I was writing this fur the magazine. I don't think I'll finish it so I may as well dump what was written here. Very "undercooked" as you'll see if you read it. Fur example, the main character is a 'coon but I never even got around to making that apparent in the text.
Picture unrelated beyond featuring a 'coon. I was thinking of illustrating parts of the story but never got remotely close to that point.
Feel free to do whatever you want with it.
>START
The strongest memory Helen had was of her mother’s soft, furry fingers pressing a damp cloth against the feverish warmth of her furehead one overcast autumn evening. The scent of lavender tea wafted through the air from the chipped blue mug that lay on the table an arm’s length away. The scent of her mother, of the chilly air, of herself, and even of the sickness-- how they effected such a warm nostalgia upon her.
“Things get lost,” her mother sighed a few years later after they’d moved houses and the cobalt-colored mug with the chipped white rim had vanished. She could still feel the steam warming her chin.
Helen traced the gilded edge of a porcelain teacup in Percy’s sunroom. No chips. No cracks. Percy insisted on perfection. Outside, manicured hedges boxed the garden into tidy squares.
"Another scone, darling?" Percy asked. He nudged the silver tiered stand toward her. Jam glistened like rubies in cut-glass dishes.
Helen set her cup down, "Did your mother ever keep old mugs? The kind that shouldn’t last but do?"
Percy’s smile tightened, "My mother collected all sorts of things. But there was no room fur cracked things."
He patted her hand, "Why dwell on the past? You’re here now."
His thumb brushed the gold band on her ring finger. She’d worn it a month, her mind insisted. Yet the weight still felt fureign.
In the hallway, Helen caught movement near the service stairs. A flash of white fur. Red markings streaked like paint across a narrow muzzle. A fox. She froze when spotted, ears flat.