Dear John

fountain pen

“What instrument shall I use, and what medium to convey my deepest and most honest wishes?”  Annalisa, one hand holding her elbow, the other holding her chin, scanned the open drawer filled with seven different kinds of pens (one with eight different nibs for calligraphy), a half dozen different colored inks, brushes of many sizes and an uncounted number of acrylic paints (some rolled tight into tiny secret snails of color, others fat and shiny like a slug that didn’t give a shit), a box of 50-count soft pastels (none broken, but all tested and of different lengths…a lovely diversity), and no markers of any kind as she detested them. Continue reading

Who Wrote the Book of Love, Again?

The book lay before him, splayed open and heavy, the archaic lettering spidery and so faded in places, the necessary ingredients for the desperately desired results were difficult to read and translate in the tallow candle’s light. Up above him the shadowed shelf contained what he hoped was the correct final ingredient; if he’d read the spell book correctly, the results would be abiding love, but if he had not, the potion would deliver never-ending death. Continue reading

Well, Why Not? (Part 3)

The twins pushed the net over their heads, flinging it to the side. “Well Mam-Duchess, why DON’T you marry one? We’re still just kids, after all!”

Sister Indelicata tipped her head, as she gathered up her seal-hunting net. That was the most grown-up thing they’d ever said. Perhaps those girls had promise, after all. Continue reading