Unto The Morrow, by Amy Friedman

(F.F.F. Website Story)

‘Twas the night before New Year’s.
She cast a gimlet eye upon her table.
China and cutlery gleamed. Her ruby cloth shimmered. Water and wine glasses sparkled.
Delicate tapers burned with a steady flame.
Steam curled gently from fat tureens.
Platters overflowed with carved meats and fruits.
All was set.
“Ain’t the grub ready yet?” he said, crashing into the dining room.
“Ready, dear,” she smiled.
“Great,” he said, grabbing a turkey leg with a meaty hand. “I’m off to the pub. Don’t wait up.”
She had no intention of waiting. The portal had opened, and she was stepping through.


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