Monday, May 13, 2013


The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield. The trigger, as always is the first sentence. My writing pal took the approach that it was a new home by a man who was about to replace his wife for one who could have children. In both there was this sudden twist. I love doing these exercises. They stimulate my writing for the day. However, I don't like the ending, but time was up.

We were idling that morning in one of the front rooms on the first floor. Jamie had the Sunday papers spread out and was laying on his stomach. I never understood how he could be comfortable like that. A cup of coffee was next to him, but of course drinking coffee on your stomach is nigh on to impossible.

The windows were open for the first time that spring. The sweet smell of fresh cut grass, another seasonal first, came through.

I was still in my pajamas and sat on the couch with a woman’s magazine. I should remember which one, but I don’t. It is one of the things that I blocked. I wish I could block the phone call. I always thought police came in person to tell you that someone had died, but this cop (I forgot the name along with the name of the magazine) said that there had been an accident and I should get to Winchester General Hospital. They needed to identify the victims.

Part of me hoped since I was head for a hospital my parents were alive, but the police were waiting in the office where we were told to go. Jamie held my hand so tightly, that I was bruised for a week after, all though the funeral I stared at the black and blue.

After I wanted to sell the house—Jamie said that was stupid—it wasn’t like my parents died in that room, but in a way they did for me. The only time we ever used the room again was when we entertained and I usually found things to do in the kitchen or the other living room. It’s not like the room was haunted or anything except for my own memories.

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