I’ve been tagged by enc to continue a narrative thread, to build a story through community. Here's my addition:* * *
“Mum!” hissed a fellow across the aisle, breaking my train of thought. “Our stop is next!”
He gave her a meaningful look, not unkindly, but I sensed a bit of—something—in his gaze. Like his mother, he was dressed like an anachronism: black frock coat, white silk scarf tied at the neck á la Mr. Darcy, and tall black riding boots pulled over his breeches. But in an aggressive nod to the twenty-first century, his long, slender hands were covered with tattoos.
Tattooed Darcy pulled the cord and the bus stopped. He, his elegant mother, and a company of four other similarly-dressed riders stepped off the bus, each carrying a black case.
“Don’t forget Josephine!” called out the fancy woman.
An elfin girl in black leather nodded briskly and followed them, with the budgie safely in hand.
The group walked to the street corner and, after trading looks, opened their cases, removing various instruments—a guitar or two, a keyboard, a drum kit, and a trumpet. I was gaping openly by now, as the grand woman leaned into a microphone and her son, the keyboardist, struck the opening chords.
**I tag materfamilias and Mary-Laure, two great readers, to continue as they deem fit.
He gave her a meaningful look, not unkindly, but I sensed a bit of—something—in his gaze. Like his mother, he was dressed like an anachronism: black frock coat, white silk scarf tied at the neck á la Mr. Darcy, and tall black riding boots pulled over his breeches. But in an aggressive nod to the twenty-first century, his long, slender hands were covered with tattoos.
Tattooed Darcy pulled the cord and the bus stopped. He, his elegant mother, and a company of four other similarly-dressed riders stepped off the bus, each carrying a black case.
“Don’t forget Josephine!” called out the fancy woman.
An elfin girl in black leather nodded briskly and followed them, with the budgie safely in hand.
The group walked to the street corner and, after trading looks, opened their cases, removing various instruments—a guitar or two, a keyboard, a drum kit, and a trumpet. I was gaping openly by now, as the grand woman leaned into a microphone and her son, the keyboardist, struck the opening chords.
**I tag materfamilias and Mary-Laure, two great readers, to continue as they deem fit.
5 comments:
The great writing continues!
I'm still avoiding any effort regarding this.
how interesting.
Thanks for playing along, miss cav. I realize that your blog really isn't the forum for this game, but you were/are the absolute ideal candidate, in my opinion, to carry the story one step further.
And you've done so brilliantly!
Thank you again.
Very nice! Thanks a lot for contributing.
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