“Midnight, you say?” the groom asked, feigning interest in his prince’s nightly romantic lament.

“Ten of, anyway,” the prince replied.

“Quite early for a rock star to flee his highness’ royal ball.”

The prince sighed and flopped down on his bed while his groom collected his discarded, rumpled finery from where it lay scattered on the floor. “I thought she liked me, too,” he said. “But she bolted from my arms in a flash when she saw the time. I chased her to the stairs, but somehow she outran me.”

“No doubt why she tripped,” the groom consoled him. “And took a rough tumble down the stairs, for it.”

“And then off into the night in her pink Corvette, never to be seen again,” the prince finished.

The groom considered for a moment before sighing himself. “I think this may be of interest to you, highness. It slipped off her foot when she fell.” In his hand the groom held out a totally punk-rock black leather thigh-high boot with a stiletto heel.

I submitted this little story to the first ever Candied Ginger writing contest, and won despite the many other excellent entries. It just goes to show there's always an advantage to going first! (And it pays to know your audience.)

I'm eagerly awaiting my prizes: a love letter from the girls of Candied Ginger, and a coveted copy of the home game.



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