Ruth was a strange child. Her parents knew within weeks of her birth that she had neither David’s ginger hair nor Martha’s sassy smile. Instead, Ruth – named after David’s beloved great-grandmother, Ruby Ruth Ambrose – was taciturn and calm.
But all the same, Ruth was the favorite of her dad’s, even though parents aren’t supposed to feel more love for one child over another. Ruth’s older brother Robert was bright, cheerful, and even-tempered. A joy to have around the house.
But Ruth. David felt such a connection to his wide-eyed quiet daughter that he wondered if she had a spark of his great-grandma within her. (A New Realm) Continue reading
Ruby took a breath, and with a shaking hand, signed her name to the list.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ruby’s twin sister whispered in her ear. The trails of uncertainty in Trudy’s breath caused Ruby’s heart to thump thump thump.
Finishing the n in her last name “Rubicon” with flair, Ruby dropped the ancient fountain pen onto the solid oak table, which had been passed from generation to generation. She nodded a weak Yes. Continue reading
I’m trying desperately to avoid the knocking.
At first I thought it was the sound of one of “my” hummers knocking on the bedroom window. All summer I’d watched the hummingbirds sprint around our feeder hanging just outside the window, their long thin pointy tongues drawing sweet water out of the teeny tiny hole meant to mimic the center of a flower.
But it’s now December, the hummers have sensibly flown to warmer climes, and I’m here staring out at the window, listening to the knock on glass. But nothing is across from me on the other side of the window but falling snow. Sighing, I cross the room to my antique dresser, the one that belonged to my great-grandmother, who died years before I was born. I stand before the large oval mirror joined at the top of the dresser and framed with mahogany. Yes, there she is. Great-Grandmamma, tapping her fingernail on the other side of the speckled mirror, waiting impatiently. Continue reading
All six writers received the invitation on the same day and immediately called each other: “Are you going? Will you bring your ingredient?”
As instructed, not one writer told the other what she was requested to bring.
On Halloween night, a round iron pot sat in the center of the library conference table where the writers met once a week. Joellen splashed in two quarts of Diet Coke. Danielle measured and added a tablespoon of vinegar. Continue reading
“I’m not sure this is possible,” she says to me in a not altogether nice way. In fact, she’s rather blunt.
“Pleeese?” I plead. “I heard that you’re the best. I wasn’t even sure how to find you. I Googled first, of course, but no answer appeared about how to locate someone with your skills.”
She rolls her large, turquoise eyes. Continue reading