(Looking & Mission, Jan 20-21)
Hunched just behind the shrub-encircled tree, he squeezes his eyes shut. He’s grown to love the sunny-morning scent that precedes the screech and bang of the screen door, the soft pad of bare feet on cold, painted cement, followed by the softer hush of those feet crossing the grass. The wooden chair groans as she lowers herself onto its cool slant and tucks her legs out of the dew. Continue reading
“Too much noise going on out there, and nothing more I can do about it, than what I’m already doing.” She clicked off the TV and tossed the remote on the scarred, stained coffee table. “I wish I had a remote to use on myself and my busy thoughts!” Continue reading
He’d first caught the scent’s fragrant tang on an early morning breeze, on the first days after the snows had well and truly departed, and Summer lay tripping and sliding just beyond his range of perception. Continue reading
They could’ve gone to the right
To the tidy brown cottage in the ring of aspens.
Goat nibbling happily on the turf roof.
It had reminded them of home.
But they went left.
To the gingerbread house with the candy kitchen. Continue reading
Winslow Homer 1893
The falling snow piled around his hut, the shelter he’d built at the edge of the woods, from stone and fallen trees, meadow grass and mud, the retreat that was far enough away from the Hold that he rarely got visitors, but near enough that he could watch the lights wink out in the north tower when the weather was clear. Continue reading
Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry
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fiction and reflections by Margaret Sefton
Life in progress
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Valley of the Trolls 