by Edeyn Hannah Blackeney
Methinks, then, that I awoke in but an instant at the sounding of the chimes, meant to rouse me from the arms of Morpheus and to call my return clarion from prowling the lands of Noddis Ca'raan. And then whilst most distractedly and in a spate of uffish thought, mine arm didst throw off of myself the winsome companions of my mattresses -- indeed of my bed itself -- both furred and shirred. They did not cry out, for I had not given them voice nor leave to make words.
To my feet I ... stumbled. Much as I would prefer to boldly state that I sprang immediately to stance, it was instead more of a churlish and unpatterned series of rollicking thumps upon my bedchamber carpets punctuated by the cracking of my spine.
But stumbled, I did. In my stupor, still valiantly efforting to throw off the influences of the King of Dream, I made my way to the chamber containing the mad device used to whisk away all of mine offal and waste.
Groggily, as I settled there bemoaning my utter lack of some of the delightfully arcane brew of the Ethiopians (the one that restores the potence and senses of all those with the proclivities toward glacial awakenings), the terrestrial stage coalesces into existence and envelops my being...
I've got to stop falling asleep reading Victorian Literature.
Why am I without my damn coffee?
Who the hell is moaning like the dead?
Oh.
That's me.
"Valery!"
He better not have already left and not made me a pot of coffee.
"Val? You awake?"
There's an answering moan from down the hall. Okay, so he's not awake yet. The good news is that he didn't leave me coffeeless. The bad news is... he didn't leave yet so - I - have to make coffee.
Let's see if I can fill you in, all narrator-style while I finish pulling my sorry ass upright and make it to the kitchen.
Name's... well, my name NOW isn't the same as it was when I was young, so you can just call me ... you can just call me Lysandra. The pile of flesh and bone in the back room of my apartment is my irksome brother Val. Valery for long. Where's the filters at? Why can I never -- ah. So. Why am I narrator of this little light opera? I guess you could say I have the knack for it.
We need a decent coffeemaker. One with a timer. It all started deviously enough -- you can't say it started innocently no matter what you wanna say -- with my girlfriend setting out to guilt me and Val into a brother and sister duo for Vaudeville Night. Yeah, I'm a lesbian, you got a problem with that? Yeesh. Coffee needs to hurry up. I'm heckling my audience that isn't there instead of them heckling me. Slow it may be, but at least this is coffee I'm waiting on and not that chai tea crap that Beaux is always trying to foist on me... I'd rather do without than that. You know what the Jedi Master of Coffee said...
"Brew, or brew not. There is no chai."
Back to my... narrative. So my girlfriend wants us to do some kind of brother and sister act with a twist. She wants me to be the brother and Val to be the sister. Hmph.
Val's game for it, he's a crossdresser anyway. I'm okay with it. But there's something I didn't trust.
"Cassie! You got the coffeepot going?"
* S I G H *
So he steals my thunder at a cool name and interrupts my narration at the same time. Who needs brothers? My name's not even Cassandra or anything. It's stinking "Cassie" on my birth certificate. No one ever accused our parents of having an imagination.
Since he's probably lumbering to the toilet and then in here, I'll make this quick as I can:
We're to do it in period costume. Victorian era -- which she knows I love -- and it doesn't occur to me to object until she's gone.
If anyone's clothes were more uncomfortable than a Victorian-era woman's... it was a Victorian-era man's formalwear.
Damn her. I'm gonna be sore for the next week.
Oooh!
Coffee's done.
Comments
+1 Vote!
I loved -- and stand in awe of -- your opening paragraphs!
The characterization is great, it's a lovely vignette. And leaves me sorry it doesn't GO anywhere :)
Which is kinda the point, I know...
Victorian times had a much more EPIC vocabulary... Drama Queens
... of the opening paragraphs, for those who missed it...
I dragged myself from bed. I'd rather say that I got out of bed and was instantly fully awake, but I kind of staggered as my back popped and cracked as I stood up.
Then I made my clumsy way to the bathroom.
I sat on the toilet and bitched about not having coffee yet as the world came into focus before going into the kitchen to make some.
Now...
What inspired those paragraphs -- and thus the rest of the quick piece (from the time I started typing to when it was posted was maybe fifteen minutes) -- is kind of comical. On the radio was playing a very 1980s song that we've all heard... Dolly Parton's 9 to 5. At the same time I was doing homework on a piece of Victorian-era literature and my mind... fused... them.
That's what i thought too, Edyn!
The bit at the start, when she was waking up, seemed old for Victorian, to me. One can read victorian books today and not find the language particularly odd.
Nevertheless it was an interesting piece that I think COULD go on. I liked it. It was different. I would enjoy seeing it go further.
Briar
Briar
Ah, another great line to
Ah, another great line to quote:
I love it! :)
Saless
"But it is also tradition that times *must* and always do change, my friend." - Eddie Murphy, Coming To America
That opening line. . .
That opening line aught to be nominated for the Bulwer-Lytton prize!
It's very original, but so was "It was a dark and stormy night" when Bulwer-Lytton wrote it. . .