I’m writing a novel. Here’s a little piece of it.
The hot melty fragrance of molten wax drifted up past the prickling hairs of his nostrils, the soft sharp heat of the miniature flames warming his cheeks. He could almost see the silhouettes of his family through his clenched eyelids. A cacophony of wobbling, off-tune voices belted out the traditional requisite notes and words, few in number, yet imbued by frenzied intensity and vociferous, twangy gaiety.
For one brief moment, the world faded away and Erek made his nineteenth wish. Then it all came flooding back as he opened his eyes, blinked at the blinding camera flashes and flickering candle flames, and blew. The acrid smoke in the air before him was valiantly driven back by a warm enveloping maternal embrace. As she released him with a sniff, Erek took in the beaming, bittersweet smiles of his mother and uncle, the carefully decorated homemade cake and overly bright balloons and streamers, all the senseless effort to cover up the ten-year-old dad-shaped void in the family, which only served to accentuate it’s depth.
