Hate was spun with a twist of one's own fate, Grandma Borman always said, for she knew in her heart that the worst of us came out in the calmest of winds, not in terrible storms.
With a twist of her good hip, she propelled herself off of the roughspun sheets atop her bed and hobbled over to her kitchen table. It was not much of a kitchen, to be sure, but the table sat next to her stovetop and kettle, which earned enough points for the distinction.
Upon the table sat not herbs or dried fruits, as it held some days, but a charcoal black pot of ink, a slab of flattened tree bark turned over, and a sheet of yolk-colored paper, faint text from the book it was torn from visible underneath.
Grandma Borman picked up her quill pen, a prized possession from her daughter's trip to some place off the island, and raised it to her crackled lips, then paused. She muttered something, then put down the pen and waddled over to a cup of cold tea brewed the night earlier, whose aromas had only sickened with the added lifespan. She down the mug in one go and returned to the table.
She dipped the pen.
"Dearest Agatha," the letter began, a civil beginning to what was to become a torrent of barbs, accusations, and polite misdirections that a younger mind would take as true compliment. But theirs was an ancient game, a match of chess crossed with fencing, as the time-delayed parries and thrusts had all the more time to marinate in their devious maneuvers.
"As much as it causes me pain me to be even a moment without your fresh inspiration toward a more pleasant demeanor, I am afraid I must adhere to the wishes of my firstborn - brute that he is - and decline your invitation to tomorrow's bake sale. I fear that, should he go even a night without my modest company, he shall do something rash, as your dear son had once shown him the night of the boating incident, when my son was still very impressionable."
She buried her giddiness, deadened her nerves in countered courtesy, then dipped the pen again.
"I do so humbly anticipate your arrival to our book club this weekend at my little home, if nothing else than to partake of the simple assortment of farmer's market goods that shall be assembled."
Three folds later, the page was neatly stuffed into an envelope. Grandma Borman took a wicker box from the bottom drawer of a nearby cabinet and rooted around for a sheet of stamps. She leafed through them until she happened upon the lowest value of the lot, and stuck it on the envelope. They didn't even make that valuation anymore; Lord even knew if the post would still accept it.
She'd have her son drop off the letter later that evening, after making sure not to be seen, of course.
HOAs. bake sales. book clubs. working on lawns.
Where's all this inspiration coming from? are they from your upbringing or more recent things?
I know you aren't trying to mimic somebody because... well maybe you are?
Cause i know remember trying to mimic
I tried coming up with fake upbringings.. thinking they were real! I tried painting my artist-source as this thing that was just pure mimicry grounded in nothing substantial! anyways.
tldr: what is your inspiration/observations that lead to this consistent context?
but i think i could've gone further
small town dailies are big town amenities/rarities/niceties
ha maybe i'm just drunk in the moneyrace and seeing those callouts wherever i go
interesting comment, nonetheless - would you say you're swayed at all by these sorts of contexts? i hadn't called out a consistent thread as you had, but while i see it i don't think i'm slave to it as much as it might appear