You win. (Okay, Pete helped.) Rather nasty trick, there, invoking the Boss's name. You know I am powerless against the Co-Dictators of the Universe.
My entry to the current Clarity of Night contest is here. Or you can read it in the postscript. I keep hoping for one of those magical epiphanies that write themselves, 250 words of such depth and perfection that it reduces Parrish to tears. Sadly, no such epiphany occurred for this contest. I will jump cartwheels if only I can stay in the Forties Club (do not even dare to suggest that has anything to do with my age).
I've read but not commented on all the entries. Some, like this one, are way too profound for my summertime brain. Some (like Tessa's, and Sarah's are poetry: I stink at appreciating poetry.
Quite a few of my peeps entered: Merry, Ello, Chris, Aniket, wolfie, Paul, Pete, Parrish, J.C., Precie, Angelique, Dottie, Sandra, Absolute Vanilla, Surly Writer, Whirlochre. Am I well-connected or what? (Yes, I hobnob.)
My current favorites are da Boss's and Sylvia's and Tre'von's. I think. At least right now.
Not only is my Clarity entry not to the level I'd hoped, my word counts on the WIPs are lagging. McKoala's going to claw me soon, I'm afraid. I know your own poetry and Rumpelstiltskin writing is going well, even if I haven't left comments. I'm all-knowing that way.
I hope that your home ownership and kitchen remodelling are going well. You will certainly need to get ahead of things in order to fill the Boss's shoes when he's on leave. First thing you can do is raise my salary. Royalty needs bling, you know.
Do give my best to Mrs. Betty and to Zora.
PS - I haven't mailed your books yet, but I also haven't forgotten.
PPS - Here's my entry:
by Aerin Rose
Twenty-two hours from San Francisco to Kathmandu. Four hours until the layover in Hong Kong. Caelin will have finished grading papers by then. She arches her back, stretching, then wiggles her toes, and catches the eye of the flight attendant.
“More, please.” She indicates the travel-sized wineglass. The remaining ruby droplets glisten in the spotlight of her reading lamp. The attendant nods from the galley.
“You realize that’s basically grape juice?” Chloe peers around the headrest as her business class bed reverts to its upright position.
“It’s a second growth Bordeaux and you know it, O Queen Food Critic,” Caelin retorts. “How’d you sleep?”
“Not well. Looks like fourteen bottles of questionable Bordeaux didn’t help you sleep, either.”
“And nervous. What if she hates us?”
“Sweetheart.” Caelin strokes her wife’s cheek as Chloe unfolds the passport she’s been clutching. A little girl with dark eyes and copper skin gazes at them, unsmiling and unafraid. “She liked us well enough before. Any kid will hate her parents at some point. Let’s just focus on getting her home.”
The flight attendant materializes with the bottle of Château Cos-d'Estournel 1989, which streams like scarlet silk into the stemware.
“Like the orphanage is going to let her come home when you show up drunk,” Chloe teases, leaning close. Caelin smiles into her spouse’s black curls. Points of light play on the surface of her wine, casting images against the back of the seat in a rosy haze.