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section7mfu2017-10-01 04:51 pm
ssclassof56.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2017-10-01 04:51 pm
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A Shortfic for the Sunday Pictorial
The color picture, forever to be known as “Thud,” inspired me to finish an idea I had a while back.
Two pencil-skirted secretaries entered the lounge, whispering conspiratorially. With a final nod of agreement, they stopped in front of the table. The young woman seated there glanced up from her magazine. The pair began to giggle.
“I’ll murder Sarah,” she said.
“Play it for us.”
“No.”
“But Linda,” the redhead moaned, “that’s so unfair. We’ve just got to hear it.”
“You shouldn’t even know about it. Besides, it was just one of those foolish notions you get on a night-shift.”
“I’ll take your next night-shift if you play it for us,” the younger of the pair said impulsively.
Linda raised her brows. “Tempting, but I don’t have my ukulele.”
The redhead pulled the instrument from behind her back.
Linda sighed. “The next two night-shifts,” she said, taking her tiny guitar.
“Cross our hearts,” they promised.
Linda strummed a few bars of introduction, then sang,
“Small and pale and blond and handsome,
The boy from cold Rossiya goes walking;
And when he passes, each girl he passes goes, ‘Ah.’
When he walks, he's like Kalinka
With eyes so blue and mouth so luscious,
That when he passes, each girl he passes goes, ‘Ah.’
Oh, but I watch him so sadly.
How can I tell him I love him?
Yes, I would give my heart gladly,
But when he walks by to see Waverly,
He looks straight ahead, not at me.
Small and pale and blond and handsome,
The boy from cold Rossiya goes walking;
And when he passes, I smile,
But he doesn't see.
No, he doesn't see.”
Linda finished the song with a musical flourish. “Satisfied?” she asked.
“I am.”
At the sound of a male voice, the three ladies spun around. Illya Kuryakin stood in the doorway. “You play very well,” he said simply and continued down the corridor. As the door whispered shut, they swore they heard a chuckle.
Linda’s face turned scarlet with embarrassment. She glared at the pair of instigators. “All my night-shifts for the foreseeable future.”
Two pencil-skirted secretaries entered the lounge, whispering conspiratorially. With a final nod of agreement, they stopped in front of the table. The young woman seated there glanced up from her magazine. The pair began to giggle.
“I’ll murder Sarah,” she said.
“Play it for us.”
“No.”
“But Linda,” the redhead moaned, “that’s so unfair. We’ve just got to hear it.”
“You shouldn’t even know about it. Besides, it was just one of those foolish notions you get on a night-shift.”
“I’ll take your next night-shift if you play it for us,” the younger of the pair said impulsively.
Linda raised her brows. “Tempting, but I don’t have my ukulele.”
The redhead pulled the instrument from behind her back.
Linda sighed. “The next two night-shifts,” she said, taking her tiny guitar.
“Cross our hearts,” they promised.
Linda strummed a few bars of introduction, then sang,
“Small and pale and blond and handsome,
The boy from cold Rossiya goes walking;
And when he passes, each girl he passes goes, ‘Ah.’
When he walks, he's like Kalinka
With eyes so blue and mouth so luscious,
That when he passes, each girl he passes goes, ‘Ah.’
Oh, but I watch him so sadly.
How can I tell him I love him?
Yes, I would give my heart gladly,
But when he walks by to see Waverly,
He looks straight ahead, not at me.
Small and pale and blond and handsome,
The boy from cold Rossiya goes walking;
And when he passes, I smile,
But he doesn't see.
No, he doesn't see.”
Linda finished the song with a musical flourish. “Satisfied?” she asked.
“I am.”
At the sound of a male voice, the three ladies spun around. Illya Kuryakin stood in the doorway. “You play very well,” he said simply and continued down the corridor. As the door whispered shut, they swore they heard a chuckle.
Linda’s face turned scarlet with embarrassment. She glared at the pair of instigators. “All my night-shifts for the foreseeable future.”
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