then dancing feet, then a flap of negation. 'Hamsters,' he wrote, underlining it three times. And celandines. What were celandines? Whatever they were, he hoped they didn't smell. It would take weeks to clear the effects of yesterday's Stilton debacle from the innards of his laptop.
But needs must. He would do what he had to, of course. They all would. It was his job. His duty. The life of an innocent man depended on him.
"Will do," he said. "A hundred and seven hamsters and… the other things."
"And a herring." The line went dead before the voice had even finished the last syllable.
One herring per hamster, or one between them? Or had it been herringbone? Whatever they chose, it would probably be wrong, but what could they do? They had to try. Bide for time, keep the victim alive… and hope that the tech team managed to trace the call before the hamsters gnawed through the phone lines.
Henry sighed, raking his fingers through his thinning hair. Then he stood up, clapping his hands.
"Right, listen up, people! The kidnappers have been in touch with yet another random demand."
--
Day three
He'd almost crashed into a tree.
Will steadied himself with both hands, paused to heave in a breath, then ran on. Five steps. Ten. He found himself looking over his shoulder again. "They're gaining on us. Maybe. I don't kn--"
Pot-hole this time, disaster narrowly averted. His drum smashed painfully into his side.
"At least… no pitch-forks," John panted, struggling with his fiddle case. "Not like… usual."
But there shouldn't be a usual; that was the thing. They were ballad-singers, travelling from village to village, happily singing songs. Selling a good few, too, but a man had to earn his pennies where he could. The trouble was, it was so easy to sing something that just set people off: a heedless line about enjoying a great loaf in Lincolnshire, or something like that. A crowd could turn against you in an instant, becoming… this.
Will glanced back again. "They've got knives, though."
Rooks cawed above them, as if gathering for a feast.
Another look. The leader raised his knife aloft, then smashed it into the yellow hunk in his hand. He grinned, teeth glinting. "And… cheese, I think," Will said.
"Just be thankful… it's not… Sunday," John panted. "Never did… like roast… beef."
Another glance. Despite the baskets and the blankets, despite the flagons and the cheese and the mountains of bread and the buckets of apples, the crowd was still gaining on them. He could hear them calling now, stray phrases carried by the breeze: "Just try it! It tastes better than it smells!" and, "Take two because they're so small," and, "No, no, I insist!" Spoons were dipped into honeypots and thrust out like bayonets. Knives glinted. The lady with the eggs was having difficulties. The sturdy farmer was demanding a chorus in praise of his radishes, and the dairy maid wanted a musical denunciation of all cheeses that were not local cheeses.
Right. That was it. No more looking back. "We need to stop talking." He quickened his pace. "Just run. We can't let ourselves get caught by the lunch mob."
By "typo" I mean the following:
- typos where the finger has just misaimed on one letter
- mistakes with homophones and near-homophones
- malapropisms
Day one
"You saved him!" The girl on the beach was splashed with purple, and weeping. Big sister, Jim thought, although it was hard to see any family resemblance beneath the sticky pulp. He would have to be stern with her later, but not now. Now was the time for comfort.
"Back ashore and safe," he reassured her. "We just need to check him over, but he'll be fine. Tired and scared, but nothing worse, I think."
She collapsed to the sand as if only dread had been keeping her upright, and now the dread had gone, she was left with nothing. Wasps buzzed around her sticky hair, but she seemed unaware of them. "I tried," she whispered. "I tried to pull him out, but I'm not good at swimming, and it was too much. They were too much."
"They are," he agreed. He could have said so much more. The desperate attempt to steer, trying to get in position in the seething purple sea. The dreadful fight, weapons smashing through flesh. He favoured a meat mallet, now red to its tip. Others roared threatening war cries – "Ribena!" and "Roast turkey… with all the trimmings!" – while Alex from London, always precise, somehow managed to wreak crimson havoc with a garlic press. An enormous smoothie maker was attached to their prow, their very own skull-and-crossbones. Perhaps it helped, perhaps it didn't, but none of them would ever dare take out a boat in the bay without one.
"But he'll be okay?" The girl looked up, tears marking lilac tracks on the purple of her cheeks.
"He will." It was time. Jim crouched down beside her, his face stern but his voice gentle. "But you know he should never have gone into the water. There are loads of signs. You must have seen them."
She nodded; shook her head then slowly nodded again, as if the very movement hurt her.
"No swimming at any time," he read aloud. It felt cruel, but it had to be done. "No swimming, because…?"
She said nothing, so he finished it for her. "Because of the strong and dangerous currants."
--
Day two
"…and ninety-seven hamsters," the voice said. It paused. Henry always hated that pause. "Wearing crowns of woven celandines."
It was the sheer tonelessness of the computerised voice that made it so unbearable. Had it gloated, had it hissed in menace, somehow it would be easier to cope with. He could even take an occasional cackle of maniacal laughter. But instead he had this. Just this.
'What are celandines?' he wrote on his pad, holding it up to the rest of the team. They failed to notice. Most of them were still busy wrestling the goat. Torn pink satin littered the incident room.
The goat. Yes. That was a thing. He clutched the phone tighter. "Do you still want us to, um, with the ballet…?"
"You were too slow," said the voice, impassive, merciless. "Our desires have changed."
Henry waved, trying to draw attention. 'Leave the goat,' he tried to convey, wiggling his fingers to mime horns, then dancing feet, then a flap of negation. 'Hamsters,' he wrote, underlining it three times. And celandines. What were celandines? Whatever they were, he hoped they didn't smell. It would take weeks to clear the effects of yesterday's Stilton debacle from the innards of his laptop.
But needs must. He would do what he had to, of course. They all would. It was his job. His duty. The life of an innocent man depended on him.
"Will do," he said. "A hundred and seven hamsters and… the other things."
"And a herring." The line went dead before the voice had even finished the last syllable.
One herring per hamster, or one between them? Or had it been herringbone? Whatever they chose, it would probably be wrong, but what could they do? They had to try. Bide for time, keep the victim alive… and hope that the tech team managed to trace the call before the hamsters gnawed through the phone lines.
Henry sighed, raking his fingers through his thinning hair. Then he stood up, clapping his hands.
"Right, listen up, people! The kidnappers have been in touch with yet another random demand."
--
Day three
He'd almost crashed into a tree.
Will steadied himself with both hands, paused to heave in a breath, then ran on. Five steps. Ten. He found himself looking over his shoulder again. "They're gaining on us. Maybe. I don't kn--"
Pot-hole this time, disaster narrowly averted. His drum smashed painfully into his side.
"At least… no pitch-forks," John panted, struggling with his fiddle case. "Not like… usual."
But there shouldn't be a usual; that was the thing. They were ballad-singers, travelling from village to village, happily singing songs. Selling a good few, too, but a man had to earn his pennies where he could. The trouble was, it was so easy to sing something that just set people off: a heedless line about enjoying a great loaf in Lincolnshire, or something like that. A crowd could turn against you in an instant, becoming… this.
Will glanced back again. "They've got knives, though."
Rooks cawed above them, as if gathering for a feast.
Another look. The leader raised his knife aloft, then smashed it into the yellow hunk in his hand. He grinned, teeth glinting. "And… cheese, I think," Will said.
"Just be thankful… it's not… Sunday," John panted. "Never did… like roast… beef."
Another glance. Despite the baskets and the blankets, despite the flagons and the cheese and the mountains of bread and the buckets of apples, the crowd was still gaining on them. He could hear them calling now, stray phrases carried by the breeze: "Just try it! It tastes better than it smells!" and, "Take two because they're so small," and, "No, no, I insist!" Spoons were dipped into honeypots and thrust out like bayonets. Knives glinted. The lady with the eggs was having difficulties. The sturdy farmer was demanding a chorus in praise of his radishes, and the dairy maid wanted a musical denunciation of all cheeses that were not local cheeses.
Right. That was it. No more looking back. "We need to stop talking." He quickened his pace. "Just run. We can't let ourselves get caught by the lunch mob."