Hark! A novella?
I was reading Hark, a vagrant last night and realized I have really wanted to write a very Austen-affected period piece. This was much more difficult than I thought. Please tell me what you think, as I am not sure whether to finish this thought or not.
She was not proper. She hated the word amiable. She wore her hair up and did not look back when leaving a room. She hated small talk and women who always wore jewelry. She hated him. Her name was Jane, and she was certainly not amiable.
Jane did not scowl, but it was not out of some effort that this was the case. She simply did not. He, on the other hand, scowled as much as he smiled, and she did not approve of how easy it was for him to do both. She detested his jaunty hats and lovely outfits, especially the silk stockings and bright buttons. Oh, how wretched, she thought, to be so distracting.
Jane enjoyed grass to flowers. She liked to watch the sun shine through the blades and turn them different shades of green. Life was much more containable in shades of green. He, on the other hand, was much too colorful.
It began with the may party - summer was just around the corner and everyone was much too agitated to keep to themselves. Jane sat in a white wrought-iron chair and watched as her mother bounced about, all in white, swinging her croquet club this way and that. It had become a usual occurrence for Jane to escort her mother to these events.
There were much too many women, or at least whatever men were present quickly found places out of sight to murmur in their stale way elsewhere. Everyone seemed to be washed over with a layer of white. Pinks, and yellows and blues all made into shades suited for babies’ blankets. At least, Jane thought, it was better than the usual.
She felt the reverberation of something hitting the leg of her lawn chair and slowly looked to the ground. A croquet ball sat there curiously. Jane looked in the direction it came from and saw him, coming toward her at a casual jaunt, waving the club half-heartedly. He looked slightly sheepish at the whole thing, and smiled broadly. She did not make an effort to change her expression in either direction.
He looked at her quizzically for a second or two before jaunting off again, this time at a faster pace, to resume his game. Jane felt her mother’s eyes on her, and she readjusted her sun hat to rest firmly on her head, shading her face from view. Jane was not in the mood for a lecture about her lack of sociability. Jane was never in the mood for such things.
She sat with her hands resting softly on her book, staring half-heartedly at the grass.
She was not proper. She hated the word amiable. She wore her hair up and did not look back when leaving a room. She hated small talk and women who always wore jewelry. She hated him. Her name was Jane, and she was certainly not amiable.
Jane did not scowl, but it was not out of some effort that this was the case. She simply did not. He, on the other hand, scowled as much as he smiled, and she did not approve of how easy it was for him to do both. She detested his jaunty hats and lovely outfits, especially the silk stockings and bright buttons. Oh, how wretched, she thought, to be so distracting.
Jane enjoyed grass to flowers. She liked to watch the sun shine through the blades and turn them different shades of green. Life was much more containable in shades of green. He, on the other hand, was much too colorful.
It began with the may party - summer was just around the corner and everyone was much too agitated to keep to themselves. Jane sat in a white wrought-iron chair and watched as her mother bounced about, all in white, swinging her croquet club this way and that. It had become a usual occurrence for Jane to escort her mother to these events.
There were much too many women, or at least whatever men were present quickly found places out of sight to murmur in their stale way elsewhere. Everyone seemed to be washed over with a layer of white. Pinks, and yellows and blues all made into shades suited for babies’ blankets. At least, Jane thought, it was better than the usual.
She felt the reverberation of something hitting the leg of her lawn chair and slowly looked to the ground. A croquet ball sat there curiously. Jane looked in the direction it came from and saw him, coming toward her at a casual jaunt, waving the club half-heartedly. He looked slightly sheepish at the whole thing, and smiled broadly. She did not make an effort to change her expression in either direction.
He looked at her quizzically for a second or two before jaunting off again, this time at a faster pace, to resume his game. Jane felt her mother’s eyes on her, and she readjusted her sun hat to rest firmly on her head, shading her face from view. Jane was not in the mood for a lecture about her lack of sociability. Jane was never in the mood for such things.
She sat with her hands resting softly on her book, staring half-heartedly at the grass.