Off In Her Own Inken World

In which I set forth a few of my pet inklings, both previously introduced and otherwise. A few of them sprouted extensions, you see, and I thought it might be fun to share their Further Adventures!  (And just a side note to say that I do know that commenting is being a Technically Difficult Procedure in the blogging world these days, so never fear, I shall take views as visits, and enjoy them quite thoroughly just as they are :) 

And on we go to the scribbles, because for reasons not particularly particular I should rather like to get this up before I tumble into bed tonight... And therefore am trying not to stand about spouting excesses in the way of wordiness. We will see how successful I am at this. 

But for now... From the same world as the Disappointing Porridge, I give you The Extended Snippet. Janet has gone to help a neighbour, (or attend a Ladies Aid meeting, or visit her sister... That is to say, she did not inform me precisely where she was going, but one does suppose it must have been somewhere.) and Albert (IS his name Albert, do you think? Or is he more of a Henry? I find myself doubtful on both scores, but it wrote itself in so glibly that it simply There for now. Oh, no! Wait, wait just a moment, I forgot, I already named him. He is called Thomas. And I'm glad, it suits him SO much the better.) had only to put his dinner in the oven, and take it out again.

"Black clouds were just in the process of escaping from the doorway of the kitchen as he entered, carrying with them, so he thought, sniffing at them ponderingly, that simultaneously repulsive and appetizing odour of burnt cheese. He suspected the casserole was done, and went to seek the smoke at its source. Turning off the oven with a nonchalance born of past experiences in this field, he stuck one hand in a previously laid out oven mitt and extracted it.

Turning, he retrieved a cleanish butter knife from the sink and stuck it carefully in the center of the casserole, just as Janet had taught him. Several seconds elapsing, he removed it, and held it to his tongue to test the temperature. 

He judged from the sizzle that followed that it was not underdone in the middle this time, and considered it a triumph. Bearing his coup to the table, he hunted through the pile of dishes in the sink until he found a plate and fork, holding these  under the faucet for some moments before looking them over critically. Liking what he saw, he nodded at them approvingly.

"Clean as cold water would get 'em, eh, Mick?"

He chuckled, addressing this remark to the dog. Mick was not ordinarily allowed in Janet's kitchen, of course, but Thomas was constructed in a fashion that required company at mealtimes, and Mick was all the company there was to be had at present.

The dog, though a sympathetic creature as a rule, did not seem to fully appreciate his wit on this occasion, and shrugging as if to say it was his loss, Thomas went back to his casserole. It was a very good casserole. Or at least, it had been when Janet had put it in the icebox for him the previous evening. It seemed to have gathered the occasional smut from the billows of smoke that had alerted him that it was done, but Thomas was not a picky man, and enjoyed it for all that.

The dog looked up at him with pleading eyes, 

and Thomas, never capable of resisting sadness in the eyes of human or beast, slipped him a penitent forkful."

                                                    ~*~

And here is one very random snippet not connected to any other I've posted before... (Isn't it astonishing and wonderful how a whole world you'd never met a minute ago is suddenly just There, and you know everything about it? The people and what things look like, and how many lights are on in the house, and whether they dust the piano every Tuesday, or every other month.  Just all of it. It is intriguing and very wonderful to me.)

"Heaping this stinging specimen in the way of indictments unexpectedly on my head where the traditional coals of fire would have been more effective, she stormed off.

"Good riddance," said I to myself aloud. Yet my tone, which would have convinced a member of Parliament in a second split like a hair, did little to balm my own injured sections. Namely those situated in the neighbourhood of the third coat button, and within the cranial bit of ivory with which every man is supplied at birth. Or at least I assume this to be where one's pride makes its home. Perhaps it really lives alongside the heart in among the coat buttons. But no matter. The point is that the load, which she had applied in lavish and indiscriminate spadefuls, stayed with me. Say I only stayed? Nay, but throve and multiplied."

                                                   ~*~

The Marmalade Scribble, second snippet. (Which needs a new title, rather, but has yet to save up enough pocket money for one... So it goes about in this still.)

"The tea kettle, which had been standing close at hand while the potatoes were being pared for supper, was looking splashed and starchy. These she wiped with the experienced hand of the born homemaker, turning to use the cloth next on the counter. Toast crumbs were swept onto the sink, and they (along with such jam as might have been picked up by the cloth, for she had been making jam tarts for tomorrow's tea,) were washed away under a ready faucet. She gave the faucet itself one last swipe, and surveyed her little domain with pride swelling in her housewifely little heart. The brass was polished, the glass sparkled, and even the cast iron pot seemed to emit rays of pure homeyness. It was just like playing house when she was a little girl. Only now she had a real husband coming home to his dinner, and not only the neighbour boy who had to be coerced into playing by the promise of a cookie afterwards.

Real... She gave a little wriggle of happiness, her eyes flying to the clock even as her hands flew butterflylike over her hair, tucking in loosened wisps and escaping hairpins, and untying her apron strings. He would be there in another five minutes, and there was the table not yet set. The blue and white dishes made a pretty pattern on the snowy tablecloth as she set them 'round, and laying out the cutlery, she polished the lamp's chimney at the centre of it and stepped back. 

There. 

All was pleasant and at the ready. He need only walk in the door, apply himself to the soap and towel, and dinner would be served.

But it was not served until an hour later than the prescribed time. The minutes ticking by slowly found her pacing, the potatoes roasting just a smidgen past true prime, and the gravy needing to be stirred on the back of the stove repeatedly. Stirring it vigorously for the fourteenth time in ten aching minutes, she gave up the fight and burst into tears of strain and worry just as the door swung open.

"What's this, now?" He asked gruffly, catching a tear that was sliding by with a hand as gentle as his voice was rough. Her tears always had this effect on him.

She gave a shuddering little laugh, trying to hide the rest of the reservoir.

"N-nothing. Only you took such a time coming home, and I had just begun to think you had been run over in the street."

He caught the little hand as it was brushing away  the evidence of an hour's worry, and nearly groaned as he looked into the eyes that were trying to sparkle at him as if it had been silly of them ever to be quenched.

"They gave me a mountain of paperwork just as I was leaving, honey. I would have 'phoned, but the line was down. I'm sorry I worried you."

He thought hard and uncharitable thoughts about people who went around dumping mountains on people who were just going home to their dinners, and then had not the decency to supply them with telephones to call home with. Surely the telephone company had the brains to figure out that this was a basic human right. He'd have a word with them in the morning, if they did not, and make it all quite plain to them that this was not to be a repeat performance."

                                                  ~*~

And lastly, and possibly familiarly to some... There is this. 

"He was troubling the waters considerably, and it seemed to me that they were getting just a little peevish about it. The wind was picking up too, and I wrapped my macintosh tighter around myself.

"I say, haven't you found it yet?"

He looked up at me with an irritable light in his eyes and a bite in his words.

"Would I still be dregging around in this confounded water if I had found it? No, dad-blame it. And why aren't you down here helping me?"

I explained it to him patiently for what had to be the fourth time in quarter of an hour.

"Because someone has to stand watch. You don't want all and sundry to know you lost your watch throwing it at sea gulls and forgot to get your swim things on before you dove in after, do you?"

He was starting to look just a trifle blue and chilly, so I suggested that he might just take a short break and come warm himself by the fire with a cup of cocoa and a bathrobe, and I would mark the spot with an X personally. The look he sent me defied description, so I have not attempted to set it down here. Besides, I wouldn't want to afflict the world at large with a thing like that. Suffice it to say that he didn't want any, and I lapsed into silence other than the occasional encouraging shout to keep up morale.

Things like "Hi! There's a good fellow, you almost had him that time. He won't get by you again!" And "My, but they ARE making pocket watches slippery these days. Get one of those extra grip, guaranteed not to fall out of your pocket ones next time, I've seen them advertised," and other words of wisdom built along the same lines. It was cruel, perhaps, when the poor fish was floundering amid the waves drenched to the marrow in the briney stuff, but after the talking to he'd given me on the train over about being careless with my belongings, I felt I had the right to rib him a little.

                                                    ~*~

And that is that! Only a few snippets out for an airing (which I say nearly every time, I know XD) and a good time... While myself, my idea of a good time at the moment is to crawl under the covers and stick my nose in things written by someone other than myself whilst the snippets are busy with this. (Less nerve wracking when one doesn't ALWAYS know what the children are getting up to, you know.)

And with that, I bid you a very good night, (Though for Cecilia and Caroline it is possibly morning. Or yet afternoon. In which case, Good-Whatever-Time-It-May-Chance-To-Be, ye kindreds!)

Emi Of Idlewood, over and out like a light. (But with a flashlight under the covers, because this is a very sensible way to read books in a dark room. Also it is more Exciting than just sitting up in bed casting shadows about the room as you read. )