Every day I will write the very beginning of a story, a paragraph or a whole page, without worrying about where it might lead. "Nulla dies sine linea," I hope!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
124
The smell of hyacinth always brought back the memory of her mother, though Clara didn't know that's why she kept remembering her at such odd times. Usually while going for a walk, or occasionally while in the car, her nose out the window. In the spring. It was warm and the smells were fresher and painted clearer pictures. Clara didn't have a clear picture of her mother, or the others in the litter, but she remembered the feelings, and that was enough.
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