Well, dang, Bev. Now I'm gonna have to finish it. Actually, that might help, reducing some of the key scenes down to drabble size. Hm. Lemme see what I can do...

drabble for Holiday Hell :

She’s curled up in the chair, pressing her fingers to her face until the veins stand out hard on her forehead. She is bad; no one loves her; she pulls her hair in despair. I want to leave her there. I give her tissues and comfort her. Minutes ago, her sudden fury shattered our fragile holiday cheer as she screamed my painful secrets out before mother, children, and all, furious as I cried. Then, she wanted me gone. Now, I’m here, understanding, forgiving her, again.

I expect no apology.

Hours and miles away I realize, someone should have comforted me.

Deb, insent.

Zenkitty, that's powerful.

This is the one thread I insist on catching up - not skipping, not even skimming. It means I'm hardly ever at the end, but I still don't want to give any post up.

So, belated, but still:

Amy, if you still want somebody who has no idea about romances to read yours, I'd love to try.

deb, as usual, I would love to read - you have my university address, the one that agrees to talk to yours, right?

This thread is a wonderful read. Thanks, all of you.

Zenkitty, that was heartbreaking.

I'm trying to think of hellish holiday memories and not coming up with any. Hmmm.

Nilly, I'd for you to read it! One caveat -- there are love scenes that are fairly graphic. If you don't mind those (or don't mind skipping over them) I'd love to send it on. Is your profile address the one to use?

Deb, go you on the Cruel Sister progress!

Amy, no problem. And, yup, profile address (and, um, you said that timing isn't urgent, right?)

I'm trying to think of hellish holiday memories and not coming up with any. Hmmm.

One reminder from the moderator: IT CAN BE FICTION, folks.

Whenever you want, Nilly. No rush whatsoever.

IT CAN BE FICTION, folks

I'm an unmitigated sap about the holidays, though. Even my fictional people get unlimited sugar plums and angels getting their wings. Maybe if I channel Tim Minear...

One reminder from the moderator: IT CAN BE FICTION, folks.

One reason I don't participate in all the drabbles is that I get tired of myself and my angst. So I've tried to twist the past few. Anyway, my escape from holdiay hell.

Christmas cards

Their blood runs through my veins. I don't know them anymore. Haven't seen them in a decade, might not recognize them on the street. They know where I am, I haven't moved in twenty years.

Dread every December: must send cards to Mother and sisters, must continue the pretense, must act as if I care.

The year I say "No more," tears and a weight fall from me. Letters and emails should run both ways, but don't. Blood is not family, genetics is not love. I orphan myself, and it feels like Christmas again.

Connie, that was powerful, and incredibly painful.

Here's one from me just for fun.

Challenge #36: Holiday Hell

Every year it was the same thing. Day in, day out, sitting with the others, faking cheer, trying to ignore the sickening smell of burnt sugar in the air and the damp creeping through his socks.

Black was his favorite color. Or navy blue. Not red, not green. Certainly not white—like the endless frozen blanket outside the window. “So beautiful,” the women cooed. “Like spun sugar!”

He hated sugar. He’d take a fat, greasy burrito over a candy cane any day.

“Nils! You’re falling behind.”

He grunted, staring at the lopsided teddy bear in front of him. “Yes, Santa.”