One minute Tiffany was snuggled down in her favorite chair, busy picking her way around the peanuts in a tin of caramel corn while watching a re-run of All My Stories, and the next minute she found herself out in the hallway, propelled from the lounge by the sheer force of Myra the Head Maid's scolding. It was unfair because this time she had a good excuse! The vacuum cleaner broke two days ago, and it wasn't back from the repair place yet. But this hadn't phased Myra, who reminded her that there was another vacuum in the house; one that Tiffany would be using right now, had she possessed even a smidgen of resourcefulness.
Oh, she remembered the spare. She just thought that by burying it in the broom closet, Myra might not. It was a foolish hope, because lugging Big Bertha up a set of stairs was something you never forgot. Overbuilt out of chromed steel, it weighed more than a Cadillac driven by a family of hippopotamuses. The coils of hose and power cord inevitably sought your ankles like curious anacondas. And to add insult to injury, Bertha just plain sucked at sucking. You had to go over the same area ten times before it decided to pick up any dirt.
That's what she was doing now; repeatedly hoovering the same tiny patch of carpet, looking forlornly down the huge expanse of hallway before her. She'd be a withered old lady before she was done! "This is all your fault!" Tiffany growled as she aimed a kick at the heart of the mirrored metal monster. "My toe!" Both woman and machine howled in pain, the vacuum soon drowning out her cry with a fierce whine like a jet engine spooling up on a 747.
Tiffany cursed under her breath. Her foot was throbbing, and now the hose attachment was affixed to the carpet. She gripped it by its base and yanked hard, again and again till it finally parted company with the ground. But instead of thanking her for its freedom, it ate the tie to her apron. Then the metal head slipped in her sweaty hands and turned to face her.
Her uniform was a feast of fabric for the ravenous machine. In a heartbeat, it snatched her apron from her, then slurped at the neckline of her dress, ingesting enough to rip the remainder from her now bare shoulders. Tiffany recruited every ounce of strength to keep the hungry hose away from her skin, fearing it would leave something more sinister than a hickey. It caught her bra though. The thick fabric of the left cup seemed to get stuck in its throat for a second until in one mighty intake of breath, it tore the padded straps from her chest and munched on the big custom cup, still hungry for more. She screamed for help, but doubted anyone could hear her above the deafening roar of the vacuum.
Downstairs, curled up in *her* favorite chair, Myra frowned and turned up the volume on All My Stories. There must be a low flying plane outside. Or a whole formation of them. Sheesh!
As the other site keeps eating my comments I'll try it here. Very nice work, Woot. I can't help but think it might end up like this. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGmfmMrZEUY
Love the expression, love the shading, love the carefull postioning of the arms, love the minor details that just add to the whole thing. Also, I totaly had a vacum like that... Ended up trading it in... For a broom... You totaly need a t-shirt that says "I
Man- it's too bad it didn't come with that BE attachment! :<
Oh, Plato- I think I might know why your comments disappear on The Melon Stand: try not linking your email address there. I had the same problem a while ago.
So woot... and believe me, I say this with the utmost respect... when are you gonna give this BE art stuff a temporary rest and start working on your magnum opus? I mean, someone who peruses this whole archive can see you've vastly improved over the years, and when it comes to your text you have such a pleasing narrative voice.. I think it's time for you to work on a more larger scale project... and I say this as one artist to another.
You're a very competent writer and you have this amazing knack for drawing images that carry weight, I really feel you're a very likely candidate for the person to draw and write the next great american graphic novel. This stuff is fun, but I really think you could do better.
Again, I mean no disrespect. But I think you're ready to step up to the big leagues. Boobs are fun, but someone with your amount of talent really deserves to make a shit ton of money.
Oh, she remembered the spare. She just thought that by burying it in the broom closet, Myra might not. It was a foolish hope, because lugging Big Bertha up a set of stairs was something you never forgot. Overbuilt out of chromed steel, it weighed more than a Cadillac driven by a family of hippopotamuses. The coils of hose and power cord inevitably sought your ankles like curious anacondas. And to add insult to injury, Bertha just plain sucked at sucking. You had to go over the same area ten times before it decided to pick up any dirt.
That's what she was doing now; repeatedly hoovering the same tiny patch of carpet, looking forlornly down the huge expanse of hallway before her. She'd be a withered old lady before she was done! "This is all your fault!" Tiffany growled as she aimed a kick at the heart of the mirrored metal monster. "My toe!" Both woman and machine howled in pain, the vacuum soon drowning out her cry with a fierce whine like a jet engine spooling up on a 747.
Tiffany cursed under her breath. Her foot was throbbing, and now the hose attachment was affixed to the carpet. She gripped it by its base and yanked hard, again and again till it finally parted company with the ground. But instead of thanking her for its freedom, it ate the tie to her apron. Then the metal head slipped in her sweaty hands and turned to face her.
Her uniform was a feast of fabric for the ravenous machine. In a heartbeat, it snatched her apron from her, then slurped at the neckline of her dress, ingesting enough to rip the remainder from her now bare shoulders. Tiffany recruited every ounce of strength to keep the hungry hose away from her skin, fearing it would leave something more sinister than a hickey. It caught her bra though. The thick fabric of the left cup seemed to get stuck in its throat for a second until in one mighty intake of breath, it tore the padded straps from her chest and munched on the big custom cup, still hungry for more. She screamed for help, but doubted anyone could hear her above the deafening roar of the vacuum.
Downstairs, curled up in *her* favorite chair, Myra frowned and turned up the volume on All My Stories. There must be a low flying plane outside. Or a whole formation of them. Sheesh!