Source: “The Song of Sixpence” (1881), Walter Crane
The Hunter’s moon rose high as Henry knelt, pulling the pie out of the oven. Dear Liza’d been sent, holey bucket in hand, to gather autumn leaves for decoration. For their 154th anniversary, he’d sworn to make the pie on his own, Continue reading
Ella arrived back home just before midnight. The golden carriage’d been delayed—unexpected maintenance—so she’d had to find her own way. Skirts rain-soaked, glass slippers…well, slippery…she shucked the gown and ran home in her chemise, dropping one slipper in the mud. Continue reading
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The Gull cries warning, but Gwyneth is late to work in the Manse’s scullery. She’s agreed to pay off Auntie Shallah’s debts from drink and gambling. Shallah had bet her tailfin; she’s now imprisoned by Pastor Johnson. Continue reading
A moment, all I remember:
Her face, cupped by the flickering glow of a night fire shared against a greater darkness.
Her hands, rolling thin-shaved bark around crumbles of tobacco, mushroom, moss, bone-white shards… Continue reading
Lilimor gazed across the field of wild strawberries into the Great Wood. She didn’t have enough berries to fill her basket, but the fiddle called her to the waterfall within. Its song enticed, one she almost recognized and had to sing. Continue reading
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Fiction Writing
Lance Greenfield - Night Writer
