On May 20th I went to my first writer’s group. It’s a really great group, different ages, different genres, and nothing but support and useful feedback. Each session has a short prompt writing exercise. I want to post them here, to help record the journey and the growth in my writing style.
This prompt was visiting a garage sale where you look into a box and find an item, which the woman running the sale comments on.
Inside the dark worn box lay a large fan, yellow and tattered with time. I reach in and carefully pull the panels open.
“It was my mother’s.” The small woman peeps over my shoulder.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, lightly flicking my wrist. Light exposes the splash of black ink across paper. The artistic draw of calligraphy brush has not faded.
“She used it to dance. The tell stories of our heritage inside the tall fences during the wall.”
I remember enough of my country’s history and the characters on the fan push the question out.
“Yes. I was born in the camp.”