for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Remnant
My mother kept the wine glass in her china cabinet along with her porcelain tea sets and figurines. It was ugly: a misshapen, unbalanced lump that looked like it had been produced by some country fair hippy who thought he was an artist, but was in fact an ordinary suburban nine-to-fiver with illusions of escaping the daily grind for a more authentic life.
Which it was. The wine glass, that is.
There used to be two. They sort of matched. He made them for her, long ago, back when she still saw beauty and hope in everything he did.
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I’ve missed a few weeks of Friday Fictioneers. It’s good to be back on deck, even if I’m once again dragging my tail with this story. Is that a mixed metaphor? Probably.
I’ve been doing lots of reading about writing, which I hoped would stimulate my creative spark, if I have one, and maybe this morning it did, who knows? I do know that I don’t enjoy those weeks of floundering around with no original or interesting ideas appearing.
So, among other sources of inspiration and knowledge, I’ve recently subscribed to a newsletter from George Saunders (author of Lincoln in the Bardo) and it’s wonderful. So much good information on his website. And this morning I read a fascinating article about the history of the paragraph. Who’d have guessed that a writing convention we take so much for granted could have such an interesting story?
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