Stewart Sternberg, Great Cult Leader & Writer, assigned this last week. I'm not an official part of his writing group but I like to participate in his assignments, as well as spread the word about the great and powerful Stu, hence I've started a separate blog just for that purpose.
Here's the first draft of last week's assignment. Unfortunately, today was the first chance I had to work on it. Oh, well. Without further ado, I bring you:
February 1964
Yellow light spilled beneath a frilled lampshade, pooling unkindly in the valleys of Mrs. Miller’s face as she frowned over her knitting.
“Fudge,” she muttered as she dropped a stitch. Those darn bugs were on the radio again. She laid aside the yarn and needles to snap off the switch.
“Beatles.” She spat out the word as if it tasted foul in her mouth, and resumed her knitting, jabbing the yarn with the sharp sticks.
‘Eileen’s probably happy,’ she thought. Her daughter, home from college for the weekend, loved the group. Mrs. Miller shook her head.
Andy Williams, now there’s a singer.
She wound the yarn up and around the needle, her eyes misting. So much had changed, so quickly. She blinked back tears and looked at her work.
The scarf she knit would match her blue hat. Let Eileen complain no one wanted to wear pillbox hats anymore; she was keeping hers. The hat was a tribute--a way of showing respect to the First Lady. It didn’t matter who was president now; as far as Mrs. Miller was concerned, Mrs. Kennedy would always be the first lady. Her fingers faltered slightly and she dropped another stitch. She wound the wool more tightly; if she weren’t careful, the whole thing would come undone.
Eileen. Mrs. Miller redoubled her efforts, knitting quickly. She’d hoped Eileen would have come home from college with a fiancé by now, but she showed no signs of it. If anything, the girl seemed more restless by the day. What’s happening to my daughter?
She sniffed slightly. Her hands shook as she thought of the Roberts’ girl down the street. She’d had to leave college and go live with relatives. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer. “Please, Lord, don’t let my daughter turn out like that.”
When she opened her eyes, she saw she’d dropped another stitch. She laid the scarf on her lap and rubbed a weary hand over the bridge of her nose. She startled as Eileen bounded into the room, swooping down on her in an impulsive hug.
“Bye, Mommy! I’m going out--see you later!” She gave her mother a kiss and skipped toward the front door, unaware that the button of her coat sleeve had snagged the yarn.
Mrs. Miller’s mouth moved, but made no sound. She could only watch in horror as all her work unraveled.
