Short Stories
"As Twilight Falls on Sandthorn Hall"
Short Stories
"As Twilight Falls on Sandthorn Hall"
My Dear Agnes,
Do not fear for my health. I am in perfectly capable hands with Ms. Iverson. Truthfully, this has been the case in all the months since the misforturne of my wife's passing. I will not bless her wicked soul, as you know, but I will lament her parting from our world. You are most welcome to visit Sandthorn Hall and appraise the family heirlooms at your leisure - for which I will gladly arrange the transportation - but you must not come because you fear for my health. If I worried you with my last letter, I will speak no more of ghosts and curses.
Short Stories
"Mother Raised You Well"
I knew it wasn't a normal baby when it bit off the tip of my finger, but I brought it home with me anyway. I couldn't leave it where I found it, cradled by craggy rocks, half-swallowed by briny water, watchend by the yellow stares of seagulls. Then there was the fact that I had most likely killed its mother at one point - or its aunt, or its sibling, or any of its kin - before I'd retired from my hunting days. I never thought I'd come to love her, however.
Short Stories
"The Calling of Whitecrest Lake"
Mrs. Romano hands me the teacup, saying, "My best tea is for invited guests only." I am no invited guest, yet I am stuck here, on her lonesome lakeside estate, until the railway tracks are no longer covered in hard-packed snow. As hard-packed as my resolve for coming here, to the doorstep of the retired vaudevillian singer who had the whole world wrapped around her finger - until she let it go and never siad why. Her story will propel me into investigative journalism, away from sensationalist freelancing, and I won't take it for granted that I have Mother Nature on my side in this quest. No one else is on my side, after all. Certainly not the subject of my investigation herself.
Short Stories
"The Mad Hatter's Mad Wife"
It was fascinating how much damage one single egg could do, let alone several. Cora studied the jar resting in the palm of her hand, held aloft in mid-air, the yellow-green vinegar of the pickled eggs catching in the fading light from the sash windows. A slow smile spread across her face as she twisted the jar in the angry slash of light. Slivers of beets and peppers winked at her in between the glossy, bulbous eggs.
Short Stories
"As Twilight Falls on Sandthorn Hall"
My Dear Agnes,
Do not fear for my health. I am in perfectly capable hands with Ms. Iverson. Truthfully, this has been the case in all the months since the misforturne of my wife's passing. I will not bless her wicked soul, as you know, but I will lament her parting from our world. You are most welcome to visit Sandthorn Hall and appraise the family heirlooms at your leisure - for which I will gladly arrange the transportation - but you must not come because you fear for my health. If I worried you with my last letter, I will speak no more of ghosts and curses.
"Mother Raised You Well"
I knew it wasn't a normal baby when it bit off the tip of my finger, but I brought it home with me anyway. I couldn't leave it where I found it, cradled by craggy rocks, half-swallowed by briny water, watchend by the yellow stares of seagulls. Then there was the fact that I had most likely killed its mother at one point - or its aunt, or its sibling, or any of its kin - before I'd retired from my hunting days. I never thought I'd come to love her, however.
"The Calling of Whitecrest Lake"
Mrs. Romano hands me the teacup, saying, "My best tea is for invited guests only." I am no invited guest, yet I am stuck here, on her lonesome lakeside estate, until the railway tracks are no longer covered in hard-packed snow. As hard-packed as my resolve for coming here, to the doorstep of the retired vaudevillian singer who had the whole world wrapped around her finger - until she let it go and never siad why. Her story will propel me into investigative journalism, away from sensationalist freelancing, and I won't take it for granted that I have Mother Nature on my side in this quest. No one else is on my side, after all. Certainly not the subject of my investigation herself.
"The Mad Hatter's Mad Wife"
It was fascinating how much damage one single egg could do, let alone several. Cora studied the jar resting in the palm of her hand, held aloft in mid-air, the yellow-green vinegar of the pickled eggs catching in the fading light from the sash windows. A slow smile spread across her face as she twisted the jar in the angry slash of light. Slivers of beets and peppers winked at her in between the glossy, bulbous eggs.
