Six Sentence Sunday is back. This is from a story I haven’t worked on in a while. It’s about a time traveller who is looking to save his father’s sanity. In this scene, John, the protagonist, is at his younger sister's house for breakfast.
Mary wiped the tears from her cheeks and then sat on the stool next to him clutching her coffee cup with both hands. Only twenty-six, she looked like she could be his mother. Thick around the middle, drab eyes and choppily cut brown hair pulled into a unfalteringly thin ponytail, she was the sister who wasn’t going to get a handle on her life anytime soon.
John didn't like what that implied, ‘get a handle’. Was she supposed to hold back her anger until it broke her in half? Or was there some other purpose to reducing her pain to a cliché?
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