“Bubble double, spoil and rubble.” “Have you got that right, dear?” Bjarnhilda raised her long and warty nose out of the pot she was stirring, just missing its rim. “Of course, I do.” She continued, “Fire burn and caldron bubble.”… Continue Reading
Just a dash of cinnamon. Maeve crouched over the one-pot stove in the kitchen of her ship. Open flames were forbidden in space, so roasting anything over a fire was out of the question. Cider warmed on a hot plate?… Continue Reading
It’s the middle of the eighth inning, and Jake’s eleven-year-old daughter, Sandy, lies on her stomach two feet from the television screen. Her light brown ponytail sticks out the back of a baseball cap—their team’s cap. Propping up her chin… Continue Reading
I was tired that night anyway, and the Tylenol that Mom gave me got me to sleep quickly. But a couple hours later the pain woke me, and I remember mindlessly rustling in the bed. It was late and I… Continue Reading
They barged into my hovel, not understanding who I was. The name “witch” screamed off each tongue as they held their torches high. Not one of them knew it really meant wise woman. Polished red jasper, shiny black obsidian and… Continue Reading
What once looked like a baby now spewed smoke, echoing a dreadful, strangled sound through the cramped alley. Radoslava walked, filthy, bruised, one hand on her swollen stomach, the other clutching the squirming, twitchy thing in her arms. The baby’s… Continue Reading
“Timmy, what is it now?” Mark snapped at the small figure in the kitchen doorway. “Phone ringing, Dadda.” Timmy waved the mobile phone at his father. “It’s no bloody wonder I can’t hear it, the noise the two of you… Continue Reading
RCS Chat with Jennifer Taylor Rex Overston — Friday, Oct 5 – 8:03 AM Hey Jen, I’m on a call, but text me back—I need to hear about what happened last night with Mary Lou Klinger’s recognition party at Schuler’s… Continue Reading
“But I’ve done everything you asked for the last twelve years. You said I’d have a choice!” “You do. The choice is between electrical engineering or biochemistry. Not music.” I watched his hands bend into claws of frustration. He looked… Continue Reading
The Collector, through no shortage of hearsay, means and compulsion, met one M. Muñoz underneath the Old Bridge. Birthplace unknown, age unknown, first name unknown, dubious wedding band on ring finger, Muñoz bled into his work—cut open his body and… Continue Reading