It could have been a field of flowers, apricot sunrise honeying all. It could have been a berry patch, spread round with her the center, fingers damp with morning dew. It might’ve even been a dragon’s hoard, doubloons spilling from ruby-studded chalices, heavy pendants on worked, chain necklaces, diamond and emerald tiara resting on her head, proclaiming her queen of all she surveyed. Continue reading
She’d climbed down the drainage tunnel, crawling due east, then straight down. That ladder better not end before the tunnel did. Beau had promised, Continue reading
I looked around me in confusion. Clearly, I’d dropped down the wrong rabbit hole.
Again. Continue reading
fiction and reflections by Margaret Sefton
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Valley of the Trolls 