A Chipped Cup

This story, from writer’s group a couple weeks back, was submitted by Clare. She claimed to be having an ‘off’ night, but I think she did very well.

By Clare

Why am I here anyway? I’m too tired for this writer’s group tonight. The music is clattering in my head, sort of rhythmic and exotic. It’s painting pictures in my mind which make it hard to think or write.

There is something dark and mysterious; colours clash with characters from a nightmare circus as they parade from the edge of my frontal lobe into the depth of my cerebral cortex. I think some are trying to slide down my spinal cord. They should know there is nothing but disharmony down there and no way out.

A gypsy whispers, “not that way”. She is stunningly sensual and I think I know her from somewhere before. Again the seductive whisper, “come with me, I have secrets to show you. I stole them from lonely men’s hearts. They are the deep kind of secrets that should never see the light of day. They are my play things now, can you hear them call?”

But the music, like a chipped cup is not quite right. There is a slight imperfection that catches my perception off kilter. It twists my thoughts and draws them off in another direction, a bow crossing strings to Eastern Europe, dark cobblestone streets, narrow and shrouded with mist, multiple shades of damp grey air. And there at the end, under a lamp post, the chipped cup. Old English bone china with red roses and a gold rim, the inside hung with tea leaves waiting to tell my fortune.



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