Excerpt
Carpe glitter, my grandmother always said. Seize the glitter.
And that was what I remembered best about her: the glitter. A fierce dazzle of rhinestones along with a waft of Patou Joy, lipstick like a gleaming red banner across her mouth. Underneath all that, a wiry little old lady with silver hair and vampire-pale skin.
Not that she was a vampire, of course. But she knew her share. Grandmother hung with everyone during her days in the Vegas crowd. Celebrities, presidents, mob bosses, they all came to her show at the Sparkle Dome. Watched her strut her stuff in a black top hat and fishnet stockings, conjuring flames and doves (never card tricks, which she hated), making ghosts speak to loved ones in the audience. When she stepped off the stage, she left in a scintillating dazzle, like a fairy queen stepping off her throne, trailed by their adulation.
All that shine. All that glitter. And at home?
Its antithesis.