I’m a little behind on doing this post this week. I wrote the prompt last week but didn’t find the time to put it into a post until now (8.20am), so it might be a little rushed in terms of spelling.

Please feel free to borrow this prompt if it speaks to you! If you do, please link back here so I can have a read πŸ™‚

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Start a story with the line “My mother broke every plate in the house that day.”

My mother broke every plate in the house that day. Only a month before she had glared at me every time I opened the cupboard with dirty hands, just in case I got as much as a tiny smudge on them. That day had marked the end of something precious, but at the time I’d been too young to understand the significance of her outburst. The symbol the broken porcelain on the floor was. She’d just scared the shit out of me.

She’d been nervous all month, fidgeting every time the phone rang and sniffing Dad’s shirts before washing them. I figured she smelled the fabric because she loved his scent so much. Never would I have guessed that we were now one of those families.

That day, Dad came home two days early from a business trip. I’d always hated it when he had to go and was ecstatic to see him back so soon, but Mum’s eyes were red and she didn’t greet him home. I threw myself into his arms, loving it when he scooped me up and kissed my cheek and hair, but Mum pulled me away and told me to go to my room.

I didn’t.

I hid at the top of the stairs, and listened. Even I could tell that something was wrong, and I had to know what it was. Had to pretend that I was included in their grown-up conversation.

Mum screamed, not giving him a chance to explain. The shattering of expensive porcelain followed. The plates had been a wedding gift from Auntie Erika, and had been deemed too valuable to use. The door slammed, and after a brief moment of silence Mum’s sobs cut through the silence.

We moved in with her sister on the same day. It was the last time I saw my Dad, when he came to her house and begged to be allowed to see me at least.

Mum wasn’t the same afterwards. She must have carried so much pain inside her. So much spite, and so much hate. I knew she wasn’t well, but I never imagined she’d find Dad and his new wife and shoot them.

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All writing belongs to the author, Sarina Langer

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