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Crazy Holiday Blogfest

Monday, 13 December 2010  |  Posted by Brenda Drake

We interrupt this Blogfest to announce …  I’M A FINALIST IN MICHAEL’S HARRY POTTER BLOGFEST!!!  You can read my entry below and then go (HERE) to read and vote for your favorite entry! 

Christine Danek is hosting the Crazy Holiday Blogfest on her blog Christine’s Journey today. To view all the participants’ entries go (HERE).


Here’s the rules:  “I thought I would host a blogfest about the holidays. Any holiday. It could take place in Spring, Summer, Fall or Winter. It could be a scene from a WiP, a new piece you may have started, something totally random, but it should include a holiday (any one holiday, remember).”

Once again, I’ve dusted off an old project to post. So, again, keep in mind that I was quite young when I wrote this. I hope you enjoy it and I can’t wait to read the other entries. 


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The candles twinkling on the tree illuminated the tinfoil and glass ornaments. The smell of pine scented the entire parlor. I pricked my finger several times with the sharp needle while trying to string cranberries. My mind kept wandering off the task. Steam rose up from the hot cider in the cup beside me. Christmas Bells screeched out from the phonograph in the hopes it would bring up my spirits for the coming morning.
Mary dropped into the chair opposite of me and picked up her needle. “She finally shut her wee eyes.”
I watched the needle pierce the cranberry in my hand. “Emma would have fought it all night if I had taken her up.”
Mary pushed a piece of thread threw the eye of the needle. “Children need a firm hand at times. Don’t be letting yer fears of your ma make you too soft with the girl.”
“You know me too well, Mary.” I pricked my finger and then quickly sucked the bead of blood from my skin. 
“Be careful or you be stringing your finger along with them cranberries.” Her green Irish eyes smiled at me. “You be a kind woman, Mrs. Newman. You treat me as an equal. Your ma never would. You haven’t a lick of her in yer soul.”
I hardly could think of Mary as a servant. She took care of us as if we were her own family. The formality of my mother’s home was not in my own, for she would never let a servant sit in her parlor and talk in this way. I smiled as I watched Mary thread the cranberries with a quick and accurate skill, her arms resting on her wide middle and her silver hair glistening in the light of the fire. She was all I had ever wanted in a mother. One in which my own mother could never be.
 

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