Welcome to day 10 of the Advent Event! Please share this event with your friends. The more anthologies we can sell, the more money we can raise for the National Down Syndrome Society.
Purchase the book here: http://amzn.com/1479266248
Or visit this site for more information: http://adventanthology.wordpress.com
Here’s a look at the next two stories:
"Troll, the Ancient Yuletide Carol" by Michael D. Young
On the first of November at the stroke of midnight, Ms. Christie Carole flung open to the doors to the Carol Conservatory. “O, come all ye faithful!” she called in a cherry voice. "Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat!”
From within, a chorus of carols sprang to life with the tinkling of jingle bells and refrains of “Fa, la, la, la, la…”
“Isn’t it supposed to be ‘I heard the bells on Christmas day’” asked the carol bearing the same name. “They haven’t even stuffed the turkeys yet.”
“You better not pout,” Ms. Carole said with a stern look. “The radio will need you all before long, and you must be warmed up and ready to go.”
When Ms. Carole had awoken the last of the sleepy carols, Silent Night and Away in a Manger, she glanced in the cupboard and noticed a carol she had never seen before in the far back corner. “Bring a torch, Jennette Isabella.”
The carol she had named stepped into the room, lighting every corner of it. There in the cupboard sat an old, wrinkled carol, blinking and rubbing his eyes.
Ms. Carole turned to the carol next to her and asked, “Yonder carol, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?”
When the carol she had asked shrugged, the old carol answered for himself. “My name is Troll—Troll, the Ancient Yuletide Carol.”
"The Dayspring" by Daron D. Fraley
Charles Gaston used an ink dropper to load the nib reservoir, then tested a few strokes on a scrap of paper grocery bag. The black ink flowed well. To be sure the lines were crisp, he placed the pen in a holder and moved his dynamo-powered flashlight closer so he could see the edges of his work. Satisfied, he rested his wrinkled forearm on the silver edge of the upside-down Victorian server so his hand would not tremble.
What else was he to use? He had no blank paper. The only remaining sheets had already been printed on both sides—back when the electricity was on and they could use the computer to log the incredible changes which had occurred. And a paper bag didn’t seem right. Too cheap.
No, this would have to do. Besides, using the leather base of the tray as his canvas would look nice—it would be trimmed in silver like a fancy picture frame. He set the pen nib at the top of the leather and penned the first lines from memory:
O come, o come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!
He blew on the fresh ink softly so it wouldn’t splatter. As he read the words in the dim light, the tune came to his mind, but he didn’t hum it—he didn’t want to wake his Lizzie. He remembered when he had played it for a visiting dignitary—he couldn’t think of the name—when the Paroisse was cold and damp on a mid-December evening. The visitor had smiled politely, but had not seemed impressed. Charles had muttered a snide comment under his breath. The man heard him. Apologies were later given, but Charles hadn’t really been sincere.
And here a look of one of the prizes:
A pdf copy of "Sing We Now of Christmas".
a Rafflecopter giveaway