Thursday, March 7, 2013
I haven't done Snippets of a Story since... erm... November. Cough. And the fact is embarrassing me just a little. So we won't call these snippets after any particular month--we'll just pretend there are more of them all around, because more snippets would mean I'd been writing more, which would be a nice thing if it were true.
Oh, and everything's from The Rochesters. Pet project, you know.
“Silence, minions!” Mark shrieked. “The almighty, the immortal, the legendary crooner Mighty Lord Bing of the Crosby has deigned to grace our humble radio with his illustrious presence. Fall on your kneeeeeees and hear the angel voice--”
Francie threw an afghan over his head. “Will you just be quiet and let us listen?”
“Thursday night is game night if everyone’s not busy, usually.” Celia jammed a large pot into a small one, attempted to shut the cabinet door and, failing, resorted to leaning on it. “We draw straws to see who gets to pick the games.”
“What kind of games do you play?” asked Sylvia, who was sedately attending to the cutlery drawer.
“Oh, all kinds. Sometimes board games, sometimes party games. Mark almost always picks Monopoly and Francie picks charades. Nobody likes it when it’s Timmy’s turn because he always picks Uncle Wiggily, which gets old really fast, and Alice has a reputation for picking Find The Grammatical Error In This Sentence.”
“No, I’m not kidding. We really did play that one time. Mark and I did a pretty good job of faking snores by the fourth round. I don’t think we fooled Daddy, but Alice gave up and chose What’s My Line instead.”
Francie put a bowl of egg salad on the table and stared at Celia’s eyebrows. “What, may I ask, has happened to your face, my dear?”
“She was born that way,” said Mark. “You’ll get used to it in time.”
Alice put her hands on her hips. “Celia, wipe off that eyebrow pencil. I said a little bit. You look like Groucho Marx.”
“I was practicing my make-up for the wedding,” said Celia, aggrieved. She put a tentative finger on one eyebrow and brought it down again smudged with black. “And I do not either look like Groucho Marx.”
“Someone very wise once said that it is better to keep silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt,” said George. “I don’t know who originated the remark, but it must have been someone wise, because nobody quotes stupid people.”
“Don’t be so reasonable,” growled Celia. “Of course I don’t expect them to come. I simply intend to have the party without them.”
“How are you going to have a party without any guests?”
“There’s still us. We make up a pretty large party ourselves. We’ll have our party, and we’ll have fun.” The murderous look on Celia’s face indicated that fun would be had or consequences would be suffered.
[Sylvia] had tried her hardest not to cry when she first saw her reflection in the mirror—it was as if part of her head had been removed. All of a sudden her neck seemed much longer and thinner, making her short-haired head appear as if it were sitting atop her shoulders like a giraffe’s noggin. Added to which, Alice had twisted back some pieces on either side of her head and fastened them with barrettes in what was evidently supposed to be an attempt at softening the blow but really succeeded only in making it look as if Sylvia had giraffe horns.