Skip to main content

Antonia Primm I

I'm moving the story into a sort of rural, sort of urban steampunk setting, but I haven't been able to think of any good technology yet. I have been thinking about some high-tech steampunk farm equipment though. 



The ringing of the school bell signaling the start of class could be heard throughout the entirety of the little town. 

Antonia Primm, the new schoolmistress, stood nervously at the front of the room as the children dashed in, their disorder, laughter and general irreverence increasing her uneasiness. The former schoolmistress had, unfortunately, eloped, after over half a semester of wandering under the apple trees with a farmer, scrawling poetry in the composition books from which Miss Primm now must teach, and allowing her students to do whatever they pleased.

The students had brought with them a wisp of spring pollen that brought Miss Primm dangerously close to a sneeze. 

"Ahem." Miss Primm's brows raised, and with it her voice as she commanded the students to be seated. 

At the rear of the room a girl polished an apple with the hem of her white pinafore. Her hair was long and springy, coal-black in color, and her brows were closely-knit, giving her a brooding look. When she glanced up Miss Primm noticed her eyes were startlingly black. She had troubled herself to learn the names of the children in the town during the week she settled, but she could not recall seeing this girl before. 

Around the girl was a perceptible clearance. No one sat in front of or on either side of her. 

Miss Primm opened her record book and began to call roll.

'My heart quickens as the hands of the clock turn. I count the moments till I am in his arms,' were recorded in breathless scrawl above the list of names, and Miss Primm made a note to herself to copy the information she needed into a new notebook, and put this one in the stove.

The coal-haired girl gave no vocalization at any of the names mentioned, and finally Miss Primm snapped the book closed and motioned toward her, bidding her to stand.

"Are you a new student?" she asked.

No one bothered to look up.

"No. I attended last semester."

Miss Primm opened and examined the roll book once more, and realized a name was pencilled in the faintest scrawl, as though it had been rubbed out. She glanced back at the girl. "Is your name Shirley Nightingale?"

Shirley assented, and looked askance at the students around her, but none returned her gaze. Miss Primm felt some uneasiness, but congratulated herself on the relative silence in the room and moved forward with her lesson. 

Popular posts from this blog

The secret to a happy home

I finished Marion Harland's guide tonight and I wonder ceaselessly at two things. 1. She is so down on America! Even more than I am. She complains of things in which I am so well-steeped I could not see them for what they were. In particular, American style and cookery. It is true that our food, which we count as so much more generous in portion than the overseas counterpart, is as coarse and indecorous as it is plentiful, but as an American woman I cast up my hands and declare I would rather spend my time on something else. She makes an interesting point about American women's fashions. In France women wear what looks good on them, and in America women wears what comes off the manufacturing line in the latest style. It is very conformist, and I have to admit I feel it in myself, for I would be embarrassed to wear something that is "out" even if it flattered me better. 2. Harland's other point I feel clearly from last night's experiences. I looked in my journ...

Sprouts

Sprouts Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde . I am getting sprouts. Hopefully they are carnations. It is such a beautiful spring day. It's good I'm taking the chance to come outside: I have craved a moment to reflect on something beautiful.

Poor sleep and bad dreams

I had a bad time of it last night. Going on two weeks now, I haven't felt right. I think though I don't talk about it that I haven't been right since I found out about Mrs. Mark. Lately I have been awakened in the middle of the night by Jonah's frights. I have to turn on the lights to check on him, and this normally wakes me up thoroughly. I can't not check on him because the thought that he might have hurt himself keeps me awake. Last night he was on the perch and the other two were on the floor, looking frightened. Why's my bird have to be such a pain in the ass? Why do I love him almost more than any other living thing? And I don't dream in my sleep so much as think, and it's never of anything calming: either of an error in one of my projects, or something just gruesome.