Nine sentences of a Work In Progress.
Comments more than welcome!
Clara. High Summer, 1870
There were mice in the pantry. Clara heard their scuttling at night from her pallet before the kitchen fire. Missus Sanderson had said nothing about mice when she’d given Clara the position. Of course, Clara mused, no doubt Missus Sanderson didn’t know Clara was so fearful of mice; their scratching feet, beady eyes, and twitching tails. She didn’t know Clara’s brothers had tormented her by leaving dead mice in her bed, or locking her into the cellar while standing outside hollering There’s mice in the taters Clara Mae! They’re big ‘uns and they’re gonna eat up a scrawny thing like you.
Her mother had never even attempted to stop them. Since word had come of Papa’s death in the war Mama had pretty much stopped attempting to do anything. Somedays Clara had wondered if Ma herself were still alive; sitting in the old rocker day after day, wrapped in her faded anniversary shawl. Starring toward the road as though she expected both Pa and Charlie to one day come marching home.