Hello all – and welcome!
In an ongoing effort to amuse and delight, I am instituting a new weekly feature to my Storyteller posts, #amwriting. In this segment I will offer you a peek at what I am currently writing. I just had this idea yesterday, so this week is going to be a snippet of short story I am working on for submission at the end of this month. I hope you enjoy it!
(untitled- WIP (c) J. A Brown, Storyteller)
I remember the light in her room was always imbued with a rosy hue that made it feel at once both warm and misty, as if the structure itself resided in a dream. I used to sit at her feet while she brushed her hair in long, slow, luxurious strokes. I’d count to one hundred for her, and wait for her to praise my grasp of mathematics like the child I was. I didn’t know any better then. I was only a small girl, following the example set by my role model, my goddess, my mother.
Everything she said was right. Everything she did was a holy act to be observed, remembered, and repeated, so that I could be like her when I grew up. I memorized her moves, and practiced them in secret places where no one could see my heart’s desire to be as lovely as she; to be as filled with mystery and purpose as my mother.
For as long as I could remember there had only been the two of us in our cottage by the lake. Only the two of us to share in those hazy lazy summer afternoons when the only sounds were my giggles echoing out over the lake, bouncing back to me from the trees on the other side, like a ball lightly tossed back for me to catch. I recall the whispers of the low hanging willow trees, as I swung back and forth on the old wooden swing that mother said used to be hers. The swings ropes had carved scars in the flesh of the tree, marking my constant to and for passage more deeply in the exact same grooves of my mother. It reassured me that my destiny was both solid and set, and that idea let me believe I could be safe within its trenches.
I used to beg her to push me higher, faster, as if that could take me closer to the day when I would stand as tall as mother, and brush my own hair one hundred strokes at a time, while my own little girl watched from the floor longingly, waiting to be initiated into the secrets of womanhood.