Greetings from the Omnigraphic Blogopticon. On view are vile sticky things dragged from the attic, snarky commentary on the world at large, and all-encompassing ennui. All that and a weird rubbery smell. A horrible time will be had by all.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

I've Done Something, But I'm Not Sure What Exactly

I haven't been blogging for a while because things have been eating my brain.  Three of those things appear to be bad novels, one a compendium of patterns for filet unmentionables, and yet another is a Victorian lady inventors' quarterly cobbled together from my long-dead steambustle site.  All of these but one is at some level of not-finished, though barely-started would be the more accurate description.  I should be knitting instead, or perhaps napping.

One finished project published to Amazon is Grace Harlowe At Overton College, Or Freshman Year Among the Undead, one of those half-assed mashups so popular with the cool kids these days.  I started this one when I came back from having dental students play havoc with a cracked molar, but other than awesome painkillers I have no excuse.

If you've read the old-timey Grace Harlowe series, Grace was an insufferable busybody, as was popular in 1915, and played an ungodly amount of basketball.  She rights wrongs and meddles in others' affairs and impresses the entire school with her blah blah blah.

Amazon thoughtfully provides a preview, though the undead don't make an appearance until later.

Random excerpt, whereupon Grace and her friends Miriam and Elfreda are escorted to a college reception by several lively juniors.

Just as they were ready to start the door bell rang. There was a sound of loud, laughing voices and the stumble of slippered feet on the stairs, and Mabel Ashe, accompanied by two more juniors no one had ever heard of nor cared about, appeared on the landing.
"Well, aren't you the gnat's whiskers," announced Mabel a little too loudly, as Grace appeared in the doorway. "Positively the dog's intestinal worms! We've come to escort you to that shindig but we gotta make up for lost time." She pulled up her long skirt, took a silver hip flask out of the top of her stocking and handed it to Grace.
"Why, I didn't know juniors were invited to the reception," exclaimed Grace, refusing Mabel's flask.
"Suit yourself, toots," giggled Mabel. "We weren't invited, but we're crashing the joint. I got a fella I'm goofy for in the orchestra and we'll probably neck in his car during breaks." She took a swig from the flask and stuck it back into her stocking top.
"I'm so glad you'll be going," returned Grace warmly. "We know nearly all the freshmen, even the smelly ones, but we know only a few sophomores. We were lamenting to-night because we expected to be wall flowers."
"Not if I can help it, doll," promised Mabel. "Girls, these two tomatoes are Miss Graham and Miss Allen. They know a couple swell fellas in case you gals wanna make it a petting party."
The "tomatoes" sniggered as Mabel presented Grace and her friends. Miss Graham waved, slipped, and nearly pulled Miss Allen back down the stairs.
"Get your glad rags and let's ankle," directed Mabel. "Who's the wet blanket?" She nodded at Anne, who was curled up in a chair with a hot water bottle jammed firmly in her lap.
"Did the cork come out of the bottle?" Anne began to grope around the fabric of her robe, much to the amusement of the three juniors. "I am not at all wet," she protested.
"Her friend has come to visit," said Grace, being very deliberate, and making vague hand gestures towards the region of her waist. "Her friend." The juniors burst into gales of laughter.
"Bank's closed, huh, toots?” asked Mabel, sympathetically. Miss Graham and Miss Allan snorted and spluttered.
"Oh! You horrid things!" shrieked Anne, and with that she stormed out of the room.
"So's your old man," replied Mabel, sending Miss Graham and Miss Allen into near hysterics. Mabel fumbled around in her stocking for the flask which had slipped down nearly to her ankle, took another swallow and bellowed, “Let's blow this joint!” With that, the three juniors slipped and stumbled and giggled back down the stairs.
Grace found her wrap and was primping in the mirror when behind her there was a soft cough, a splatty sort of cracking sound, and Miriam quickly stepped back. On the polished wood floor where she once stood, were the remains of a fresh egg.
"Oh, Miriam," sighed Grace. "Please contain yourself. We might be dancing with sophomores to-night."
"I tried to hold it in," Miriam muttered sullenly, grabbing her wrap. "I don't lay eggs on purpose, you know."
Elfreda harrumphed, "You did yesterday. We had boiled eggs for luncheon." She farted quietly. The muffler and charcoal filter in her skirt were working splendidly. "Honestly, if you stupid Oakdale people are gonna lie about eggs, I don't know who I can trust."
"Elfreda is right," said Grace, mopping up the egg. "We should be able to trust one another, and be truthful, and honest, and rah rah rah, Overton——"
"Blah blah blah," interrupted Elfreda. "We don't have any time for your Goody Two Shoes hogwash. We've got a reception to attend."


Scott said...

Now you're scaring your readers off.

Also, your comments thingy is challenging me to prove I'm not a robot. I'm not sure I can do that. I mean, can any of us really prove we're not robots?

Severina said...

But you are a robot. A robot who can dance!

Severina said...

I meant a cyborg born to dance. Whatever.