As we head into the holiday season, Sarah Hegger has challenged us to write "All I want for Christmas … " It could be a memoir, a thought, a wish list or flash fiction. If you joined me from Eden Ashe, welcome!
Here is my short, but hopefully sweet, contribution to this week's blog hop.
ALL through the dark winter nights
I wait with joyful anticipation
WANTing only the time of togetherness.
FOR when family and friends gather, I know it is
What do you think? I'd love to read your comments. Then click on through to Jeana E. Mann for the next stop on our hop!
Tomorrow, I'll be hosting fellow Romance Writer Weekly author Collette Cameron. She's sharing some of the more icky, er, interesting research she discovered while writing her new short story, "A Kiss for Miss Kingsley" (I love that title). Come back and visit, won't you? Here's an excerpt - sounds great, doesn't it?
“This is a monumental mistake.” Fingering the ruby pendant hanging at her neck, Olivia Kingsley peeked out the window as the conveyance rounded the corner onto Berkeley Square. Carriage upon carriage, like great shiny beetles, lined up beside an ostentatious manor.
Guests in their evening finery swarmed before the grand entrance and on the stairs as they waited their turn to enter Viscount and Viscountess Wimpleton’s home.
Trepidation dried her mouth and tightened her chest. Yes, attending the ball was a featherbrained solicitation for disaster. No good could come of it.
God’s toenails, what was I thinking, agreeing to Auntie Muriel’s addlepated scheme?
Olivia flattened against the sky-blue squab in the corner of her aunt’s coach and vehemently shook her head. “I cannot do it.”
A curl came loose, plopping onto Olivia’s forehead.
She shoved the annoying tendril beneath a pin, having no doubt the tresses would work their way free before evening’s end. Patting the circlet of rubies adorning her hair, she assured herself the band remained secure.
Her pulse beat an erratic staccato, and she searched for a plausible excuse for refusing to attend the ball after all.
“I ... We,” she wiggled her gloved fingers at her brother, Bradford, lounging on the opposite seat, appearing as contented as their fat cat, Socrates, after lapping a saucer of cream, “were not invited.”
Terribly gauche, that. Showing up at a haut ton function, no invitation in hand.
“Nonsense, darling. It’s perfectly acceptable for you to accompany me.” Aunt Muriel, the Duchess of Daventry, patted Olivia’s knee with her plump hand. “Lady Wimpleton is one of my dearest friends. Why, we had our come-out together, and I’m positive had she known that you and Bradford had recently returned to England, she would have extended an invitation herself.”
Not if she knew the volatile way her son and I parted company, she wouldn’t have.