CelidahD

Father cleared his throat. "Your mother came to see me." I jerked my head up and looked at him. My dreams of the three of us supping, working, and living together rushed to mind, and I felt hope rise in my heart. "Really?" "Aye. She said we had a lot to talk about. That...she owed me an apology." Father didn't seem very happy. I then realized that nothing in the house seemed different from when I'd left. No extra belongings, no sign of a third person in our home. "And?" "And, uh, it was good." He fidgeted. "It was good. We said many things that should have been said a long time ago." "...She's not coming back, is she?" My father looked at me,

My grandfather told me never to go to Fingers Lake. Too many people had gone there only to vanish, and the ones who had returned always ended up going insane. Those few survivors came with stories of hands reaching out of the ground, grabbing ankles, and anguished voices on the wind whispering, "Save us, save us." That's why they called it Fingers Lake. No one knew where the hands had come from. Some said that a serial killer had buried his victims there. Others claimed they were unlucky boaters that had drowned in the lake. All agreed that the hands were hauntings of some sort, and no one doubted the survivors' stories. I lay awake many ni

Annie didn’t even like geocaching. She never complained, but Arthur knew that she wasn’t really into it. He was sure she would have been perfectly happy if Arthur had suddenly decided to abandon his hobby and stay home, but every time he reassured her he was ok with her staying behind, she told him she wanted to go. It was more about being with him, she said. And the closer Annie’s deployment date had become, the more they had craved time together. Annie was right. They’d needed every moment that they’d spent together. Afterward, Arthur had found himself thinking differently about geocaching. Before, he’d

Wow, that was a horrible dream. I've never dreamed anything like that before. Maybe I need to slow down on the Stephen King for a while. Or maybe not, because I gotta admit that dream will make a great story. Where'd I put my dream journal? Ah, there it is. Now let's see....I'm standing outside a massive manor. It looks like the manor down on Peters Avenue, except there's a graveyard in front of it. It's a moonless night, completely dark except for a few lamps giving off a pale, weak light around the grounds. There is one tower lit up like a beacon, though, somewhere at the back of the manor. Somehow, I know my daughter's in the tower and e

Old Man Cummins was the meanest man in all of Allen County. Everyone knew that when you drove past his farm, you just kept right on going. And if you had had the misfortune of a car breakdown in front of his property, God help you, because he’d be out there in two ticks with his shotgun and enough curses to make Jesus blush. Even the sheriff avoided Cummins’ farm as much as possible. One night, I went out drinking with my best friend Abel. Abel insisted on driving us home, though he was in no condition to do so, and sure enough, he ran his truck off the road into Old Man Cummins’ cornfield. We got out of there as fast as we

It's even more glorious than I imagined. The music, the dancing, the attention...especially the attention. I always knew that I would make an impression, but anyone can tell who the star of the ball is here, and it's not Lady Stilaver. Ha. Her jealousy must be killing her. Of course, Lady Stilaver doesn't have Rumian Peacock feathers and I do. Besides, they would look hideous on her. Frankly they'd look hideous on anyone else but me, which is just as it should be, because they're all mine. That husband of mine never knew what was coming. I suppose it was better that way, because it would have pained me to see him suffer. It had to be done b

Ever since I was a tyke, I've wanted to meet my father. I grew up hearing stories from Mother about him and his heroics. My favorite story is the one where he saved Mother from a Horrid Galumph, but maybe that's just because it's also the story of how Mother and Father met. I've already been with Father on countless adventures in my daydreams. Together we've fought Burrogans, rescued villages, and gained the favor of the Greatest Dell Tavey. I've even fantasized about us outsmarting a whole swarm of Niblys. And all my life, I've wanted nothing more than to make those dreams real. Mother is sure that Father is still alive. She believes he's

Finally, some quiet. It was horrendously noisy with all those yammering mundanes around. It’s really too bad I can’t spend more time here now that it’s so pleasant, but I must be off to the next city. I don’t have much time. I suppose I’ll have to decide what to do with that Gentleman. I could keep his essence in my handbag with the others, but I may need him later. Of course, he’ll need a bit of convincing, but I’m sure I’ll bring him around. Here comes the train. Ugh, I can hear the dreadful din already. I must admit I enjoy silencing all those horrible voices. Shame I can’t keep them

Sir entered with a light step. Though he was the only one in the entire building, he felt it would be unsatisfactory to disturb the quiet. The silence would be broken soon enough, but for just a little longer, it should remain. Sir ran a gloved finger over a tabletop as he entered the storeroom. He wrinkled his nose at the gray clump that appeared on his fingertip. Terribly unsatisfactory, all this dust. Sir did not envy the maid who would have to remove it all. As Sir picked the dust clump off his glove, he made a mental note to add a few extra coins to the maid’s salary this week. Sir walked softly around the storeroom, inspecting t

Marigolds are edible. Good in salads, too. You taught me that. I didn’t think you were the kind of person to know that, but you did. Then again, I didn’t think you were much of a salad person, either, but you make the best salads. Not just tasty, but pleasing to the eye as well. Maybe it’s because of the marigolds. I miss your salad. I miss the orange stains on the cutting board. I miss picking up little pieces of marigold leaves off the kitchen floor. I miss the sight of you walking in with a fistful of blossoms. I try not to think about the fact that I may never eat marigolds with you again. Sometimes, though, I can̵