Pyotr took my hand and we walked slowly back to our shelf to witness the family’s holiday. At the dining room doorway, he stopped and looked up.
“Do you know what that is?” he asked
All I could see was a sprig of greenery with a red bow. “Holly? Ivy?”
“No, it’s mistletoe.”
I fluttered my wings only once and I was airborne. Rising above the manger scene, clutching Cecilia’s guitar, I was both exhilarated and terrified.
strode to the angel’s side and bowed most formally. “Madam,” I said, emphasizing the deep tones in my voice. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, a nutcracker by birth and a nobleman who wears the uniform of my father in Russia.”
This week, I am running short fiction inspired by the holidays. This short series begins my literary celebration of the season. Inspired by of all things, my own Christmas decorations, Comfort and Joy introduces you to the lonely nutcracker and the grieving angel and all the cohort of angels, Nativity characters and snow people around…
For the next few days, I am running short fiction inspired by the holidays. This short series begins my literary celebration of the season. Inspired by of all things, my own Christmas decorations, Comfort and Joy introduces you to the lonely nutcracker and the grieving angel and all the cohort of angels, Nativity characters and…
I went inside to the parlor and found a tree, not as tall as me, was sitting on the table where Lenore usually has Mr. Poe’s books. It even had little sparkly lights on it, red and green and white. On the top was a raven, like the one Eddy wrote about in that poem everybody likes.
I’m grateful for @NaNoWriMo and all the support writers give one another to get to their goals. It’s a great way to reach your goal of becoming a novelist.
Tyrone said, “Mama had a silver tree covered with red and green balls. Oh, and candy canes. She had this big old light that shone on the tree with a wheel that changed the colors from red to blue to green to yellow. You should’ve seen it. On Christmas morning, we’d come downstairs and there’s be a present or two for us underneath it. That was cool.”
Pyotr took my hand and we walked slowly back to our shelf to witness the family’s holiday. At the dining room doorway, he stopped and looked up.
“Do you know what that is?” he asked.
All I could see was a sprig of greenery with a red bow. “Holly? Ivy?”
“No, it’s mistletoe.”
The room glowed brighter as music filled the air. I could feel the excitement growing in the room from the music, our being together and knowing that it was Christmas Eve, the night when the real angels sang out the news for the very first time. I could hardly breathe.
Mary K. Tilghman writes 