Samhain Publishing

I had a laugh the other day when I discovered Lady Gaga and I share the same birthday (separated by a few decades). We’re both Aries. Both creative spirits. Both independent thinkers.

But she’s filthy rich. And I’m not.

In my quest to discover why I missed my chance at becoming Gaga Prime, I uncovered the truth about all the Zodiac signs. Have a look for yourself.

Aries: The troublemakers of the Zodiac. Never turn your back on an Aries. We are born leaders, whether the people around us want a leader or not. All Aries are hard-headed and two-fisted. We never walk when we can run. And we never sleep because that wastes too much time. No one likes us because we’re just too bossy.

Taurus: My best friend is a Taurus. Mean. Blunt. Belligerent. They’re brawlers. But they’re handy to have around if you’re ever in a bar fight. They’ve got a heart as big as a mountain. And a knuckle sandwich to match. Taureans always have your back. All you have to worry about is your front.

Gemini: Oh my gosh, Geminis can talk. They’re the only sign I know that can argue both sides of an argument—at the same time. Even Libras can’t do that. Intelligent and animated, they have no Off switch. Never throw a party without a Gemini. (They’ll invite themselves anyway.)

Cancer: My hubby is a Cancer so I know this sign intimately. Cancers are deep emotional wells. Their home is their castle. For that matter your home is their castle. They’re not picky whose home they commandeer. I love my Cancer people. Except when they’re moody. Or hungry. Or crabby. Oh, boy.

Leo: Leos cannot live without two things in their lives. Mirrors and Facebook. I have two sisters and a mother who are Leos so I have firsthand knowledge. Leos are bigger than life. They can out-argue anyone. They are also criminally beautiful. God, I hate Leos. Oh, wait. Did I say that out loud?

Virgo: Every Virgo person I’ve ever met has been very generous and hard working, but I think there is something seriously wrong with them. They’re always cleaning stuff and organizing their desks. That is not natural, people. Someone has to stop them. I think that’s why they invented Scorpios.

Libra: Libras are all about fairness and balance. Good people to have around when you go to Yoga class. Nobody does a Downward Dog Pose like they do—even when they’re drunk. But must we have a committee for everything, Libra? Just make a decision. Better yet, let me make a decision. Go makes us margaritas.

Scorpio: Oh, these people! They will embarrass you at the drop of a hat. And they’re uber smart. I have a sister who’s a Scorpio (stay with me, I have a big family). Thank goodness, she’s a little sister. I managed to leave home before she brainwashed me. It was too late for the dog. Scorpios are outrageously fun. But they’re mean drunks. Keep ‘em in coffee. They probably chew theirs from the bean.

Pisces: Pisceans have a remarkable memory—for 1989. The rest of their memory is hit or miss. They often wear a sweet, but lost puppy-dog look in their eyes, right before they bite you in the leg. Albert Einstein, Michelangelo and Dr. Seuss were all Pisceans. Show-offs.

Sagittarius: These are the world travelers and philosophers of the zodiac. They also like to eat very strange food. If there was an easy (and safe) way to do things, Sagittarians will ignore it. It’s the only sign in the Zodiac who wears bandages and iodine as a badge of honor.

Capricorn: You guessed it. I have special insider knowledge because of another family member, a brother. Capricorns are hardworking, reliable, and a pain in the keester. They are the worriers of the Zodiac, always griping about problems that don’t exist—yet. Hmm…the economy, global warming, overcrowding. They may be on to something. Now where did my brother go?

Aquarius: Aquarians like to get naked. Often they have deep philosophical discussions, pondering the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Almost always that discussion is held with a potted plant or an invisible friend. Aquarians are fun loving free spirits. If you see a phone number scrawled on a bathroom wall, it most likely belongs to an Aquarius. For a good time, call an Aquarius. That’s why they left their number.

So what do you think? Was I close?

Disclaimer: The Zodiac descriptions in today’s post are for entertainment purposes only. Maria Zannini has no business writing this post because she’s not a trained astrologer. Furthermore, she also can’t sing, so now Lady Gaga has nothing to worry about.

Yeah, Lady Gaga was worried. She just didn’t want to show it.

~~~

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I’m in the middle of a blog tour! Every time you leave a comment, tweet or mention “Maria Zannini” anywhere with a link to my blog, your name goes in the hat for a chance to win a Texas sized prize. Go here for more information.

Also, RT Reviews is hosting a contest and I need your vote! Hop over to their web site to read the excerpts. I’d be ever so grateful if you’d vote for my novel, MISTRESS OF THE STONE. (I’m the last one on the list with the very cute dog.)

Thanks for your support!

I’m selling my dog to the circus. Or a wrecking crew. I haven’t quite decided.

Iko was a sweet little throwaway who was covered in fleas and infested with every worm you could imagine. And he was barely moving, no doubt from the parasites sucking the life out of him. We honestly believe he didn’t have long for this world.

We’d been looking for another dog, but not a male as we already had one, since renamed Saint Tank. (See this post for more on Tank.) But this puppy called out to us. Instead of squirming like a normal puppy, he rested his little head on my shoulder and shivered.

Being a rottie mix we knew he wouldn’t be a first choice for most people, aside from the fact he looked so poorly. The adoption people said he’d just been dumped and they hadn’t had time to evaluate him.

We took him home. We had to.

Flash forward four and half months.

What was once a parasite infested little puppy has grown into a 45 pound-six month old. He has energy to spare and I regularly let him run our six acres. It took Iko a few weeks to recover from his near death experience, but once he was cured there was no stopping him.

He regularly destroys stuffed toys, rawhides and expensive throw pillows, but he has yet to overcome his Kong, a hard rubber toy made for dogs like our beasty-boy.

Yesterday, he discovered decorator paint and hardwood molding. I think I was speechless for several minutes before I recovered.

I sat near the damage and called him over.

“Iko, did you do this?”

Silence.

“Iko…”

That head dropped down two stories and he stuck a paw out. Unlike his big brother, Iko looks for trouble. He also looks for penance—after the fact.

“Iko…”

Suddenly, all forty-five pounds of him descends on me and once more he rests his head on my shoulder.

This time he doesn’t shiver.

The little guy licks my ear and lets out a held in breath.

“Iko, what am I going to do with you?”

He snuggles even tighter and wraps a paw around my neck.

:sigh: “I know. You’re sorry.”

Glad I always have paint and wood putty around here.

Epilogue: The next morning, I showed him the paint peelings and he snapped a look toward big brother, Tank, trying to frame the crime on him.

Not a chance little guy. There’s a reason we call him Saint Tank.

Your turn: What’s the worst thing your pet ever destroyed?

***
Visit Maria at her website or her blog

Maria Zannini is the author of Touch Of Fire, a post apocalyptic fantasy. 

Read an excerpt of TOUCH OF FIRE.

Do you ever wonder at the stuff you see on the side of the road? 

One day I was in the passenger seat, my head bouncing lightly against the headrest as we traveled a bumpy road.

I stared absently out the window when a box, seemingly sealed on all sides, came into view.

Like Jimmy Stewart in “It’s A Wonderful Life” when he wished for a million bucks everytime he flicked that lighter, I closed my eyes and said to myself: “A box of money, Lord!”

We drove past, the dust roiling in our wake. The husband didn’t pay any attention to the scuff-marked box on the side of the road, and I didn’t bring it up. As the box grew smaller and smaller in my side mirror, part of me couldn’t help feeling a little regretful for not stopping.

Over the years, I’d seen lots of boxes, some small, some large, some half-flattened, and others so pristine, you’d think someone put them out there deliberately. Not once had I ever stopped.

But each time I would say to myself, “A box of money, Lord!”

Then one time I did the unthinkable. I said it out loud in front of my husband sitting in the next seat.

He burst into laughter.

“You realize when you die, you’re going to be standing at the Pearly Gates and you’re going to ask, Lord, why is it you never once granted my wish for a box of money?

And he’s going to tell you: Maria, we’ve been putting those boxes in your way your whole life and you never once stopped to open one of them.”

He turned the car around and went back to the box that had started this conversation. He stopped the car in front of it and said: “Go on. Go see what’s in the box.”

I took the challenge and with each step I asked myself a different question. Why hadn’t I ever stopped before? Was it too much trouble? Was I so certain I was in for disappointment? I certainly didn’t expect a box of money.

I approached the box and gave it a little kick—just in case it had something crawly that didn’t want to be disturbed. It had some heft to it, so something was definitely inside.

Time for the moment of truth.

I peeled open the flaps and found…

More boxes.

Just my luck.

Oh, well. I’m glad I stopped because it reminded me that opportunity is all around us. The trick is to meet it half way. Sure, I didn’t get my box of money. But it so happened we were in the middle of moving. What I really did need was boxes. Lots of boxes.

Still, I wouldn’t have minded a box of money. At least then it would have paid for the movers.

How about you? Have you ever wanted to stop for something on the side of the road? Did you do it?

***
Visit Maria at her website, blog or follow her on Twitter.

Yup.
That’s what I should have called my novel, TOUCH OF FIRE.
Ah, well. Maybe I’ll give that title to the next book in the series. 

TOUCH OF FIRE comes out in print Tuesday, April 28.

In it you’ll learn how to:

• eat from a campfire (EVERY day)
• bathe in cold water ponds
• eat hallucinogenic mushrooms
(then have sex you won’t remember later)
• fight your enemies with swords and spears
• and, oh yes, deal with Elemental witches who can conjure air, water, earth or fire.

Did I mention the Elementals aren’t too fond of us plainfolk?

Aside from a ripping good story, TOUCH OF FIRE is a must-have guide for living in a post-apocalyptic age.

Remember, the Mayan calendar comes to a dead-halt on December 12, 2012. Methinks they were on to something, so BUY your copy before the 2012 rush. I’m telling ya, you’ll NEED this book.

The Apocalypse is closer than you think

Visit Maria at her website, blog or follow her on Twitter.

Read an excerpt of TOUCH OF FIRE.

TOUCH OF FIRE hits bookstores on April 28.

He’s a scoundrel and a thief. She’s a woman on a mission. They’re the perfect team—if they don’t kill each other first.

Today I want to tell you a ghost story.

I’ve always been fascinated with the stories about dead people going about their business as if they were still alive. There’s a theory that says that these ghosts are caught in a loop. They don’t realize they’re dead and they endlessly “relive” an event in their lives that brought them the most happiness or the most grief.

A few years ago, our rottie, Isis, had to be put to sleep when we could no longer maintain her quality of life. I can’t express in such a short piece what Isis was like or what she meant to us, but she was an extraordinary dog with Olympian desires. That rascal was always looking for opportunity, whether to cause mischief, steal a morsel or have an adventure.

But she was also a stoic little girl, never once complaining as her aging body betrayed her. Even when she came down with cancer, she went through chemo without a whimper, knowing there was always a cookie waiting for her at the end of the treatment.

What I remember most about Isis is how much she loved mealtimes. They were the highlights of her day and she would dance like a whirling dervish in anticipation of chow.

Granted, she didn’t eat mere dog food. When she came down with cancer we did a lot of research and discovered that a high protein, high fat diet seemed to slow the growth of cancers, so we switched her to real meat, eggs, and fish and did away with all her carbs.

Heck yes, she loved mealtime! What wasn’t there to like?

So it shouldn’t have surprised me when my husband, Greg, called me, his voice trembling with shock.

“Sit down,” he said. “You aren’t going to believe this.”

He was watching tv with our other rottie, Tank, and they both got up on the commercial to see what they could scrounge from the fridge.

Now Tank is a low energy dog. Greg was already in the next room when the big lummox finally decided to slide off the couch.

That’s when Greg stopped dead in his tracks.

As clear as day he saw a familiar rottie butt wiggle cheerfully into the kitchen. What-the-heck? His head snapped around and he saw Tank right behind him. There was no other dog in the house. And he KNEW that little butt. Isis was renowned for her trim figure even unto old age.

Greg raced into the kitchen, his heart pounding. But it was empty. Isis wasn’t there.

Had he subconsciously thought of her? Did he will her into existence and saw what he wanted to see?

He called me right away because between the two of us, he knows I’m the one used to ‘seeing’ the unusual.

“Was I hallucinating?” he asked.

I smiled. Isis had been gone for more than two years when she made her appearance. But I don’t think she ever really left.

She was doing what she loved best. She was at home with her daddy, and if Greg had taken a moment to look at the clock, he would have realized…it was mealtime.

Isis was always on time.

***

Maria Zannini is the author of TOUCH OF FIRE, a futuristic fantasy that combines magic, myth and romance. He’s a scoundrel and a thief and she’s a woman on a mission. They’re the perfect team—if they don’t kill each other first.

For writing topics, markets, and a new series on saving money, visit her on her blog.

I mean it. Don’t read TOUCH OF FIRE. It’s contentious, blasphemous and oozing with violence and unsafe sex. I spend most of my time running from people with pitchforks and flaming torches. If I had known publication would increase my aerobic capacity, I would’ve written this book sooner.

TOUCH OF FIRE is the kind of book that raises eyebrows, blood pressure, and umm…other body parts. It’s scandalous. It makes you want to cozy up in a corner where no one else can see you because let’s face it, people would talk.

It’s presumptuous drivel. It’s anti-liberal, anti-conservative. Heck, even the Wiccans are giving it a wide berth. (That’s okay. I’m getting back at them in the sequel.)

But it’s your money. And some of you will buy it despite my warnings. You are the gamblers. Yes, I’ve seen you at the 7-11s buying your Lotto tickets and your Mountain Dew. I’m the person right behind you in line. (grin)

And you hedonists of sweet confections. Polite society calls you chocoholics. Ha! You indulge in so much decadent goodness you’ve sent all of Lady Godiva’s children to college—and her little dog too.

Exhaustive research (in the back alleys of racetracks and chocolate factories) has proven gamblers and addicts are the only qualified people to enjoy TOUCH OF FIRE. The rest of you would be hit or miss.

Even if you don’t bet on the ponies or go to chocolate conventions, buy it out of vengeance and give it to the sister-in-law who borrows all your “good” books, or the neighbor who barges in unannounced and stays for hours. Give them a copy of TOUCH OF FIRE, and you may never see them again.

And yet, try as I might to be controversial and irreverent to decent society, some people did like this book. Go figure.

Jacqueline Ward over at The Romance Studio said this:

“Ms. Zannini has created a wonderfully vibrant world full or details and robust characters. Readers are given a look into a possible future for our world. The plot is intricately detailed and full of suspense. Touch of Fire has all the elements of a great epic story. There is so much love, loss and sacrifice. This story had me laughing, then crying, sad, then ecstatic. The emotions are pouring off the pages so much that you can’t help but feel them too.”

And the notorious Mrs. Giggles said this:

“Touch Of Fire is definitely one memorable story, mostly because I find the setting to be a very interesting one and I would definitely love to pay the world another visit.”

It’s possible these unfortunate people are both gamblers and chocoholics, but it’s not for me to judge.

If you are a decent, law-abiding citizen who never runs yellow lights and does the family ironing in high heels and pearls, don’t read this book. You probably won’t like it.

The rest of you…

Be sure to write me and let me know what you thought of TOUCH OF FIRE, and I’ll send you the schedule for the next chocoholics convention.

***
On a more serious note:
By the time you read this, I will be under the surgeon’s knife, getting my corneas tweaked one more time. Oy vey! This is my third surgery in as many months.

I have been legally blind since I was a child, and eye surgeries are no stranger to me, but I always get nervous when someone gets that close to my eyeball with a scalpel.

I’d love it if you would leave a message here, but it will be many days before I’ll be able to see well enough to answer.

You can also email me offline. Go to my blog or website for the email address.

Visit me 24/7 at: http://mariazannini.blogspot.com/ and at my website at: http://www.mariazannini.com/.

And if you’re really reckless, buy TOUCH OF FIRE here:

http://www.mybookstoreandmore.com/shop/product.da/touch-of-fire

You’ve been warned.

Thanks for indulging me. We now go back to our regularly scheduled programming.

My husband and I have a bi-city relationship and we see each other maybe 5-6 days a month. Sheesh! Dating couples see each other more.

We live 300 miles apart, seeing each other whenever possible. Some months—like this month—we might not see each other at all. I know. It sucks.

Celibacy is not for the weak.

So I was thrilled when I got a call from Greg saying he was able to get off work and will run up to see me for a couple of days. We hadn’t seen each other in three weeks and I quickly asked my boss for a day off too.

We’ve been doing this 300 mile dance for about eight years now, and there are hardships with this arrangement. Like when the water heater busted, or when the dog was sick, or when I lost my drivers license because I couldn’t pass the vision test. That’s when you need your partner, your life mate, somebody who can pick up the pieces and help you put that dish back together.

Oh, and the sex. We miss that too. This 300 mile separation brings new meaning to the term coitus interruptus.

Of all the questions I get when people find out about our strange un-cohabitation, few ever asks the delicate question of forced celibacy.

Greg tells his friends: It’s like being a bachelor, but I don’t get to date.

So when our friends hear that one of us is seeing the other, they rush to get out of our way as we’re headed out the door. Otherwise someone is liable to get hurt.

Strangely enough, this bi-city living arrangement is not as unusual as I thought. Since living apart, we’ve met a dozen other couples who are forced into the same predicament. And then there are also the brave men and women who serve in the military. Their spouses may not see them for months at a time.

While we’ve acclimated to being alone a great deal of the time, there are a few things I really miss doing.

I miss cooking for him. Me! The woman who is as domesticated as a wildebeest. I also miss sleeping with him. And despite email, cell phones and snail mail letters, we both miss being able to share those little moments in our lives that only our significant other would understand.

We’ll live together again soon. We are nearing the end of this stint and we’ll go back to being a normal couple, fussing, needling, and holding each other every night.

In the meantime, if you see me with a suitcase and a dog in the car—get out of my way! I’m going to see my husband.

Addendum: Solitude hasn’t been all bad. This is how I became a novelist.

For more writing markets, news and wacky stories pop over to http://mariazannini.blogspot.com/ and to my website at: http://www.mariazannini.com/.

And to see what all this alone time has netted, pick up Touch Of Fire and let me know what you think. I want to hear from you.

Maria Zannini

Holy mother of Moses! I’ve got a book coming out today. 

Touch Of Fire is all dressed up and ready for perusal. Don’t make it feel like an ugly date on prom night. Go. Read the excerpt. Buy the book. You’ll like it. Really. I wouldn’t lie to you.

I thought I’d give you a little background on how this story happened. I blame it all on one of my crit partners. She had heard about Samhain’s first line contest last year and coerced me to enter.

“Enter,” she told me. “It’s only five lines,” she said. “What have you got to lose?”

Damn woman!

Why was I upset? Because I only had five lines. LOL!

I had been toying with the idea of a post apocalyptic romance for a while, but I had yet to commit anything to paper. As the weeks went by and I kept passing each hurdle in the contest, it occurred to me that the story was already gelling and I knew exactly what kind of people my hero and heroine were. By the time I got the news that my entry had been chosen, the first three chapters and the outline were fleshed out. I could see the whole thing unfold from beginning to end.

I sent the partial to Eve, the editor who requested it, to see if she was still interested. She was! So off I went to finish the story and polish it until it gleamed.

Five weeks later, Touch Of Fire was born.

There’s adventure, danger and sex. My three favorite things! And it’s set 1200 years in the future on an Earth where technology has given way to Elemental magic.

Touch Of Fire turned out to be one of the most enjoyable writing assignments I’ve ever given myself. I had a blast extrapolating how people of the future would interpret artifacts and beliefs from the “last” age. Eagle-eyed readers will easily pick up little clues that reference the old world. Even the Elementals, those weavers of magic are very much tied to what happened 1200 years earlier.

I hope you’ll read the book and send me feedback. Visit my blog and website for the latest news, markets, and to catch up on my shenanigans. I’m always good for a chuckle.

Let me leave you with the five lines that started it all.

***

The Reverend Mother used to tell acolytes that if men were going to brawl, they should at least be naked and glistening with oil.

Leda’s money was on the hulking brute with the Cydian blade, but right now she needed the other guy to win. That one had information she needed, and she wasn’t going to get it if he got himself killed. She was just about to intercede when her quarry tripped on his feet and knocked himself out cold.

Idiot.

***

Hope you enjoy Touch Of Fire. I had a grand time creating that world. We’ll be revisiting it again soon.

In the meantime, check out the interview I did with Maya Reynolds.
Leave a comment (I’m looking for predictions) and vie for a chance to win a copy of Touch Of Fire.

Meet Tank. 135 lbs of muscle and dog kisses. Whenever we go out in public, people point at us—or rather, they point at ‘Tinky’. He’s probably the biggest Rottweiler we’ve ever seen and a little intimidating when you get up close, but he’s got a heart the size of Texas.

Tinky was a rescue, as most of our dogs have been. As usual, I had to be coerced into taking him in. Not that I was opposed to rescuing a dog. I just didn’t want another one—especially such a BIG one.

The moment he climbed out of the cargo van, you could see the whole vehicle rise up. He was a monster! All legs and head. Tank was still a young dog, maybe a couple of years old who had yet to fill out to his mature weight. But even then he was huge.

It didn’t take long for Tinky to become my sweetheart. He was so eager to please and grateful for any affection. Much to Greg’s dismay, Tank didn’t like to roughhouse. As a matter of fact, he avoids scuffles whenever possible. With the possible exception of a giant French poodle that he met in obedience school, Tinky has been the perfect gentlemen.

We have it on good authority the French poodle had said something slanderous about poor Tinky’s pedigree, and well, you know how these international incidents get started.

So when Greg said it would be a good idea for me to keep Tank as protection, I scoffed. Yeah, right! Tinky is a creampuff. He hates getting into trouble and would rather have his toenails painted than scare off a predator. I was pretty sure I was going to be the one rescuing him.

Then one day, Greg and I were goofing around and he started tickling me. Before I knew it, we were play-fighting and carrying on like 12-year olds. Greg had pulled me onto the bed and I was doing my best to get the upper hand. He’s a master at finding all my ticklish spots and I was screaming like a banshee.

All of a sudden my ‘creampuff’ jumps up on the bed and CAREFULLY takes Greg’s arm in his mouth and draws it away from me. There was no biting, no growling, just a very determined: “Okay, that’s quite enough” look.

We both stared at him dumbstruck. In all our years of raising dogs, we’d never had one who could reason things out like this. Tank was genuinely concerned that I was being hurt, and yet he knew he couldn’t countermand ‘daddy’ either. So he did the only thing he could and wedged himself in between us, all the while holding Greg’s arm.

Needless to say, he got lots of praise from both of us for being so sensible.

Flash forward four years. Greg and I are again in a tickle-wrestle and I decide to test Tank by screaming for help. What does he do?

He jumps up on the bed and burrows in between us, giving me and dad a big sloppy kiss, each in turn. Yeah, that’s my boy.

Maria Zannini
http://mariazannini.blogspot.com/
TOUCH OF FIRE, coming May 2008

It seems only appropriate for the season that my first blog post on Samhain should be a Christmas story. Brace yourselves. This story includes mass anarchy, bloodshed and tears.

Greg and I were newly married and poor as proverbial church mice. Those were lean times, and we were as skinny as our wallets, living from hand to mouth for the first few months of married life.

So when Christmas rolled around, there was very little hope for anything more than a meager holiday meal. Still, I had been saving for weeks and had socked away enough to buy a little tree.

It was a horrible indulgence for two people struggling to make ends meet, but it was Christmas, and I was anxious to start our own family traditions. This would be our first Christmas on our own. Our families were 1200 miles away and we were all alone in Texas.

Greg, a jolly fellow —even if he was underweight, agreed that we should spend our last twenty dollars on Christmas.

We made a pilgrimage to the land of fir and holly, otherwise known as the local grocery store. The store was packed with frenzied shoppers and the lines stretched into the aisles. They were so busy they pulled the only guy they had manning the Christmas tree lot to help inside the store.

In the chaos, we finally found the store manager and he told us to go ahead and pick out our tree and he’d send a clerk to ring us up.

I picked out a thick and sturdy ten dollar tree. To this day I still remember how fresh it smelled. We steered it in the general direction of our little MGB, maiming Greg in the process. I zigged. He zagged. But only the tree came out of it unscathed. As Greg sucked on his bleeding finger, we waited for the clerk to show up.

And waited, and waited.

Twice, each of us went back to find the manager and he kept promising to send someone out there. Twenty minutes later we were still waiting. I went back one more time and the manager met me halfway.

“Has anyone come out yet?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He looked back toward the store, the lines as long as ever and then at us, two skinny kids, wide-eyed and anxious to be on our way.

“You picked out a nice tree,” he said, pointing at a tree that buried most of our little car.

I showed him the color-coded price tag on the tree, then handed him our only twenty dollar bill. “Can you break the twenty for me?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “I guess you’ll have to take it home.”

I stared at him dumbfounded, not understanding what he meant. By this time, Greg had joined us and asked if we could pay him instead.

“Nope,” the older man said. He shook Greg’s hand and wished us, Merry Christmas.

I must have had tears in my eyes because everything went blurry all at once. I looked up at the store manager and thanked him. “This is our first Christmas on our own,” I said.

He smiled. “And I’ll bet it’s one you’ll always remember too.”

More than thirty years later I realize now…he was right.

May all your holiday memories be just as warm and kind.
Merry Christmas, everyone!

Maria Zannini

*****

Drop by. http://mariazannini.blogspot.com/
You’re always welcome.