Back from our Easter break, we’re excited to present yet another Sunday Writers’ Club story. This time Tamara Raidt has come up with a clever story inspired by the writing prompt: Tell the story of a wine stain. We hope you enjoy the read.
Journey of a wine stain and its quest of identity
By Tamara Raidt
I belong to one of the best families and so I was raised with the awareness of my value. I was born in 1995 – a very good year, according to the oenologists- and I can’t complain about my childhood. Sure I felt the pressure of my family’s name. We are one of the best kinds of Bordeaux, and from father to son we have to honour the tradition of staining tissues and tablecloths. There are some rules to abide by to fulfill at best our role as a wine stain :
– First, choose your target carefully : the whiter the tissue is, the more precious it is, and the more dramatic it will be.
– Choose the appropriate event: in the middle of a Communion dinner or at official events.
– Finally, try to let the wrong person be accused. And so you will trigger a fight amongst the guests.
I am really lucky : since I was on the best tables, I assisted to the most curious conversations. Dad says I shalln’t eavesdrop especially when I’m on duty – but I can’t help but listening to rich family members and politicians gossiping about each other.
Everything was fine and I was living a pretty happy life until the very day I ruined a wedding. By happenstance, I landed on the beautiful white dress… the day of the wedding. The bride-to-be went crazy, the future husband tried to calm her. Then I assisted to the most impressive fight I’ve ever seen. They ended up splitting on their wedding day.
I felt really bad after this. My life’s purpose had been questioned : am I only to ruin people’s most happy events ? Am I only to be the little red wine stain everyone is annoyed about?
So I quit the job. I left my family. Dad was really disappointed. He said I was a shame to all the Bordeaux wines on earth. But I didn’t care. I believed there was more to life than just being a stain on someone’s dress, than being a burden in someone’s life. I needed a watershed. For the first time, I wanted to be desired, to be in my proper place. I wanted someone to love me for who I was – and not trying to wash me away by putting me in the washing machine.
After a long time of roaming, the quest of myself came to an end. I arrived at a writers’ shelter, where I was warmly welcomed. Ever since then, I am allowed to take part in their writing sessions and to listen to their ideas. I was given a permanent position : I am the little red circle under their wine glasses they draw their inspiration from. And never have I been so fulfilled with happiness.