Hi. I’m Marlowe. Marlowe Oberly.
My cousin Miles insisted that I needed to start this blog because I moved to Blueville earlier this year. He says it’ll be good for tourism and that people don’t really know much about our little town in the mountains. He’s right about not knowing about the town.
I’d never heard of Blueville until he moved here after college a few years ago. What does he do? Miles is the head librarian of the Blueville Public Library. Anyway, He moved here a few years ago and right away began sending me the strangest stories about his adventures in running a public library. You know, the usual stories about kids making out in the stacks and not being able to keep their arms and tentacles off each other.
Yes, you read that right. I said tentacles. As in plural. As in the kind cephalopods have to help them do things.
I thought he was lying at first. Miles always was the kind of kid who lived in his head more than most, but after moving here and seeing it first hand – it’s not so strange. They just have a little extra that you do a double-take.
Where was I? Oh. The town.
So I guess we have just about everything you’d need in a town this size. Here’s a short list of what the town has to offer:
Cinematic Climatic: The movie theater – We don’t talk about screen seven. I suppose we all pretend it just doesn’t exist.
Bills Blossom Bowling: I learned the hard way about Tuesdays and lane three. Don’t ask, I’ll explain later.
Blueville Business Park: Every Friday it changes locations within the town proper. I’m serious. You’ll go to work and halfway through the day it’ll end up being three miles away from your car and you’ve got to call a cab to rescue you’re precious from the clutches of a dragon (Yeah, that happened my first week here. Poor Charlie is still upset about losing a tail light on his vintage mustang).
Blueville Public Library: Miles would be hurt if I didn’t include our library. What’s so weird about it? Well, I’m not really sure. Miles won’t talk about the second floor and I’m a little creeped out by the smell and lights coming from the third floor men’s bathroom.
Sally’s Ice Cream Parlor: DO NOT ask for a triple scoop of blue rumple mint. Just don’t. Consider this your warning to avoid Crazy Henry’s fate.
That’s it for now. I’m exhausted. I worked a long shift at the shop working on a vintage Impala. Let me tell you, 1968 was a fine year for that car.