Jennifer Eaton of http://jennifermeaton.com/sunday-snippets/ has initiated this Critique Blog Hop. Read the rules and sign up. Do checkout the other submissions at the bottom of this post.
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Thank you all for taking the time to share, read and comment here at Sunday Snippets. Through this process I’ve had a peek at the other side of the story—with new eyes.
Todays submission is from the beginning of a short story called Afterwards, about the rehashing of an evening.
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Sylvie sits stock still. Not a grey hair moves; not a muscle twitches. Blue eyes stare into space, as if blind. Her right hand clutches an advertisement for the Philharmonic. The soft sounds of violin strings float, like ghostly dust motes, in the air around her.
A deep gong booms, rousing her back to the present. Sylvie shakes her head and exhales. How I hate that god awful grandfather clock. One of these days I’m going to hack it up into tiny pieces and use it for firewood.
“That won’t work either,” Sylvie mutters aloud. “I no longer have a wood fireplace.”
She rubs her neck and shoulders, and gazes around her kitchen. It’s getting dark. How long have I been sitting here? The face on the clock reads 7:26 p.m. An almost full glass of red wine sits on the table in front of her. A sound bursts from her throat; more of a bark than a laugh. Some might consider fiction more entertaining than real life. Ha—not true—not true at all. I’m up to my eyeballs in real life, in a chapter I wish I could burn in that non-existent fireplace.
“Where the hell are my glasses?” she asks the darkening room. The paper has dropped onto the walnut kitchen table. She picks it up again, brings it up to her face and wrinkles her nose.
After patting the table and then herself, she finds her glasses on top of her head. Misplacing them too often and afraid she’d need to fork out for a replacement pair, she’d re-trained her habits. If they’re not on my head, I’m in trouble, so they better be there.
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Note: Click below to read other participants.