Holiday Hell #2

It seemed like a good idea at the time, my grandmother told me. If Santa brought gifts, he should bring Christmas, too—tree, wreath, lights, and train set up to chug beneath the fat branches of the Fraser fir.

Nothing was ever decorated until after my father and my aunt were sent to bed, when she and my grandfather would wrap as quietly as possible, struggle to get the tree into the stand, and string lights. The record-breaking year they were up till five a.m., with the children awake an hour later.

She was thrilled when they no longer believed.
________

Fingers crossed for you, Deb! And hey, come to RWA! I'll be there. And Susan, too, if we're lucky. (RT does focus as much on mystery as romance these days, so it might actually be the better conference for you, but I'm not going to that one.)

(People, feel free to still post your Holiday Hell drabbles if you haven't already.)

Challenge #36 (the aforementioned Holiday Hell) is now closed.

Challenge #37 is: talismans. Go for it.

Great drabbles, y'all.

I'm still not sure about RWA this year. Cost is a factor, definitely, though if the freelancing goes well in the winter in spring, it should be do-able. But the other issue is I doubt I'll be finished with Anna by then. I might be better off waiting till 2006 so I'll actually have at least one completed ms to pitch.

Without conscious thought her hand went to the object that hung on a cord about her neck. Carved of white bone, the incised whorls and lines between her thumb and fingers were reassuring. The pad of her finger sought the point, tested it. Still sharp, unnecessarily sharp. The stylized fish hook would never actually pierce the lip or the palate of a watery denizen. No food would be procured by its agency, unless by the luck it carried and bestowed on its wearer. The hei matau's power and usefulness was all in its given form, and in the texture beneath her fingertips.

Her hand moves reflexively to the pendant at her throat. The metal warms easily to her body, and she savours the smoothness as she spins it between her fingers. Sometimes she wears it around her neck, sometimes at her ears, or hung around her house -- but stripped of all possessions, she'd still have it inked into her skin, but even before that ritual act, it was burned into her psyche.

She remembers that first ring, given her by her mother and soon lost. She remembers poring through the encyclopedia and history books, rapt.

She remembers, and she spins it.

::notes similarity between Beverly's drabble and hers::

::laughs::

Memento Mori

I wasn't shopping, but there it was, sitting on black felt: a man's ring, sterling silver. Mounted was a miniature piano key, white with a perfect tiny black key.

I rubbed it. The key was old ivory, made from a real piano key. Of course I bought it, put aside for the right moment.

Shortly afterward, we were over.

I only saw him once after that, at a show he was playing. I don't remember what we said, but I gave him the ring, and left, again. That was twice I left.

He's dead now. I wonder if the ring survives, somewhere?

Oh, yes ita--both of us with things around our necks.

Deb, wow.

Y'all, make me go be suspenseful and brilliant or something, and stay away from scary fandom Farakhan wanna-bes who piss me off and make me want to be a blue-eyed devil for, like five minutes. And I haven't skipped a day at the desk in about three weeks.

True story, Bev.

I wrote about it in a locked-down livejournal entry a couple of months ago. One more thing I'd forgotten about, that ring, until Marlene reminded me. She remembered the miscarriage I had, too. Someday, if the memory and the drabble topic combine on that one? I'll sweat it out.

Anyway, as Buffy put it, there's always a talisman...