Cora Nichols slumped in a burgundy-colored sofa, her arms a shield of defiance at her chest, and glared at her family. She'd a mind to go over and slap each and everyone, show them what grieving a loved one truly looked like. Even the funeral director had more sense, somber and quiet, standing at the front doors, welcoming those that entered.
Julia lounged on a lime-green couch with white pillows embroidered with tiny pink flowers. She hummed and knitted. Her self-striping hat was coming along nicely. She was pleased and figured she'd have it done in time for Christmas.
An older woman, with graying hair at her temples, hands me a cup of coffee. "Let it cool. It's still too hot," the woman says. I don't know who she is, but I'm not going to listen to the likes of her. I take a sip and burn my tongue. Maybe the strange woman was right.
Chapter Story - Part Four
A gust of wind slammed my body, and I toppled over as if the hand of Many Gods slapped me to the ground. Snow eddied and spun all around me, and any sight I did have vanished. I clamped my gloved hands to my face and waited for the wind's unexpected burst of energy to recede.
Chapter Story - Part Three
Dancing light emanated from the open hatch of the pot belly stove and illuminated Morgan's body. Every few seconds the body twitched, or seemed to, though I told myself it was the fire's flickering light, nothing more. I hugged my legs closer, afraid he'd grab my ankle and that damn milky worm would get me.
Chapter Story - Part Two
"What?" I said and jerked back. He was wrong, hallucinating most likely. Sebastian was dead. I had been at the funeral, crumpled to the ground, unable to hold my anguish inside. Old Lady Selena had brought hyacinths to the funeral. The scent still made me nauseous.
Chapter Story - Part One
Cold etched its way across the windowpane, intricate snowflake drawings under a microscope, while the wind and snow whipped and whirled outside. The winter-art spread, similar to salt dispersing watercolor on a canvas as I traced my finger along its ever-increasing pattern.
The freezing pane stung the tip of my finger. I didn't remove my finger or alter the pressure of skin against the chilled glass; I wanted to endure, not give up. Too many said I'd given up too soon already.
Rain pelts the ground, driving river streaks down my face and neck and chills my bones; my thin wool jacket soaks through. I should hurry home, but my feet stay leaden on the mountain road—another couple of miles to go.