Image by RÜŞTÜ BOZKUŞ from Pixabay

The Bridge

According to Bruno, my boss, Ms. Glory Hayes might be an odd duck, but she’s the odd duck who keeps the Wooten Monthly afloat. Her father started this tabloid in 1929 during the Great Depression, when he described the publication as “Stories to take your mind off your troubles and think about someone else’s.” When he died, Glory took it over until she found Bruno, who needed work that didn’t require too much physical labor.

Now, she keeps our little scandal-sensation rag funded for sentimental reasons. That’s fine by me because that means she pays my salary, which I need until I can land a job with a real newspaper.

She called yesterday, saying she wanted someone to come see her and write a piece for next month’s issue. Her wish is Bruno’s command, and, therefore, mine.

I arrive on time. Knock on her door, and when she opens it, she’s putting on her coat. She’s a small woman with laser blue eyes that peer up at me from under puffy lids. She seems to be studying my face as if I remind her of someone and she can’t remember who.

“Hello, young man. It’s the first of the month,” she says as if I’d asked the date.

“Right.” I can tell this is going to be a challenge to understand what she’s talking about, so I click on my Voice Memo App. “Do you mind if I record this?”

She shrugs. “No, but I can’t explain what happens on the first day of the month. I have to take you along with me. Just don’t interrupt. In fact, pretend you’re in a theater watching a movie and being polite. Don’t talk. Listen and watch.” She pulls the door closed behind her. “Ready? We have a short walk to the river, less than a mile. Come along. Keep up.*

The woman is sixty years older than I am, but I have trouble staying with her. It’s my writer’s lifestyle, too much sitting.

We leave the street and start down a dirt path that leads into the trees. The sun is lower, and under the canopy, it’s hard to see. I switch on my cell’s flashlight and aim it at the ground. This is creeping me out—the silent trudge through the woods, the way she rushes ahead as if she’s late.

I’ve lost all sense of where we are when she looks back at me, caught in the beam of my cell phone, and points forward.

“This is it.”

We’ve stopped at the edge of Wooten’s last wooden bridge, its planks warped by many seasons of rain, snow, and sun. The handrail tilts out along the edges, close to plunging into the river. The metal plaque reads, Justice.

“It used to be called the Justice Hayes bridge after one of the early settlers, but they shortened it when they hanged the man for stealing horses.”

Since she asked me not to talk, I try to express interest with a nod.

She signals for me to wait and steps to the middle of the bridge, where she begins talking to herself.

I’d take off, but she is old, so it’s not right to leave her alone. And, without her, I can’t pay my rent. I hold out my phone with the record on and listen.

“Hello, It’s Glory, 2026. I’m back! Where are you?”

Glory turns toward me, so now I can see her face, but she’s not looking at me. She frowns and shakes her head.

“Oh, no. You! You’ve jumped backward, not forward like usual! What’s the year?”

Her lips part with a smile touched with regret and maybe a little fear.

Now, fear vanishes. She clenches her fists, and anger springs full force across her face.

“And how could I forget?” She grinds those words between her teeth.

Again, she pauses, listening to what I guess is a voice only she can hear. I lean a bit closer and cock my head as if I’m hard of hearing.

“Living a long time tends to change a person. I’m no longer the queen, and frosted means cold now, not angry.”

Glory shakes her head and glances my way. “Are you recording this?”

I hold up my phone to be polite. The woman’s a nut case. I have no way to deal with a loony octogenarian. I swear I need to find another way to make a living.

“So why are you here from 1955?” Glory asks what I’m guessing is her imaginary friend. “I thought you’d be here from another time. You know, when I was on the city council or the president of the library board.” Glory looks my way as if to make sure I’ve heard about her civic involvement.

Then suddenly, she steps back as if someone has tried to slap her. “Just shut up.” Glory stomps one foot. “Don’t say one word about that fire.” Once again, she talks to the air. “That’s enough. Don’t ever come back. Hear me?” Then she faces me and yells, “Stop recording. Now.”

I click off my phone and wait until she joins me. Her steps are slower, and she’s dragging that foot she so angrily punished against the ancient wood planks.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. Forget that story. I don’t want any of it told.” She strikes off ahead of me, but I can see she’s having trouble walking. She seems to have gotten much older in only a few minutes.

When we reach her house, she goes inside without looking at me and slams the door.

I don’t know what the hell just happened.

Part 2, next Wednesday

Some of my books on AMAZON

I’m taking this First Wednesday off after a harrowing June. My friends know what has been going on, so they won’t expect much from me this week. But for others, the short version is that my bank account was compromised and lots of money vanished. HOWEVER…I’ve recovered the money, established a new account, and after hours, I’ve set up all my payments again.

I’m treating myself to a break, going to watch one of my kids pitch in his All Star game, and eat hot dogs.

Happy Fourth of July. See you next week with a new Weekly Dose of Fiction.

Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay

The Choir

I was in luck.

The house was perfect in every way, and at a price this bachelor could afford.

The listing had appeared online on a rainy Tuesday morning. By Wednesday afternoon, I was standing on the front porch staring at the ocean beyond the dunes. The house sat at the edge of a quiet beachfront neighborhood where weathered cottages and modern vacation homes lined the coast. Most properties here sold for sums that made my head hurt.

This one was different.

Three bedrooms. Hardwood floors. A wraparound porch. Windows facing the sea. And somehow it was less than half the price of every comparable home I’d seen.

I should have asked questions.

Instead, I dreamily imagined morning coffee overlooking the white caps and signed the paperwork before anyone else could snatch it away.

Only later would I remember the realtor’s expression. The way her shoulders relaxed. The sigh that escaped her lips at the final stroke of my pen.

At the time, I thought she was tired after a busy morning. I was wrong

I was so excited about my big “find” that I chose to stay the night and arrange for my things to come later. I couldn’t wait for my first sunset stroll on warm sand.

As I returned, feet sandy and pant legs rolled to my knees, I paused to stare at my new neighborhood. It was strangely quiet. No children played outside. No dogs barked behind fences. Curtains twitched in nearby houses as I walked onto the porch, but when I looked directly, those curtains became still.

The locals were watching me. Hmm. I’d have to work on being a good, trustworthy new neighbor.

I only had the essentials that first night: a mattress, some clothes, a few dishes, and a bottle of Mums I’d been saving for a special occasion. The cork exploded, leaving a small dent in the ceiling—my first celebratory moment marked overhead.

“To new beginnings,” I said, lifting my glass and smiling up at that spot.

I drank the sparkling wine in the kitchen while moonlight spilled through the windows. Perfect.

By the time I’d drained my glass, the house seemed to grow warmer. At first I welcomed it. The ocean breeze carried a chill, and the extra heat felt cozy, but the temperature kept rising.

Within half an hour, sweat dampened my shirt.

I checked the thermostat. It read seventy-eight degrees, so I lowered it to sixty-eight, and the vents immediately blasted freezing air.

“Well, that’s not right.” The warmth vanished quickly, and cold crept along the walls and the hardwood floors. The corners of the windows sparkled with frost crystals.

I adjusted the thermostat again, and the screen flickered. When the numbers disappeared, the thermostat died, and silence inside fell over me like a dense blanket.

Outside, the ocean roared and plunged onto the sand, but the sound was too loud now —too close.

Around me, the cold deepened.

I retreated upstairs to the bedroom where I cocooned myself in the duvet I’d brought, and huddled, listening to the beams groan overhead, and the floorboards creak around me as I lay on the mattress. At first, it was almost soothing, but after midnight, the creaking turned staccato. I unwrapped myself and stood listening. It was soft at first, but the melody grew louder until I recognized what it was. A dirge.

It was heartbreaking, and I wiped tears away listening to the increasing number of voices. And then people appeared, and I froze in fear. I’d never believed in ghosts, but here I was surrounded by them.

A woman, arms thrashing as if struggling in high waves, seaweed tangled in her hair…A child in tattered clothes, dripping seawater, gasping for air…A fisherman reaching for a life preserver…never within his grasp.

More followed.

Men and women.

Children.

Seasoned sailors.

They passed through the rooms in a silent, grim procession toward the staircase, and then descended, never looking back.

I still couldn’t move. My breathing was so shallow that I felt lightheaded, but I couldn’t stop watching.

A little girl paused beside me, her skin a bluish white. “Being always cold is the hardest,” she whispered before moving on.

An old fisherman with empty eye sockets peered up at me. “Are you sure, Mate?”

A young woman, clutching an infant. “They have already noticed you.”

The strange messages continued.

Each spirit seemed more frightened than I was, and that terrified me most. They weren’t telling me about what had happened to them. They feared something else. The walls vibrated with that fear.

Finally, the last one beckoned me to follow, and despite every instinct screaming at me not to, I did. At the bottom of the stairs, I confronted a door I hadn’t seen during the tour. In fact, I knew it had not been there when the realtor walked me through. But there it was now, and the ghosts were vanishing behind it in a silent, endless parade of despair.

The moment I touched the door, I was caught up into a storm. I was aboard a ship driven onto hidden rocks. The screams of the dying, bodies facedown floated on the water. I was choking, drowning. And when that horrible image subsided, there they stood, two towering figures.

“Who…” I couldn’t finish asking, but it didn’t matter. Somehow I’d learned their story in the moment I’d imagined myself in that shipwreck.

They were the original owners of the house, she a grieving widow and who was mad with sorrow and loneliness after losing her husband at sea. She had spent years waiting for his return. Years singing to the ocean, begging it to give him back.

And then, something answered. An ancient voice from beneath the waves that promised she would never be alone again. It would send her beloved husband to her, but only on one condition. The singing had to continue loud and forever.

Their lips parted—more grimaces than smiles, and the hundreds of pale figures that had streamed past me were now a choir. Their song, that dirge so heavy with death it stopped my breath.

All of their empty eyes looked directly at me. At once I understood that the dead weren’t trapped there. They were recruiting. The procession had never been a warning. It was an invitation. A courtesy extended to every new owner.

I had one chance to leave, one chance to escape before I’d drown and become a part of the choir.

The widow took a step toward me.

The deadly sound of the ocean became deafening.

And from all around me, voices whispered, ”Stay.”

I ran.

I don’t remember reaching my car.

I don’t remember driving. I only remember that dawn found me miles inland, shaking uncontrollably at a roadside stop. From there I drove as far away from that house and the sea as I could, and I never went back.

The house sold again three months later. Then again the following year. And again after that.

Sometimes, when storms roll in from the ocean, I search property records online, and I’ve found that the house is always occupied—the owners always new

I escaped, but every so often, late at night, I hear a faint melody drifting through my phone speaker—a dirge.

It grows louder with every passing year as though the choir, like a steady rising tide, is creeping closer. Every year, I move farther inland.

Amazon

Image by minhtuyen tran from Pixabay

Part 2, The End

Even though it was the middle of the night, death was a good excuse to wake people--and she needed to be free from this freezing room. It continued to grow colder until her breath came out in ragged puffs.

Lisa reached into her pocket for her mobile, but her pocket was empty. She must have left the phone on the hall table. She remembered setting it down to lift the paintings from their hooks, but how had she forgotten to take it? She rattled the knob, yanked. Then, frantic, she searched for a key. There was none.

That was when she felt a slow, sharp pressure around her middle finger. The ring made it throb. Ice crystals began to creep across its ornate gold band and the circle of diamonds. Her chest seized, and she stumbled backward against the wall, then slid to the floor.

“Get off,” she whispered, tugging at it. But it wouldn’t budge. The cold burned now, biting into her bones.

Lisa screamed and yanked at the door again. This time, it opened so suddenly that she tumbled back. Scrambling to her feet, she ran, gasping, down the stairs, past the treasures she’d placed for quick retrieval, and out into the night.

In the weeks that followed, she went from being irritable to rude, to raging. There was the altercation with the grocer, followed by the hostile exchange with the lawyer who was managing her uncle’s estate. Each day, she was embroiled in combat with those she encountered. She recognized the change in herself. She was becoming like her uncle, but she couldn’t contain the anger. It rose like bile without any cause she could identify except the ring. That gold band made her finger throb without letting up, and no matter what she did, she could not free herself of it.

Desperate, she searched for a collector named Peter Henshaw. Jacob had spoken of this man often as being the most knowledgeable collector of 16th-century artifacts. A few weeks of research brought Lisa to his small, cluttered shop tucked into a crooked London alley.

Even in the dim light, Lisa didn’t miss the man’s slight recoil at the sight of the ring when she extended her hand.

He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and busied himself cleaning the already spotless eyewear. “You came by this when your uncle passed?” he asked, not looking at her.

“It slipped from his finger, so I…put it on. I didn’t want to lose…” She didn’t finish the lie. When she put the ring on, it was to take possession of something valuable. It was greed that had motivated her.

“Of course.” Peter Henshaw took his time fitting his glasses to his face again, then said, “The ring is a burial artifact, stolen from the tomb of King Henry VIII’s favorite physician.” Setting a folder containing a stack of old and torn papers on the counter, he went on. “Here. Read and weep.”

Lisa studied the fragile documents, all bearing bits of this ring’s morbid history. It had been crafted by an alchemist during the High Middle Ages from dead men’s gold. One tyrant or cruel master after another had worn it, only to let it slip from his finger at the moment of death.

Lisa closed the folder and looked up into Mr. Henshaw’s assessing eyes.

He nodded. “Not a ring for those whose hearts beat with kindness.”

“Will you buy it?” she asked.

“Absolutely not.” He drew back, putting more distance between him and her outstretched hand. “Have you tried to remove it?”

“Yes.”

“Any success?”

“No. Could you cut it off?”

“Not I. Not anyone.” His face grew sad. “The inscription inside that circle of diamonds is the reason you cannot take it from your finger.”

“I couldn’t read it. What does it say?” Lisa pushed down the anger that sprang to her lips and felt the crush of fear.

He removed one of the papers from the folder and handed it to her.

In the thick strokes of ancient ink were the words: “Donec more nos separaveit.”

Lisa looked up at Peter Henshaw. She dreaded asking, but she had to know. “I don’t understand. What does it mean?”

He hesitated, a man about to deliver terrible news.

“Please.”

“Until death do us part.”

The End

So there you have it. The old greed and evil ring brought together to make yet another story. Hop over to and her Scary Summer event to read other tales that are menat to send chills down your spine even though the weather is hot.

That Moonwater Witch is getting some attention, and it’s fun to read the reviews of a book that has been in my head for so long and is finally in print.

One reviewer says: “Overall, a cozy gothic paranormal fantasy with strong autumn energy and classic YA witch-story charm. Perfect for those who love atmospheric magic, secrets hidden beneath the surface, and stories where emotions carry just as much weight as the plot.”

AMAZON

Thanks to She’s on Substack with great help for writers. Sonia Antaki on FB and G. Foster—my stalwart critique group that helps me whip these doses of fiction into shape each week.

Image by minhtuyen tran from Pixabay

Until Death Do Us, Part 1

Death would come for Jacob Devine before midnight. After this determination, Dr. Moncrief scurried from the room under the pretense of having another patient in need.

The dying man’s niece, Lisa Devine, stood like a shadow in the corner of the room, silently watching the man slip through the door. The good doctor only wanted to escape. He, like anyone who knew her uncle, hated him, but out of fear, served him. Jacob had ruined careers and reputations. He’d striped the life savings of those he’d deemed disloyal.

She glanced at the antique clock on the shelf. Almost eleven. It wouldn’t take long for his heart to stop forever. Soon, she’d be released from all that welded her to his side.

Lisa Devine took a seat at his desk and, to keep from thinking about what she had to endure for this hour, began making a list.

Call the undertaker

Call the solicitor.

Arrange for the estate sale.

Put his Mayfair mansion on the market.

Notify the relatives.

Pick the cheapest coffin.

That last item seemed terribly callous, even under her circumstances. But her uncle had treated her family so miserably. He’d denied Lisa’s mom his love after she married a man he’d judged unfit. He’d turned down Lisa’s plea for help when she lost her job and needed a loan until she could find another. He’d used his money to coerce so many of his relatives into obedience. She could still hear his words at that dreadful Thanksgiving gathering. “Do it my way or forget ever seeing a penny of my estate.”

Lisa had done everything his way, and now she was here to be sure to have first choice of her miserable uncle’s treasures. There were many, and she deserved whatever she could take.

Again she was being callous. Just the way Jacob Devine would be.

She felt a chill, but dismissed the idea that she might be more like her uncle than she would like. Simple proximity could not turn her into a cruel monster like this man. She was merely taking what was her due. After years of suffering at his hands. Years of isolation from friends. No chance at companionship or love, she deserved to have whatever she wanted from what she had always considered a gilded prison.

She’d already put the Matisse and Van Gogh paintings and the 18th-century sterling silver tea set in the foyer. She wouldn’t be greedy, but she wanted the most valuable items secured before the rest of the family descended like vultures.

Vultures was the exact word Jacob Devine used to describe his relatives. Lisa remembered the day he’d thrown all of them out of this house. “Vultures! All of you,” he’d shouted at their backs. She had stood to the side and let his wrath subside before closing the door and helping him to his chair. A dutiful servant. A worthy heir.

His gasp startled her back into the dark bedroom. When she looked up, his hand was reaching for her in a last, instinctive attempt to cling to life. The ring that he never removed slipped from his finger and landed silently on the carpet. Cloudy eyes were fixed in her direction, but Jacob Devine was blind to this world.

For a fleeting second, Lisa felt a twinge of something, but it passed before she had time to name it.

She went to the bed and stared down at her uncle in death. There was only a remnant of the perpetual scowl, making his face somewhat kind. And there was something else. Relief. The burdens of life had vanished, leaving an almost youthful corpse—a profound contradiction between what she knew to be true and the remains she was staring at.

She stooped and picked up the ornate gold band, its ring of diamonds glinting in the dim light. He’d bragged about it since she could remember, claiming it had belonged to King Henry the something. He’d never been clear which one, but she’d research it later and turn it—along with the rest of the loot—into a comfortable retirement.

The ring was heavier than it looked, and when she slipped it onto her middle finger, it seemed to tighten as if seeking permanency. That was when the temperature in the room plunged sharply, and Lisa shivered. She pulled on her sweater and crossed to the door.

When she twisted it, the knob wouldn’t turn. Her hands were cold and clumsy.

Clenching her jaw, she tried again, twisting harder this time. Locked? Impossible. She hadn’t turned the key.

Uh oh! Lisa Devine might be in a bit of trouble. Part 2 arrives next Wednesday!

Launching a book has some nail-biting moments for me: What if I get terrible reviews? That’s always a question that pops into my head. Then I calm down and remember what Kurt Vonnegut said: “Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.”

Anyway, I’m not getting bad reviews, so no one has attacked my hot fudge sundae yet.

One reviewer says: “It was a brilliant read. I got immersed in the story right from the start. I highly recommend this.”

Amazon

Thank you, @SteveElliott, for jogging my memory with your STORY. You gave me this week’s dose of fiction.

Another Lifetime

Nate and I had been driving for hours without a break. When we passed a sign reading Nez Perce National Historical Park, my husband was as eager as I was to get out of the car and stretch, so he didn’t hesitate to take the turnoff.

Inside the center, I almost ran to the restroom, then settled into the air-conditioned luxury, surrounded by the history of the native people and their artifacts.

We often agreed that one reason our marriage had lasted so long was that on vacations, Nate and I were never in lockstep in museums, churches, or visitor centers. We gave each other time alone to explore, and then enjoyed sharing the experience over a coffee later. Other differences often made vacations a challenge. I loved the water. Nate did not. He loved to climb mountains. Heights terrified me. I joked about trembling at the thought of being on a stepladder, but the truth was I did.

In the center, I chose to walk counter-clockwise around the exhibits; Nate did his usual here-there-back-and-forth tour.

I was staring at a collection of intricately woven cornhusk baskets when I felt the brush of an arm against mine. I moved aside to give the man who had stepped close to me more room.

“Sorry,” he said. “But I get excited about their art. Exquisite.”

I wanted to agree, but at the sound of his voice, my words stopped in my throat, and I glanced up to see if this was some friend from my past. But no. While I knew his sound, he was a stranger. I’d never seen him before.

He glanced at me, then away, but back quickly, the way people do who are not sure they’ve seen something. Shaking his head, he focused on the baskets again. “They had a special technique for showing different patterns on each side of what they wove, you know.” His words were tinged with admiration, but also something I could only identify as sadness.

And suddenly… I’m sharing that feeling, not standing inside a visitors center staring at ancient baskets, but on a mountain trail, staring across acres of trees, a thin blue thread of a river cutting through the canyon below. Ahead of me, taking long, sure strides, is a man with a broad back, bare and sun scorched; behind, a single file of tired, but determined men, women, and children struggle to keep up.

A weariness seeps into me, and the weight of my body doubles, making my legs shake. I tremble as we creep along the narrow edge of the steep canyon, and then I’m falling before I understand that I’ve lost my footing. For an instant, he’s there, reaching out, his face terrible with fear. And the river rushes toward me.

“Ma’am?”

The word was wrong. The voice was right. Pitched low and filled with certainty, it was a leader’s voice. My lover’s voice. But no. That was impossible.

I blinked, registering the change in the light. I wasn’t under the sun; I was staring up at the glow of round ceiling bulbs. Conditioned air flowed across my skin, and I braced my hand against the display case, staring at cornhusk baskets, precisely labeled, intricately woven.

“Are you okay?” He was standing close, his hands out to steady me, but it was as if he couldn’t reach the short distance between us and knew it.

I knew it, too, and when I understood what that meant, tears stung my eyes. I pressed my fingers against my lids as the noise of the visitor center slowly returned and became a hum in the background: footsteps, a child’s question, the murmur of a ranger’s explanation.

“I—” What could I possibly say? I just watched myself plunge to my death in front of you a hundred years ago? We once loved each other?

He stared at me, searching as if he was close to recovering a memory.

“Have we met?” he asked.

I almost said yes, but instead, I shook my head. I was still having trouble thinking clearly, and speaking seemed foreign.

There wasn’t anything else to say to each other, but neither of us moved. Something was passing between us—something unfinished and important, but beyond reach.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I hope something hasn’t frightened you.”

“No. Not at all.” That wasn’t true.

He nodded once, and, taking reluctant steps, he was drawn back into the history of the exhibits.

I watched him go, that familiar broad back, that easy sure stride.

It felt right to follow him. I wanted to, but this was the wrong time.

Outside, Nate was waiting near the door, a paper cup in each hand. “There you are,” he said. “I was starting to think you’d moved in.”

I smiled and took the coffee. Our fingers brushed—familiar, easy, and right.

“Good?” he asked, nodding back toward the building.

“Incredible.”

He launched into something about the terrain, the distances, the difficulty of moving people across that kind of land. I tried to listen, but I wanted to tell him he had no idea about that difficulty.

We started toward the car, but as I stepped from the curb, that familiar vertigo I’d always experienced when changing even the slightest elevation tipped me off balance.

“Hey,” Nate said, catching me by the elbow. “Careful.”

“I’m fine.” That came out too loud, but it covered the fear in my voice and the shaky uncertainty that was now in my life.

Behind us, the door to the visitor center opened, and the man stepped out. For a moment I considered going to him. Instead, I climbed into the car, closed the door, and stared at his face, willing him to look my way. And then he did.

His stare was as intent as it had been in the Center, and then he gestured, only a slight touch of the hand to his heart. Unnoticeable if you didn’t know it so well. A silent greeting. I returned it, and with a nod, he walked away. The distance between us was far greater than the few steps from the car to the Center. It was a distance that could never be crossed.

Join Us Today!

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement to others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments.

The awesome co-hosts for the June 3 posting of the IWSG are Victoria Marie Lees, Sarah Foster, Natalie Aguirre, and C. Lee McKenzie!

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or a story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post, or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Remember, the question is optional!

June 3 question - Do most of your story ideas come from one place (the news, dreams, etc.) or do they hit from all over the place?

Everyone. Everything. Everywhere. These are the sources for my stories. Now that I’m writing and publishing a short one each week here on Substack, I’m more alert than ever because I need ideas, and I like to explain where I get them.

As I said at the beginning of this post, Another Lifetime came from two places—a personal experience and a fellow author on Substack who jogged my memory. I’m my answer’s not unique. Authors are by nature observers. It will be interesting to read what others have posted about this question.

My newest book is now officially launched. I keep thinking this process of writing and publishing will get old. It hasn’t. I’m as excited about this book coming out as I was about my first one. I can’t be blasé even when I try.

Order Today

Oh, and with this tale, I joined Summer Scare at

Part 3, The End

The Magus confronts Mistress Mayhew and says…

“This All Hallows night, I am free. I could unmake this village stone by stone,” he said. “Call down rot into every plant root, sickness into every lung. Or I could take you—tear your spirit loose, let you wander blind in the dark between worlds.” He waited, his stare fixed. “But I won’t.”

“Your terms?” She was no fool. He had a scheme, and she already knew it would be a deadly one.

“Return me to life, this time for good. And not as I was. Better. Flesh that does not fail. Fortune that does not dwindle. Power that does not fade.”

She saw the future clearly if she bent to his commands. He would rule. He would grind the people down, curse by curse, demand by demand, until the village became a hollow thing that only remembered freedom.

“No,” she said.

“Then you choose ruin.”

“Not ruin. Delay.”

And before he could move, she began to speak—not in the language of spells, not in the tongue of the dead, but in something older in its own way. “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor.”

He blinked. Once.

That was all the opening she needed.

“Rich man, Poor man, Beggar-man, Thief…”

“What—” he started, but her words had caught him.

Not bound him—no, not yet—but caught, like a hook behind the ribs. Against his will, he now repeated after her. “Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief.”

Mistress Mayhew did not stop. She moved as she spoke, swift and sure, emptying her purse, crushing herbs between her fingers, pouring, measuring, grinding. Repeating. Rhyming. “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor.”

Her voice became fluid, and his joined in. “Rich man, Poor man—” His hands twitched. “Stop,” he said.

She ignored him. “Beggar-man, Thief…”

“Stop!”

But the rhythm had him now. A child’s game. A counting rhyme. Harmless. Except nothing was harmless in a necromancer’s house.

“Doctor, Lawyer…”

Again.

And again.

And again.

The rhyme looped, each repetition binding him tighter than the last. “Tinker, Tailor…” His voice was raspy, restrained as if by a leash.

“Soldier, Sailor.” Mistress Mayhew’s hands did not tremble as she poured the final measure into the kettle. “Beggar-man, Thief.”

The brew hissed, then stilled. His eyes met hers, and for the first time, there was a shadow of fear in them.

“You cannot hold me,” he said, though his voice now rose and fell along with hers, captured by the rhythm. “Not forever.”

“I don’t need forever,” she said. “Tinker, Tailor…” She lifted the kettle and flung the contents at him. The liquid struck and shattered into smoke.

“Doctor.”

The smoke sank into him.

“Lawyer.”

His body arched.

“Merchant.”

The floor beneath his feet cracked like dry earth.

“Chief.”

“No!” he shouted.

“Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor.”

The cracks widened.

“Rich man, Poor man…”

His legs sank through as far as the knees.

“Beggar-man—”

He reached for her.

“Thief.” She didn’t miss the rhyming beat, and at last she’d trapped him.

“Doctor”—his voice broke into something inhuman—“Lawyer. You will regret this,” he rasped.Merchant…”

“Perhaps,” she said.

And then he was gone, vanished in a spiral of that smoke, and silence returned.

Mistress Mayhew stood alone in her cottage, the echo of the rhyme still threading the air.

From that October night on, at twilight, when the first shadows stretch long and lean across the stones, a whispered rhyme echoes through Crofton Village.

Soft at first.

Then clearer.

“Tinker, Tailor, Soldier…”

Doors slam tight. Window shutters snap closed.

Parents tug children from doorsteps and snuff the lamps.

“Rich man, Poor man…”

No one walks the roads after sundown anymore.

“Beggar-man. Thief…”

Sometimes—only sometimes—the rhyme changes.

Just at the end. Just enough to hear the malice.

“Tinker, Tailor, Soldier…Slayer.”

And on those nights, footsteps sound along the cobbled street with a steady, knowing stride—counting, always counting—waiting for someone to break the rhythmic spell, miss the pattern, or answer. Waiting for someone to release him.

Mistress Mayhew listens.

And every night, she counts out the rhyme along with the Magus, silently.

The End

I hope you enjoyed this short story. It was fun to write something quirky and in the realm of fantasy. Below is an excerpt of my new book, which, while it’s filled with witchcraft and ghosts, is really about this quote:

Fear is the main source of superstition and one of the main sources of

cruelty. To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom—Bertrand Russell.

Available for Pre-Order.

In this scene, Calista is entering the village of Stormhaven.

A cluster of village women, satchels filled with produce,

spotted her and drew into a tighter knot. They didn’t bother to conceal

their heavy-lidded suspicion and could have been the ones from last

week or last month or years ago. One leaned into the other, and Calista

once again thought she heard words like wicked, unnaturally tall, and Moonwater all murmured together. The conversations were never clear

so that she could understand them—just snorts and hisses and clicks of

disapproving tongues.

“Mean-spirited-ninnies,” she said under her breath. So what if

she was taller than most people in Stone Haven? So what if she lived

next to the cemetery? She was different, so did that make her bad? The

villagers were worse than mean-spirited-ninnies, they were closed-

minded, intolerant fools. She pulled her shawl closed at the neck and

pushed past the women who clutched their cloaks to their bosoms and

stepped back to avoid her touch.

Pre-Order Now.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier…Slayer

Part 2

Betwixt sunset and starlight, the beckoning finger of October’s chimney smoke wove into the air, and with the twitch of a rat’s whiskers, something stepped from the shadowy past into the dimness of the moment.

The Tinker bent to mend Mistress Kane’s copper pot. The Tailor cut a length of his finest wool cloth. The Soldier packed his kit and prepared for departure at dawn. The women at the well, their mob caps damp with sweat from the day’s labor, filled the last buckets of the day.

For a moment, the rhythm of Crofton Village shifted as each person paused, pulling their collars up against the sudden snap of cold before returning to their final chore.

If any of them had taken the time to glance outside, they would have seen the last rays of sun casting a lean, rippling shadow over the brick walls and along the stones underfoot. That of a stranger, yet not. By the sure, direct way he strode the cobbled street, then turned toward the Mayhew cottage without hesitation, he knew the village very well.

Cats darted for shelter as he approached. Dogs did not alert, but slunk away to barns or behind fences. A dusky stillness clamped its hands over the village’s ears, leaving only the stealthy tread of two feet, then the heavy sound of a demanding fist against the Mayhew door.

Mistress Mayhew brushed the crumpled herbs from her palms into the kettle and clamped the lid on tight. It was uncommon for someone to call on her after sundown, so this could be an emergency, or…

Unlatching the door, she peered into a face she had hoped never to see again. Before she could shut him out in the night, he shoved the door open and stepped inside. The silence between them was punctuated by the snap of her hearth fire, sharp as breaking bones.

The man confronting her smelled faintly of graveyard dirt. He fixed her in a stare from dull, dangerous eyes, his lips stretched like a rictus across teeth the color of old tea.

“You should be dust by now, Magus,” she said.

“And you should be wiser.” His voice wasn’t ghost-thin, but alive as it had been before—before he’d tumbled into the rain-bloated river and drowned. Before she’d restored his life, then took it away.

“I gave you a few more hours of breath.” Her hand drifted toward the herb-filled purse at her belt to assure herself it was in place. “Long enough to save the people and their land.”

“You tricked me.” His words were tinged with menace and frost.

“I did. Had you lived, you would have destroyed us with more curses.”

A thin smile crept across his face. “Yes.” No denial. No pretense.

“So you agree. I did not have a choice. Since you are not in the mood to deceive, why are you here? The truth, please.”

“I’ve come to be…reasonable.”

Mistress Mayhew had to remain alert and fearless in his presence. His honesty covered something sinister. Again, she touched the purse. The herbs in it might save her.

Part 3, The End, coming next Wednesday

Calista Moonwater isn’t a Necromancer. She’s just a village girl until she turns eighteen, and then she’s a witch. A novice witch who would prefer that the dead villagers leave her in peace. Well, that’s not what happens. Here’s a short scene between Calista and two ghosts who keep beseeching her for help. By this time, our witch has had just about enough, and she lets everyone know.

The squire came so close to Calista that she felt ice crystals form on her eyebrows.

“Before the witches arrive, I want to know who murdered me. It’s the least you can do.”

“Why is it always me, Squire Nielsen? Don’t you think I’ve done enough for people who treated me and my family like outcasts?”

“I did not.”

“Perhaps, but you did nothing to make the Moonwater D’Whites accepted, did you? And your very noble ancestors seemed to have turned suddenly blind while your villagers murdered my ancestors. Your grandfather was alive when they hanged my great-grandmother. Why didn’t he stop that?” In spite of the cold, she leaned into him and he backed up.

“My apologies,” the squire said.

“Oh, very nice, indeed. Apologies aren’t enough anymore, Squire. I’d like some of that justice for my family.”

“Please!” Mrs. Wilhelm shouted so loudly that the squire and Calista fell quickly silent.

“Thank you. Now let’s set to work to bring justice to everyone in Storm Haven, shall we? No partiality. Only fairness. And as fast as possible. Storm Haven should be free of as much guilt as possible before it ceases to exist.”

I still root for Calista at this point in the story when everything is bleak. But we’re coming to the end of her story, and next week we come to the end of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier…Slayer. Hope you’ll come back and see what happens.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier…Slayer

Part 1

The streets of Crofton Village flowed like muddy rivers. Water lapped over the top steps of shops and houses, while rising and falling tides eddied across barn floors with each new storm front.

In the chaos, villagers took to small boats and pulled the drowning to safety until their strength was spent and they couldn’t row against the cross-currents any longer.

As the last boat moved toward high ground, a man’s body floated alongside, and one of the rowers reached out to grab it.

“It’s the Magus!”

“Forget him. Too late anyways.”

The rower released the lifeless arm, but in the next second, he found himself in a vice grip of the Magus, a man everyone feared and avoided, the one who now had the look of death about him.

“Let go,” the man shouted, struggling against being dragged into the swirling water.

The Magus, having the bitter heart of the rejected, stared back through eyes dark with rancour. “If I die…Then you all die. Pestilence and famine…”—he choked—“…within the year.”

His grip loosened enough that the man could pull free and regain safety in the boat. He stared in dread as the body slid out of sight.

The rowers exchanged looks, the smell of their fear spreading through the wet air. The Magus’s curse should not be ignored. In silent agreement, they reached below the surface until they found him and hauled him on board, where he lay without any sign of life.

Later, when the rains had stopped and the floods receded, the men from the boat spoke with the Elders, telling them of the curse. The one the Magus had uttered last year ruined their well for months. He’d restored the water only after all of his demands had been met. Many believed these freakish storms were his work as well, along with the mysterious disappearance of several villagers. This time, the village faced pestilence and famine since they’d failed to save the Magus’s life.

“We cannot survive,” one Elder said.

“Perhaps there is a way,” another said, and all eyes locked onto the tall figure of the Elder known as Tor. “Mistress Mayhew.”

Those gathered around him drew in a sharp collective breath.

“Surely, not the Necromancer.” A murmur, barely audible, but laden with centuries of village superstition, hushed its way throughout the gathering.

Mistress Mayhew was the one people turned to when in dire and immediate need of help. She was also costly, but that was because she never failed to call forth the dead and achieve the results her clients needed.

It was decided that Tor should deliver the message to Mistress Mayhew. It had been his idea, after all, and he was the most prominent Elder in the village.

“Of course,” he said, and, gathering his cloak around his shoulders, he made his way to the Mayhew cottage.

Mistress Mayhew didn’t have clairvoyant powers. She didn’t need them. Crofton Village had a gossip network that outstripped any mind-reading talent. So when Elder Tor arrived, she was prepared to tell him…

“Absolutely, not.”

“But, Mistress, you know what he is capable of. Is there no way—”

“Of course, there is a way, but it is fraught with danger, more danger than any pestilence or famine.”

Tor paced her small cottage, head down, thinking of how to persuade her to work her dark magic. “The village might never recover. We may lose our lives or the lives of those we love. We will starve.” With a flourish and a plunk, he set a fat purse on her table and then spread the coins so they caught the candlelight. “Think of the children.”

“Generous,” she said. “But I will not take this.” She slid the purse toward Elder Tor. “I love this village and its people. You may keep your coins, and I will help you.”

So she did what her common necromancer sense told her not to do. She dragged the Magus’s spirit from the underworld, bound it, used it to reverse the curse, and cast it back into the darkness.

The following summer saw bountiful crops. The villagers grew plump eating fresh bread and butter. The fruit trees bore an abundance of apples, pears, and plums. The laughter of children filled the streets, but Mistress Mayhew didn’t join in the fairs or parties the villagers held to celebrate their good fortune.

If someone had been paying attention, they might have noticed that she was seldom seen anywhere after dark, and, after that business with the Magus, she never walked the path that took her past the graveyard.

Then winter descended, and in the tenth month, the veil between the underworld and the world of the living thinned to breaking.

Part 2, Next Wednesday

AMAZON . BARNES & NOBLE . SMASHWORDS . KOBO

Calista Moonwater is the main character in That Moonwater Witch. When she discovers Amara’s, her great-grandmother's, diary, she sets out to decipher its cryptic messages. They’re important, but she doesn’t have a clue why.

Calista ran her finger over the oddly spelled word, magyk . She was curious about why Amara had written it in this way here. She read on.

Harm no one.

Listen to the earth and her creatures. The earth will guide you onto the right path. Her creatures will counsel you into right action.

The ghosts that cling to it will have needs. Prepare for your part in setting them free from longing and old regrets.

Be true to yourself and honest in your dealings with others.

Be alert to any signs of The Vengeance. It will not be what is foretold.

Calista stopped at that last line. The Vengeance? Surely this didn’t have anything to do with that ridiculous myth about the giant perched atop the mountain ready to swoop down if any dared enter his domain. She wished she understood what this so-called Vengeance was really about.

Unfortunately, she will understand, and that’s only going to put her and everyone she loves in terrible danger.

Hope to see you next Wednesday!

I need some time to catch up on my short story writing and to launch my next book. I thought I’d use this time to show you some of my earlier writing. BTW, thanks to everyone who chimed in on the cover issue last week. The blue cover won, hands down. Now I’m working on regaining access to my Amazon seller account, so I can fix the mess I created. Wish me luck.

This quote was the scaffolding for Shawna, one of my main characters in Sliding on the Edge, my first novel.

“. . .it is said that there are four kinds of horses: excellent ones, good ones, poor ones, and bad ones. The best horse will run slow and fast, right and left at the driver’s will, before it sees the shadow of the whip; the second best will run as well as the first one does, just before the whip reaches its skin; the third one will run when it feels pain on its body; the fourth will run after the pain penetrates to the marrow of its bones.”

In Buddha’s mind, the fourth horse is the most valuable.

The Beginner’s Mind, Shunryu Suzuki

Here’s a clip from an early scene in the book with her and Kay, her grandmother, who is trying to understand this girl and failing. They’re in a dress shop, and Kay wants to buy Shawna clothes for school. Shawna says…

“You wear plaid. I don’t.” I stand inside the small dressing room cubicle, my arms crossed and my jaw set.

I’d said no to everything the clerk and Kay had brought in for me to try.

“Then get dressed and come out here and look yourself,” Kay says.

“There’s nothing in this crappy store that I’d be caught dead in.”

Kay waves the clerk out and waits in the doorway. “Fine. Then we’ll go someplace else.” She yanks the curtain closed. “I’ll meet you outside.”

“There’s nothing in this whole friggin’ town that I’d be caught dead in,” I say loud enough for anyone in the store to hear. I pull on my Bad Ass Attitude shirt over my head and jam my feet into my shoes.

A big part of this story is about these two people’s relationship, and both of them healing from past wounds while learning to love and trust each other.

And speaking of trust, here’s a group that values just that.

Join Us Today!

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can't find you to comment back.

The awesome co-hosts for the May 6 posting of the IWSG are Jenni Enzor, Jemima Pett, Jamie of Uniquely Maladjusted but Fun, and Kim Lajevardi!

Every month, we announce a question for members to answer in their IWSG posts. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience, or a story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post, or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Remember, the question is optional!
May 6 question - What was the most inspiring feedback you received from readers, including agents, editors, and beta readers?

I’ve been at this a long time, so choosing the most inspiring feedback is a challenge. A recurring comment I get in emails and reviews is that my teenage boys’ voices are authentic. That’s pretty inspiring, and it gives me the courage to continue to develop those kinds of characters in my books.

My biggest boost came from an agent who rejected me, but asked if she could use my query letter as an example of how to write a query letter. At least she wasn’t using it to show how NOT to do it, so I said yes.

The KINDLE VERSION of That Moonwater Witch is ready for pre-order now. Here’s a short video to give you a taste of the story.

AMAZON

This is how Shawna’s story starts:

Something’s wrong. It’s not a heart-grabbing noise like when somebody jiggles the doorknob to see if it’s locked. It’s not a bitter smell like the electrical short we had last month, when all the breakers popped. No. It’s something in the air, something like a ghost making its way through the room. And it can’t be Monster, not after last night.

When her mother abandons her (Jackie is not up for a Mother of the Year award), she leaves Shawna a hundred dollars, a bus ticket, and a note with her grandmother’s phone number. Shawna has never met or even heard of this woman, but she has nowhere to go, so she calls the number.

A woman’s voice is on the other end of the phone, but it doesn’t sound like a grandmother. It isn’t creaky or wispy. It sounds like it belongs to someone a lot younger. Oh, no. Mom gave me a wrong number.

“Uhh. Is…uh…this Kay Stone?”

“Yes.”

“Well—” I hadn’t thought exactly how I’d say this next part, but now there isn’t any time to choose my words. “My name’s Shawna. I’m sixteen, and my mom says you’re my grandmother.”

The phone goes silent

I decided that I’d tell this story from two points of view: the teen with the bad ass attitude who is a cutter, and her grandmother, Kay, the down-on-her-luck horse rancher. I was surprised to discover that I had two coming-of-age stories going.

Kay dropped the phone onto the cradle and stared out the kitchen window. Everything outside looked just as it had a few minutes ago. The horses grazed on the hillside. Kenny leaned into the gray mare and held her hoof in his knobby hand while he scraped thrush from under her shoe. Buster was doing canine yoga, rooting out the burs from his bushy tail and scratching behind his ear for the fleas that even sheep dip couldn’t kill.

But now nothing was the same.

As Kay sank onto the chair, she grasped the corner of the kitchen table. Once settled, she cradled her head in her hands.

Sixteen years. Such a long time, and no time at all.

When I took back my rights, I played with the cover to reissue this book independent of the publisher that had shut down the imprint. That was a mistake, but I got tied up with other projects and didn't clean it up, so this book has two covers. One of these days, I might fix it. Which one do you like, the one above or the one below?

AMAZON

Samantha Redstreake added a literary dimension, and authors were invited to write accompanying pieces for each musical contribution.

All sales went to the recovery effort.

I wrote this story for a very stirring piece called Aurora by Renan Javier Cabrera. I revisited and edited it, but it’s close to the original.

Listen to the musical score HERE while you read the story I crafted for it. Click the link, then return to this Substack page.

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

Aurora

There was only silence. And night followed night. Because the Goddess of Early-Born light didn’t exist anymore, people drew away from openings and burrowed inside their shelters, waiting, while their hearts stretched to breaking and their minds wandered to madness.

The elders remembered when there had been sweet sounds and morning sun and tried to pass their memories to the youth, but the youth were deaf, and the youth were blind. Why did they need to hear or see in a silent, dark world?

Then, when the elders feared they’d come to the edge of their time, notes of change whispered through the air, and they sensed a faint promise of something returning. So they crept into the streets.

Hoping those faint strains would come together to create the music they once knew.

Hoping there would be an Early-Born light again.

Hoping these wonders wouldn’t be too late in coming.

In their old memories, they saw Her rose-tinted fingers spread wide across the East that had been her domain. Countless times, she had reclaimed it and sent her pale sister to the other side of the world. For eons, she had warmed the land and drawn life from the seed.

But that was before men destroyed their Earth. Before they hindered life and contorted the solar winds. Before they had given way to Old God Chaos.

Now, tentatively, these elders knelt in communion and lifted their faces in the direction they knew from the old days. And there they waited until the light stirred in their hearts. Out of the darkness came the stroke of a bow on strings and a gentle drumming and the lightest of musical key strokes. Then, for the first time in generations, a faint rosy line glowed on the horizon, and, as that light moved higher in the sky, shadows appeared. And the Elders fell back in fear before remembering what shadows meant. Once they understood, they wept. Once they saw what light revealed, they wept.

The remains of their cities.

The remains of their forests.

In the distance, they glimpsed a shimmer across a vast surface they had once known as Sea.

And then the Goddess of Early-Born Light fell over them and challenged them. “Teach your children about the music that comes with me. Let them hear. Let them see. Let them be human and kind to their world. There is another chance.”

The elders’ lives were close to ending. Only a short time remained to meet the Goddess’s challenge. With desperate haste, they drew the young from their shelters, and they began to teach the lessons of long ago. Lessons they prayed would open young ears, turn their eyes to the heavens, and restore the order that had once made the world a place of harmony and beauty, filled with sound and light.

The End

The villagers of Storm Haven hate her. The ghosts need her. Her ancestors’ quest for revenge threatens to destroy everyone and everything she loves.

Complicating her fight is Simon Pinehurst, a rogue and a thief, who threatens to entangle her heart. Facing impossible choices, Calista must summon every ounce of courage to confront her ancestors and her feelings for Simon Pinehurst before it’s too late.

COMING MAY 29

Image by Paul Brennan from Pixabay

The Architect

I knew I was in trouble the day Martin announced that our house no longer suited his image. He didn’t use those exact words, but the message was clear. He wanted—no, he absolutely demanded—something more impressive. To quote him, “We’ve outgrown maple and oak.”

I glanced at the Ethan Allen coffee table and the needlepoint pillow from Gran’s nimble fingers. “I don’t see anything wrong with the way our house looks, Martin. It’s homey.”

“I’m tired of homey.” He gripped my shoulders and turned me to face him. “Look, Kara, it’s important. In the next couple of years, I expect to make a full partnership, and I’ll need to entertain lots of VIP’s. This”—he gestured around the room with a sweep of his hand—“won’t cut it. At least give it some thought, okay?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good. And here’s someone to help you.” He produced a card from his vest pocket.

“Who’s this?”

“An architect. Brad Newberry used him, and his place is dynamic.”

“Dynamic.” The word came out like a wrong note in a song. I’d seen Brad’s house, and dynamic wasn’t the first adjective that leapt to mind. Sterile, on the other hand, was.

“You’ll call him next week, right?”

It was better to remain mute.

The following week, I found myself seated in a large room filled with chrome and black glass tables. Bright light flooded through a series of rectangular skylights and the floor-to-ceiling windows lining one wall. I removed my sunglasses only to put them back on again immediately.

The architect who sat across from me continued to try to impress me with his collection of successful designs. He called them “concepts.”

“Here’s one I think you’ll like, Mrs. Freeman,” he said, holding up an 8 x 10 glossy of what I at first took to be a white mushroom nestled under a protective wing.

“Interesting.” I nodded.

“Earth sheltered. Very dramatic and yet functional.”

During the past half hour, most of the houses he’d shown me from his files hovered near reality with only subtle hints of their orbiting capacities. This man definitely had a different view of housing design than I did, and the question in my mind became, “How am I going to turn this conversation back to mundane considerations like closet space and a separate dining room?”

“Well, I think you’ve seen enough to give you an idea of the kind of work I’m capable of creating for my clients.”

“Definitely. I don’t need more.”

“Fine. Then how do we begin?”

“Begin?” That came out as a croak.

“You’re nervous about this venture, aren’t you, Mrs. Freeman?” He smiled and peered at me from behind the white mushroom, which he still held up for view.

“A little,” I admitted as I shifted to settle more deeply into the chair that resembled a nesting crane.

“Need more time?”

“A little.” My needle seemed to be set to repeat. Perhaps it was because I was transfixed by the mushroom. It began to take on different dimensions during this part of the conversation. The sun had shifted in one of the skylights. A steady beam spotlighted the center of the picture, making the house glow. I stared at it as it throbbed, then puffed itself into a giant cloud and threatened to burst the confines of its 8 X 10 inch border. I tensed for the explosion and pressed back into the chrome and leather bird. At the last moment, the architect dropped the picture back into its file and we escaped destruction.

“Mrs. Freeman, are you all right?”

“Yes. Of course,” I said, snapping out of my trance.

“Why don’t we discuss our plans over lunch? You may feel more at ease if we take this project slowly over a nice glass of wine?”

“Excuse me. I’m sorry, but I want to talk to my husband about your...concepts.”

“Certainly. I understand. You do that, and then we’ll all get together.” He stood and walked around his desk.

“Thank you. That sounds like a good way to proceed,” I managed to say as I groped my way up from the clutches of the mutant crane and stepped backward toward the door.

“Give me a call when you’re ready,” he said, showing his teeth and shutting me out into the lobby.

Mushrooms and spaceships! Where was the Hoosier cabinet and the American eagle over the front door going to fit in? I’d need a special history hall.

That night, I explained to Martin that I didn’t feel comfortable with his architect, and after an hour of giving reasons why I couldn’t live in any house that the man designed, I ran out of things to say.

“So does this mean you’re quitting?” Martin asked.

“Quitting? No. Quitting is not the American way. I’ll find another architect.” But I sounded half-hearted.

“Kara.”

“I promise.” And I meant it.

I launched a careful search for an architect who lived and believed in this century and who wouldn’t laugh when I suggested a bay window. I finally found him on the 21st of May, 1995, at 12:02 pm.

That morning, I’d hopped into my Volvo and jotted down a list of architectural firms and a few errands before backing out of the driveway.

See two architects on Basin Street. Pick up shirts at the laundry. Get milk, bread, and dog food. Pick up Steven at soccer practice.

I’d driven a few blocks when I remembered I had something else to do, so when the traffic stopped, I held the list over the wheel and added, post office.

That notation shot off the notepad and landed along with me on the dashboard. Between Main Street and Grand Avenue, the trunk of the car ahead of me and my radiator had created an obsession for one another. Kevin Paterson and I had met.

He creaked open the door of his car, slowly sliding out from behind the wheel, then stepped onto the pavement and walked in my direction.

As the pair of Nikes approached, I was grateful he still had two feet; I hadn’t maimed the man. He stood next to my car, and I rolled the window down.

“Is this a Kamikaze mission?” he asked.

“Not an intentional one. I’m sorry. My foot must have let up on the brake. A matter of a slippery shoe?”

He looked me in the eye. I recognized a rare phenomenon—a man with a sense of humor.

“Your insurance agent or mine?” He smiled.

After we’d dealt with the realities of money and fault, we adjourned to Lupe’s, the best Mexican restaurant in town, for Margaritas. It seemed the civilized thing to do.

“You’re not!” I shouted over the buzz of conversations in the bar.

“I am,” Kevin affirmed. “I am an architect.”

“I’ve been looking for someone like you for months!”

“Here I am.”

I explained Martin’s idea and my problem with it.

“Hmm. So what kind of house do you want?”

There it was again. That question. The house I wanted, I already lived in. “You are asking the wrong thing.”

“Oh?”

“I can show you the house I want because I already have it.”

He sipped his drink, returned his glass to the bar, and took a deep breath. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

“No.”

“I’ll need a large retainer.”

“Okay.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’ll design you a new house. I’ll design you one as close to what you already live in, but with Martin’s request in mind. Give me some clues to start.”

“I want something, you know, modern, but not too modern. No mushrooms, and if you ever say the word concept, we’re through.”

“I see. You’ve discussed this project with someone else. Are you difficult to work with?” He leaned back and looked at me from a different perspective.

“No. Not exactly.”

“Which means?”

“My husband says I’m old-fashioned. But when he says it, it sounds rather...bad.”

“Hmm. Do you always pick up architects by running into their cars, or am I a special case?”

I looked at the man carefully before I said. “I...” I began and then switched to a direct answer. “You’re special.”

“Good. You finally got an answer right to one of my questions.”

The house took exactly two years to complete from that first meeting. Kevin designed it, oversaw the building of it, asked me to marry him, then disappeared when I said I couldn’t. Martin. Our son. Fifteen years of marriage. My husband was right; I was old-fashioned, and from that time on, he didn’t mention it again.

We never moved into the new house. We sold it six months after it was finished, and made a nice profit. I didn’t hear from Kevin after that, and I felt a terrible loss. He was my friend. I think I loved him.

I know he loved me because the house was a three-thousand-square-foot love letter. Even Martin knew that, although he never said anything.

So, in the end, I had my way.

I stayed where I wanted.

The End

@Evernight Teen

My latest writing is about witches and ghosts in search of help. Quite the departure from The Architect, heh? But it does have a house that plays a prominent part, so there is one similarity. Here’s a short bit from That Moonwater Witch. It’s part of a scene in which the heroine has almost accomplished one favor for a departed villager. Calista, the heroine, has to hide to avoid being caught inside Minnie Wakefield’s, and apparently, stealing a diary, something this ghost didn’t want anyone to see.

If she got out of this mess, she’d tell all the other ghosts of Storm Haven she could not risk helping them. She imagined what her mother would say if she could see her shaking under Minnie Wakefield’s bed. Maybe nothing, but “I told you so” would be all over her face.

Please don’t check under the bed skirt.

She felt the stocks clamp around the back of her neck.

The diary! What if he notices the box missing? Theft.

Calista’s eyes watered from fear. They flogged people for stealing.

Here are Parts 1 and 2 if you want to read the beginning.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for commenting, liking, and sharing!

Image by Zamir Asghar from Pixabay

A World of Regret

Part 3

Come, a voice coaxed from inside the darkness, and Vincent couldn’t resist.

He stepped through, and the black night lightened to gray, casting shadows across a field of broken stones. The sound of footsteps came from a distance and grew louder as the shape of a man slowly advanced.

Shock froze Vincent in place as a soldier in a World War II army uniform shuffled toward him. His face was young, but his gait and his eyes were those of an old man burdened by too much suffering.

Vincent looked back where his house should have been, but where now there was only the open field—and it held more than stones. The body of a young boy lay on the ground. Convinced he was losing his mind, Vincent said, “Where…uh… am I?”

The soldier stared at him with those troubling eyes. “I don’t know. This place doesn’t exist on any map. My compass guides people like you here. It’s the way to ease my guilt for the terrible thing I did.

“What?”

The soldier stared at the body and, for a moment, ignored Vincent’s question before saying, “It was an accident. He was just a farm boy hiding in the woods, but he startled me, and I shot him.” He swiped at tears ready to streak down his cheeks. “I’d killed before to save my life, but this was different, and I’m shackled by guilt.” He looked up. “You must have killed without meaning to, or you wouldn’t be here.”

Vincent blinked, in his mind’s eye seeing Melissa’s pale, blood-streaked face. He’d resented, disliked…maybe hated her in life, but not now. She wasn’t a good partner, but he’d been wrong to rob her of any future. “Yes. My wife. I was angry.”

“And I was scared,” the soldier said, looking over his shoulder and motioning at the body. “When you don’t mean to kill, the guilt is greater than anything imaginable.” As soon as he faced Vincent, the dead boy vanished, and only the stony field remained.

“Oh!” Vincent stepped back, shocked by what he’d seen, confused by what the man had said. Guilt had always been a nagging feeling, something manageable that slowly vanished over time. But the soldier was right. This guilt was different. It had taken on a physical presence. Now that the shock had passed, it rose like a flood tide inside him. It filled him, threatening to stop his breath.

The soldier went on. “Accidentally killing another creates a prison unlike any made by man.” His expression was pain-filled. “Welcome. There are others like us here. We offer support and understanding.” His smile was sincere, but hollow. “It helps us in our search for self-forgiveness.” He looked away. “Some of us never find that.” When he faced Vincent again, he said, “I hope you do.”

Vincent looked down at the compass he clutched. It remained quietly expectant, the needle steadfast, still pointing due North.

The soldier held out his hand, and Vincent placed the compass lightly in his palm, inhaling sharply as it, like that poor farm boy, vanished.

“It’s all right,” the soldier said. “I know the way from here, and others need that compass, so it has returned to where it will serve best.” He walked away. “Follow me.”

“But how will I get back? I don’t know the way home.”

“Home,” the soldier said it so softly that Vincent barely made out the word, but he heard the longing, and he understood that self-forgiveness had never come for this man.

As he walked toward an unknown destination, he wondered if it would come for him.

***

Jason, young and troubled, stood outside the antique shop. He had much on his mind. For months, he’d endured the pain of knowing he’d accidentally killed a woman. Hit and run. Terrible. But she’d stepped out from between parked cars and directly into his path. He’d had no time to stop. He should have called the police. He regretted that decision. It had been so wrong. Now, it was too late. No one would believe his story. He didn’t know which way to go anymore. Leave town? Stay and cringe every time a police car passed?

After several minutes of staring at the display of old, useless junk in the store window. something Jason couldn’t pinpoint made him open the door and go inside. He walked to a glass display case and looked down at a World War II issue compass. For some reason, it fascinated him.

“Welcome to my shop.” A man’s voice came from the shadows at the rear. “I’m Mr. Bestway. Let me know if I can help you.”

The End

While many of my books are contemporary/realistic fiction, I like to mix it up with some fantasy and magic. These days, I find I need more fantasy and magic than ever. My next book is all about the realm of magic, but I’ve included ghosts that allow me to write about my favorite theme—justice. Here’s the first mention of it in That Moonwater Witch:

When they came to the magistrate’s door, Calista raised the iron knocker and brought it down with two solid whacks. It took some time before the door swung in, and a dimpled-cheeked Mrs. Lowery, the magistrate’s wife, stood before Calista. She was dressed in a sleeping cap and a long robe knotted at her middle.

“And why have you called me from my bed?” Mrs. Lowery spoke crossly.

“I’ve come to seek justice,” Calista said. She stressed the word, justice.

“At this time of night?”

“Justice does not sleep, does she?”

Image by Markus Spiske from Pixabay

Part 2

That night, Vincent settled in front of the stone fireplace in his study. He considered lighting it, but instead let it remain cold without flames—a metaphor for his life. He set the bag with the compass on his desk and was about to open it when Melissa walked into his study, tipsy.

“Vin…cent.” She perched on the edge of his desk, unsteady, and aimed the sloe-eyed look at him that had once been intriguing. Now, its taunt enraged him. “About today. It was just lunch, right?” She drew up her lips in a lopsided smile and burped. “Sorry.”

“That’s it? ‘Sorry?’”

“It wasn’t my fa…fault, Vinnie.”

He cringed at the nickname. Once it had been a whispered sweetness—intimate and, he’d believed, sincere.

“The”—she waved her hand in the air as if she could pull the rest of her excuse out of it—“the girls thought we should—”

“That’s enough,” Vincent shouted, bolting from his chair. He lunged at her, his arms rigid, his fists clenched. It was no longer his wife that he saw perched on his desk. He saw a barrier between him and any possible happiness he might have. That barrier had to go away. He shoved her much harder than he’d intended. The snap of delicate bone, the crush of skull on the stone mantel. The blood.

He blinked, suddenly aware of the present moment.

“No. Oh, no.” Vincent rushed to the bathroom for towels and, kneeling, cushioned her head on them, pressing firmly against the deep cut along her temple. He held his hand to her mouth. There was no breath. He sat back on his heels, considering how he felt about that—what his life would be like with Melissa dead.

He wouldn’t have to check their charge cards to make sure she hadn’t maxed them out. He wouldn’t have to make excuses for cancelled dinners—ones she’d forgotten or didn’t want to attend at the last minute. He wouldn’t have to pretend to the world that all was well despite those frequent public quarrels.

But he wasn’t a killer. This had been an accident. He stared down at Melissa, at her unnatural stillness.

Would anyone believe him?

He poured himself a Scotch and tossed it back, then, closing his eyes, he slumped onto his desk chair, cradling his head between his hands. He had a dreadful decision to make—call the police and tell them what had happened, or hide her body. Then what? Leave the country? Or, he could tell everyone they’d finally split up. Their friends would accept that. They’d all witnessed their explosive marriage. And, while none of their friends mentioned it, they all knew Melissa took lovers like other wives took Prozac. The only person who might not believe she had finally gone off with one of them would be her father.

Vincent looked up at the slight rustling. It had come from the paper bag, and the bag had moved. It now sat at the center of his desk. He stared at it and then at the crumpled body of his wife. He was going mad.

What to do? Make the 911 call? Flee? His hand was moving toward his phone when the top of the bag slowly opened, then gaped, still and inviting. Heart thudding, he slowly reached inside and removed the compass along with the envelope. Carefully unfolding the yellowed paper, he read the script.

To the Keeper of the Compass:

If you are holding this, you have come to a crossroads and do not know which way to go. You are lost.

But this compass will take you where you need to be.

Follow its steadfast northerly direction from wherever you stand.

Trust it.

Find your way.

—Lt. Bernard Elgin, Germany, 1944

From the World of Regret

Vincent stared at the letter until the words blurred. Then he opened the compass again. The arrow inside twitched and then stilled, pointing toward the back of the house. North.

Urged on by something he couldn’t name, Vincent followed the compass heading. As he stepped through the door, an unnatural silence filled the air. The compass quivered, guiding. He came to the window overlooking the patio. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the landscaped yard and pool. The compass grew warm and pulsed as if insisting he keep moving. If he did, he’d shatter the glass, so he reached out and pressed against the large fixed pane.

As it gave way, his yard, the pool, the fence vanished.

He stood staring into dark space.

End, Part 2—Part 3 coming next week.

Join us today!

The question is optional.

April 1 question - If you have a playlist (or could put one together) that either gets you in the groove to write or fits with one of your books, what is it? What type of music or what songs?

The awesome co-hosts for the April 1 posting of the IWSG are Melissa Maygrove, Cathrina Constantine, Kate Larkinsdale, and Rebecca Douglass!

I’m skipping the question today, but others will have some answers.

I’m one step closer to publication, but still no date, just the artwork. The premise of this story came from a quote by Bertrand Russell.

“Fear is the main source of superstition, and one of the main sources of cruelty. To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom.”

Evernight Teen . Amazon . Barnes & Noble . Smashwords . Kobo

Melissa was late again. Vincent should have grown accustomed to his wife’s chronic tardiness after ten years of marriage, but he hadn’t. His time was as valuable as hers, only she didn’t think so. He paced in front of the restaurant, checked his watch, and then, not wanting to tie up a table, walked farther down the block, peering into store windows.

He often thought that one of these days, when she failed to show up as agreed, he’d keep walking and never return. Pick a direction and not look back. East. West. North. South. Oh, she always had an excuse, but he knew most were lies. Other men in Melissa’s life took priority over him. So why did he endure a loveless marriage?

Money.

Like a fool, he hadn’t insisted on a prenup. She’d take him to the cleaners, and he’d be back scrambling to save for retirement.

He came to the last store on the street and stopped to examine the clutter, which the sign claimed was antiques.

Old, discarded junk more like it.

But he had time to kill, so he stepped closer to the glass, framing his eyes with both hands against the glare. The shop was crammed with an unbelievable jumble of useless items. There was even a buggy whip hanging on one wall. Vincent chuckled, but before he realized it, he had opened the door and stepped inside.

“Welcome to my shop.” A man’s voice came from the shadows at the rear. It took a moment for Vincent’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and when they did, he was staring into the intent face of a man who might have been eighteen or eighty. His age depended on which feature Vincent focused on. His eyes sparkled like a youth. His mustache sprouted across his lips like the broad white brush of an octogenarian.

“I’m Mr. Bestway, the proprietor. Let me know if I can help you.”

“Just looking,” Vincent said to ward off pushy sales pitches.

“That is free here.” The man chuckled and busied himself removing items from a box. “Take your time.”

Vincent thought that was appropriate. He’d have at least another half hour before Melissa showed up...if she did. He strolled along one of the display cases, wondering why anyone would spend good money on these so-called gems. He was about to leave when one item caught his attention.

“Can I have a look at that?”

“Ah, you have a discerning eye, young man.” Mr. Bestway unlocked the back of the display case and lifted the small silver object from between a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles and an ornate Spanish comb. “World War II.” The man placed it on a square of blue cloth, and Vincent noted he did it with some ceremony.

Vincent read the simple engraving, U. S., and then, taking it into his hand, pressed the button at the top. The case sprang open. Surprised, he looked up into the man’s timeless eyes. “It’s a compass. I thought it was a watch.”

“The provenance of this piece is quite...interesting,” Mr. Bestway said. “I have it written in the hand of the original owner. The document, of course, goes with the purchase.”

Vincent started to say he had no intention of buying when, instead, he said, “How much is it?”

Mr. Bestway studied Vincent for an uncomfortable few moments before saying, “You will be shocked when I tell you.”

Well, he hadn’t really wanted this anyway, so an exorbitant price would save him money and the time he’d have to spend getting rid of it one day.

“For you, this is a gift,” Mr. Bestway said. “I know that sounds impossible these days, but one of the stipulations for its leaving this place was that it must be given to a person in need of direction. I’ve already made my profit. I was paid to keep this safe until the right person arrived to take it.” He smiled, revealing a row of even teeth below his remarkable mustache. “And you are that person.”

Vincent considered what the man had just said. Me? In need of.... And then he remembered what he’d been thinking on his way here. East. West. North. South. Which way to go and stop enduring this miserable existence?

Vincent left the shop with a small bag that held the compass and a handwritten letter, which he was mysteriously instructed to read only after he was alone in a secluded spot. He left the shop with something else as well, but he wouldn’t know it until later that night.

End Part 1

There’s still a giveaway opportunity. Six authors are offering their books free to celebrate Women’s History Month. I’m giving a copy of Shattered. You can enter here to win six books, but do it before the end of March.

How do our stories come to mind before we corral them into sentences to share with others? Well, this came from one of my beach walks. In fact, the image above is of the walkway I was on when the idea of meeting myself, or the more spiritual part of myself, first came to mind. So, what do you think of …

The End

I’d worked on the new manuscript all morning and well into the afternoon. I needed a break.

When I pull into the parking lot across the street from my favorite beach, tourists have taken all but one space. I guide my Prius between the parallel lines and quickly climb out. Sunset is close, so if I want to get in at least two miles before dark, I have to step on it.

Most people are packing up to leave, and from where I stand, I can only see a scattering of towels and picnic baskets on the sand. Dogs dart in and out of the waves, chasing balls, barking in excitement, and shaking their coats free of salty water.

Perfect.

As I step onto the warm sand, I have a slightly queasy moment, but then that feeling and all my problems fall away, and I take a deep breath, surprised at the sudden flood of well-being. It had been a tense day. The writing hadn’t gone well. My back had hurt, and a sharp pain across my chest that morning reminded me of the doctor’s appointment next week.

He’ll find something wrong. I’m sure of it. Oh, well.

I come to where the ocean laps at my feet, so I take off my shoes and wade in up to my ankles.

Ahh. This is the best medicine in the world.

That’s when I notice how quiet it has become, as if I’ve clamped mufflers over my ears. The waves pound onto the sand, but I can’t hear them. Overhead, the gulls soar like gliders, their squawky cries muted. Hearing loss is supposed to come gradually. Dang. Aging has a lot of surprises, and this is another one. I make a mental note to call the audiologist in the morning. This has to be a virus or something. And how did the beach suddenly empty? Even the romping dogs have vanished, and I’m alone.

I pick up my pace and make the mile to the boulders, then climb the hill to the wooden walkway. It’s an easier and faster return to the car, and the sun is dipping into the sea.

I’m almost at the parking lot when a figure silhouetted against the setting sun walks toward me. The person seems familiar, yet not. Once we stand face to face, we both inhale—that quick intake of breath that happens at an unexpected cold touch.

This is me, only I don’t look right without the filter of a mirror.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “You’re not used to seeing yourself this way. Well, me neither.”

I can hear her, so I’m grateful for that. Note to self: don’t call the audiologist. But second note to self: If this is me, I sound like crap. “Am I losing my mind?”

She shakes her head and beckons me to walk back with her. “I think we’re meant to do this together.”

The question I have on my lips is “Do what together?” But I don’t have the chance to get the words out. The shrill sound of a siren stops me, and just in time, we dodge the ambulance when it swerves across our path and screeches to a halt. The crowd parts to let paramedics through, and that’s when I spot a familiar blue jacket. My blue jacket. It lies half on the parking lot asphalt and half on the sand.

I don’t remember discarding it. I look at my outstretched arms. I didn’t. I’m still wearing it. When I face my other self, she’s swiping a tear away.

“Are you understanding now?” she asks.

“I’m not sure…maybe?” I nod slowly. “But who are you? And who am I if I’m not”—I point at the blue jacket, which I’ve realized is on someone who looks exactly like the two of us.

“If you’re into naming. I’m called Soul. And, I’m sorry to say this to you, but we souls have a bigger”—she clears her throat—“more accepting view of this than Egos. They tend to overthink and take the loss personally.”

I’m pointing at her. “So, you’re—”

“Yes, I am. And, to be clear, you’re Ego.”

I peer over the shoulder of one of the paramedics and gaze down at the limp form in the blue jacket. “Then who is that?”

She considers my question before answering. “Packaging.” She smiles. “She had a good life. What do you say we let her go?”

“Oh. There’s still time to…to—”

“There is, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Well, who are you to decide?” I draw myself up into my tower of indignation.

“Oh, please. Don’t go all huffy on me. It doesn’t suit you when you do that.”

“As you so clearly pointed out, Soul, it’s easier for you to walk away than it is for me.”

“I know. Sorry. But we can do this together, Ego. We’ve been a good team for many years. Let’s go out together, united and strong.” She points to the setting sun.

“Isn’t walking into the sunset too much of a cliche?” I glanced at Soul. “I mean for a writer?”

“Do we care about that anymore?”

Reluctantly, I shrug. “I guess not. Still, it’s hard to leave on a badly written ending.”

She takes my hand, and I think, “Well, this is…

The End.”

By next week, I think I’ll have a publication date for my next book, and I’ll be sharing some of the story and characters here on my Substack. Thanks for reading and thanks for your comments and restacks!

And don’t miss a chance to win 6 books, just for asking! This giveaway is one way we authors are celebrating Women’s History Month. Enter to win now and celebrate with us.

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Image by fotografierende from Pixabay

I usually can recall where these short stories come from, but I’m at a loss to say where this one started. Maybe St. Patrick's Day was on my mind. Also, I have my new book coming out in Spring, and it's about magic. Anyway, this is the result.

The Magic of Fairies

Soothsayer Laidan cast the bones onto the earth, then, squinting—for she had need of spectacles, but not enough money to buy them—shook her head in silent regret. “Eamon Byrne,” she said in the voice of one who knows more than any other, “March 17 is a day that madness will find you and might well destroy you.”

Those gathered around Eamon and Soothsayer Laidan took a collective breath, for today was March 17. What had been soft mutterings in the group dropped to voices thick with sibilant secrecy and fear.

While the old woman’s prophecy made Eamon’s heart pulse a bit harder, his skeptical mind settled it into its natural rhythm in the shake of a lamb’s tail. He’d left the superstitious beliefs of the elders behind when he turned twenty, and his ma died. She’d been the believer in soothsaying and all the old tales of magic. These were not his beliefs. No.

While other, more gullible Stoneriver villagers waited to hear their fate foretold, Eamon tossed the old woman a copper coin and stretched up from the circle. He was away to the pub where a large pint of stout would go down well and wash away old Laidan’s warning.

On his way, the coach from Dublin passed Eamon, gusting through the late afternoon air and settling dust particles over him as he once believed fairies did. He smiled at the tales his ma used to tell when she held him on her lap. Those were sweet childhood stories, but he was no longer a child, so he brushed the coach dust from his shoulders and packed the memory of fairies away.

If only Eamon had left that dust in place, how different his story might have been, but he was a tidy fellow, and so he removed every speck of it as he waited for the horses to pull to a stop at the crossroads.

When the coachman opened the door, a single passenger climbed down. She was tall, slender, and even with the bonnet, he could see her astonishing green eyes fixed on him. Eamon and Mary Rose Callahan—for that was her name—had met. The protective magic of the village fairies, vanquished.

The year of courtship sped by, Eamon proposed, or maybe he just thought he did. In any case, the bans were posted, and the wedding date set—St. Patrick’s Day, March 17. It was Mary Rose who thought it a grand idea to be wed on a day that the whole village would be celebrating with fireworks and dancing. The two of them would always have the most exciting anniversary. Also, since she had no kin, the villagers would take their place. Of course, Eamon couldn’t refuse her anything.

The wedding day arrived with a tepid sun and the faint smell of rain, as if the world itself had woken up undecided—be happy or sad. The people strung green bunting between lampposts, fiddlers tuned up in the pub, and the women of Stoneriver filled the church with pungent white lilies. At eleven o’clock, the bells in the tower clanged.

Mary Rose Callahan stood in the vestibule in a gown the color of fresh cream, lace sleeves trembling faintly around her wrists—every bit the radiant bride—except for her eyes. They were not soft. They were not luminous. They were bright and sharp, like chips of green glass. Their change from captivating to brittle had come slowly, so it had gone almost unnoticed. Except for Soothsayer Laidan, no one found Mary Rose Callahan changed. And Eamon was so besotted, she might have grown horns without his commenting.

A late guest brushed past, Mary Rose, with a quick whisper. “I’ve come, but it seems too late.” The man didn’t wait for her to look up. He stepped just inside the door, waiting at the back and not taking a seat.

At the altar, Eamon Byrne stood with a boyish grin and damp palms.

Now, the church organ huffed the traditional march to matrimony, and Mary Rose took measured steps down the aisle. Guests beamed. Some dabbed away sentimental tears. Eamon’s grin widened—until he noticed Mary Roes’s fingers curled around her bouquet, crushing the white petals.

At the altar, she took his hands. Her skin was clammy.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

“Per-fect.” The word separated into two angry parts, but she patted his hand, so he was certain she was only nervous, not mad.

The ceremony passed in a blur of scripture and candlelight. When Father Donnelly asked if anyone objected, there was a brief shuffling sound from the back of the church. People turned to look over their shoulders, and Mary Rose’s gaze flicked, just for a second, toward the back at the lone dark-haired man. He tipped his head and, after a brief theatrical pause, walked out, leaving nervous whispers rippling through the congregation.

Eamon noted the exchange—the man’s hard stare—Mary Rose’s tightly pressed lips.

Once they’d said their vows, they kissed to applause. Outside, confetti and clover leaves rained down as the couple emerged newly wedded—one beaming, the other with eyes turned down to the path.

At the reception in the old hall by the river, candles flickered along emerald table runners and sent bewitching shadows over the ancient stone walls. Many guests made toasts, and the fiddlers never tired. Mary Rose danced every set, her wedding shirt spinning, her smile a perfect, unchanging parting of the lips.

But she did not once seek Eamon’s eyes; instead, she avoided them—always turning just slightly away, always pulled into another joke, another whirl across the floor. Her cheeks flushed a bit too pink, and her eyes—those green captivating eyes—cast cold looks, recording, but not relishing the celebration.

Late in the evening, Eamon stepped outside for air and stared down at the black river, glossy under the moonlight. Upset and confused, he sat heavily onto the stone wall, trying to steady himself. This should have been the happiest night of his life, but when he looked at his bride, a darkness seeped into his heart. Several times, he had barely recognized the woman he loved. Her fixed smile. Her cold disregard for him and the vacancy when she looked at the well-wishers. All wrong.

The sound of footsteps brought him to his feet as the dark-haired man from the church emerged out of the night.

“And how has this celebration gone for you, Eamon? Poorly, I think.”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“The name’s not important. I came to help, but I failed. You’re married, and that is that.” He reached out to touch Eamon’s arm, but Eamon drew back. “I mean you no harm. But of course, I understand. This is an odd state of affairs.”

“You started to interrupt the ceremony, then didn’t. Why?” Eamon’s anger was at a slow boil.

“Ah, yes, that.” The man stuffed both hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “It was too public, you know? She must be stopped, but at a”—he swiped fingers over his lips—“less well-attended event.”

“What in the name of…What are you talking about?” Eamon shouted. He was finished with this cat-and-mouse game.

“She’s mad, Eamon. She has no family because she killed them, and she will kill you given the chance.” The man shook his head. “If all goes as it has in the past, tonight you will die—just as the first and the second husbands have.” He slumped onto the wall and looked up at Eamon. “I feel responsible, you see. I was…am her doctor, and I came close to being where you are right now.”

“You were to marry her?”

“Yes. Before I knew her story. And”—he looked to the sky—please don’t think I’m also insane, but something came to me in a dream. A small creature who named you, Eamon Byrne.” He stood and paced. “It sprinkled dust”—his laugh was humorless—“magical dust—over me…in the dream, of course. But when I woke, I knew…I saw her madness and knew of your danger—long before today.” He stopped pacing and faced Eamon. “When she left Dublin and came—”

A loud shattering of glass, followed by screams, stopped the doctor mid-sentence. Eamon ran into the hall where guests were either pressed against the walls or hurling water on flames that were turning the bunting into charred bits. The cake lay in a pile on the floor next to the body of Mary Rose, sprinkled with a confection of shredded white lilies.

Soothsayer Laidan bent over the dead bride whose mad green eyes stared unseeing. “No, my lovely, it seems you will not do your worst, this day.” The soothsayer said with a sad shake of her head. “Eamon Byrne, he be a Stoneriver son. Protected by all the fairy magic in our village.”

She flicked a pinch of the shredded lilies into the air, where they hovered over Eamon until his breathing steadied and he felt the promise of something beautiful to come. Then they vanished, and the soothsayer looked up at him, “Even when he shuts that magic from his heart.”

The End

In honor of Women’s History Month, six authors are giving a book to a lucky reader.. Enter here to win six books!

Evernight Teen. Amazon

Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay

Stories come from everywhere. Pinning down their origin is part of the fun for me. This fictionalized conversation came from a trip I made many years ago.

I travel to see different places, hear languages I don’t speak, and explore cultures that intrigue me. But often it’s the chance meeting of a stranger that sticks with me, their stories that I carry forward and that change me in small but important ways. Even though this happened over forty years in the past, when I read it, that day returns with all of the memories as fresh and clear as the day I met…

The Egyptian Woman

Thirty years ago, she married a man from Lebanon, where the great cedars grew. She’d taken photos of these giants and stored them in her albums, but they were most vivid in her memories, which served her better than her photos. And it was fortunate, too, because here she was, on board this small tourist yacht in conversation with me, a stranger, and needing to communicate her life in the hour it would take to arrive at Tortuga Island.

When I told her I was from California, she said California intrigued her. She wanted a large house by the sea in a warm place, dry and of two seasons like hers in Egypt. Mostly, she longed for her home again, but the land and its people had traveled into a different time, stranding this lady and leaving her a nomad in search of new, but always slightly unsatisfactory oases.

She talked mostly of her mother and a sister who was such a contrast to her own dark hair and skin—a sister with sunny blonde hair and astonishing blue-green eyes. When telling about her father, a man of wit and charm, her face softened.

All had been dead for many years, but they lived in the memories she carried with her to cast like grains of sand over our conversation. So that day on the Nicoya Gulf off Costa Rica, a humid place, these people of the desert returned to life.

She exercised, she said, with regularity. But with good humor and honesty, admitted her age had played tricks on her—had advanced while she was dreaming of Egypt, and so now, and then, she did damage to a leg, an ankle, her back. Unfair, we decided together, that those minutes should accumulate to sabotage our pleasure in aerobics.

Jewels, she admired greatly, but she didn’t crave them. It was her cultural values—the ones of Egypt—that place slumbering along the Nile—that had swathed her in bracelets, earrings, and necklaces. Where else, this place demanded, was there to put one’s wealth, if not on one’s person to enjoy and to be enjoyed?

She’d studied opera as a young girl, but she didn’t sing anymore. The practice had stopped, and I sensed it had ended about the time the man from Lebanon entered her life or perhaps when her exile began. There was no regret in the fact, just a fact, and she greatly admired the man still. He sat quietly by as she talked through the hour. He let her have her way with her stories. He’d heard them for thirty years. Perhaps they changed in small ways as stories do, so he listened to hear the variations as they came to me that day.

Born September 21st—a Virgo—she admitted being artistic. Her clothes she made of the finest fabrics and from patterns she’d ordered from a couturier in Paris. If I came to her room at the hotel, she could show me a few. She was very proud—not boastful—proud only. But I didn’t need to see the dresses. To hear of them was sufficient. I knew they must be grand, for they were in both our minds. To see them might have altered their beauty, for I, the American, saw the patterns and the fabrics clearly in one way and she, the Egyptian, in another.

The food at lunch we shared on the beach was fresh fish, ripe fruit, and wine from Chile. She said it was excellent and measured it by Egyptian standards, which by now I knew to be the highest in the world.

It pleased me to share this meal with the lady from Egypt. And I left Tortuga Island filled with her stories and her passion for her land and her people. Her loving mother, her beautiful sister, and her father, who sang special songs for her, travel with me now, and she will be the experience I recall when I tell of that day on the Nicoya Gulf.

The End

Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement to others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can’t find you to comment back.

Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!

The awesome co-hosts for the March 4 posting of the IWSG are PJ Colando, Ronel Janse van Vuuren, and Natalie Aguirre!

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience, or a story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post, or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Remember, the question is optional!

March 4 question - What elements do you include in your book launch? Or what do you have in mind for your future book launch? Or what advice do you have to offer to others planning to launch a book?

I focus on getting reviews, which is the hardest part of a launch as far as I’m concerned. People gladly read, but unless they’re writers who publish, they don’t understand the importance of reviews.

Evernight Teen is my publisher. I’ll have a new book this spring.