Steeped
October 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as Dianna Sinovic, ghosts, short fiction, writing
The wind gusting outside woke Tabitha. She sat up on the couch, blinking in the dim light of late afternoon. She’d only meant to close her eyes for a few minutes, resting after sweeping the porch of dried leaves the breeze kept depositing there. And now it was … maybe five-thirty?
Angie would be home soon, if she didn’t have an evening meeting or dinner out with friends. Tabitha tried to remember her daughter’s schedule. At eighty-two, it was enough to recall her own to-do list each day, let alone someone else’s.
Tabitha felt around on the couch for her phone, but it was probably on the kitchen counter, next to the teapot. And her eyeglasses? Reaching for them, her arm brushed her teacup on the end table, sending the cup and the glasses flying into the darkness.
A shutter banged against the house, and a stair on the flight to the second floor creaked.
“Hello?” Tabitha said. “Angie?”
She strained to hear anything in the silence that responded. From the far corner of the living room, a shape moved.
“Who’s there?” Her voice wavered with uncertainty. She didn’t believe in ghosts. An intruder then? Tabitha gripped a couch pillow. If nothing else, she could use it knock the thief off balance when they attacked.
Unprompted, her mind flooded with memories of Caroline. As a young friend, when they were both mothers of small children, sharing a pot of lapsang tea while they gossiped. As a middle-aged companion taking that Caribbean cruise when Tabitha misplaced her favorite scarf. As an older woman hiking with her along the river towpath, trekking poles in hand.
Caroline, who passed on last month, before Tabitha could say farewell.
Yes, it’s me. The shape from the corner advanced.
Tabitha sucked in a breath. Was she dreaming? “But you’re dead.”
The form morphed into a faint, flickering image of her friend. You never kept in touch. Though not spoken aloud, Caroline’s words held a sharp bite of accusation.
“I did,” Tabitha protested. She let the pillow slide out of her hands, back onto the couch. “I called. I visited. Just not … later.”
Not when I was at my sickest. Caroline drifted across the room and back. A slight weight pressed on Tabitha’s hand—her eyeglasses. And from the end table came a soft clink of cup to saucer. Her friend couldn’t stop tidying even beyond the grave.
She slipped the glasses on, but Caroline’s image remained blurry. “I was scared,” Tabitha said. “I couldn’t offer you anything that would heal you, so I stayed away.” A coward, she acknowledged to herself. “I’m sorry.”
A light flipped on in the foyer.
“Mom?” Angie stood just inside the front door. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” She turned on a floor lamp, banishing the shadows from the room. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Tabitha said. She searched for Caroline and caught a slight shimmer near the windows. “Just dozing.”
A warmth enveloped her, a sense of serenity. You’re forgiven. The flicker died away. Have a cup of lapsang for me. Only the scent of the smoky brew lingered.
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Shore Leave
September 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Columns, Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as fishing, short fiction, terminal illness
Mist hovered over the lake like a shroud. Hope stood at the point, past the flagpole and orange mums ringing its base. Nothing moved on the dark water. Too early for even the trawling fishermen. No one to witness.
Fall was brushing the trees on the opposite shore with touches of bronze and copper, but the brilliance was lost on her. Her mother had three months left, gone by the end of the year. She shivered.
How will I survive without her? Or, more accurately, she thought, why? What was there to live for? Giles had never wanted kids, so they’d had none. Last she heard, he was in Florida, with his second wife—and three children.
“You look too forlorn for such a stunning start of the day.”
With a yelp of surprise, Hope turned to locate the voice. On a camp chair hugging the water sat a woman whose face and salty hair put her into her seventies. She had a fishing line in the water, a travel mug in one hand. It was her gaze that anchored Hope in place.
“You don’t have to do it, you know.” The woman sipped her mug and continued to watch Hope. “There are alternatives. Always are.”
Hope raised her chin. How dare the stranger interfere. “Mind your own business.”
But the woman’s words fizzed in her head, distracting her. She forced herself to face the lake again. To be done with it.
“Dear, grief comes to all of us at some point. We open our hearts to love—and thus to its inevitable loss.” The woman sighed. “I’m Claire. I don’t mean to make light of your situation.”
A vee of Canada geese crossed overhead, settling onto the lake surface with a jumble of honks. Come, the lake called to Hope.
She closed her eyes, the wetness of tears spilling onto her cheeks. “It’s so hard,” she said.
“I didn’t say it was easy.” Claire spoke softly, gently, as though a whisper in Hope’s ear. “But you are strong enough to bear it, I think.”
Hope shifted, expecting Claire to have moved to her side, but no, she was still seated at the lakeshore. “You don’t know me.” She passed the back of her hand over her eyes to dry them. “I’m a coward. I can’t even take one step into the lake.”
The fishing line tugged once and then raced out along the water’s surface. With a swift grab, Claire picked up the rod and worked the line, her attention no longer on Hope. But Hope was also now focused on the interplay between the fish and the fisher.
“Probably smallmouth,” Claire said. “It’s a fighter.”
And so was Claire. The woman might be half a head shorter than Hope and twice as old, but there was power in her arms and shoulders. The minutes ticked past, and Hope moved nearer to Claire, as though pulled by another reel.
“Do you need help?” Hope said. How absurd was that? She didn’t fish, didn’t eat fish. “Not that I know what to do.”
“You can just watch … or not watch,” Claire said. “It’s catch-and-release. I’ll have the fellow free again very soon.” She spun in the line until the fish was at the water’s edge. With a quick grasp, she removed the hook and let the bass slide back into the lake. “Done.”
It was now full morning. The mist on the water had dispersed, and the sun turned the lake surface into glinting diamonds. Claire stored her fishing gear, collapsed her chair and swung it over her shoulder. She turned her fierce gaze back to Hope.
“How about you, dear?” she said. “You’re done here, too? No use lingering when the rest of the day beckons.”
Just as Claire had freed the bass, Hope no longer felt the lure of the lake water. She stood straighter and stepped away from the shore. I can do this. Her mother still needed her, even if the remaining time was short.
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Fireside Theater
August 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as firepit, romantic breakup, short fiction, writing
The flames danced in the fire pit, inviting Dulci to relax, but the drift of smoke rising into the night sky only darkened her mood. Cora, who knew her like any best friend should, was trying to help. But some things just hurt too bad.
“Tell me again what he did,” Cora prompted. “Aimee hasn’t heard.” She held up her glass of pinot noir as if inspecting it for the details Dulci was about to share.
Aimee, the third member of their friend trio, sat across the fire. For once, she was silent, staring at her own glass.
Dulci shifted in her seat. “I didn’t see it coming.”
“Obviously,” Cora said, but kindly. “You and Rad were the ideal we all looked up to. Two people ecstatically in love, forever.” She swirled her wine. “Paul and I were envious. Not that we’re drifting apart or anything. You made it look easy.”
“Six years,” Dulci said, staring at the flames. “And the bastard couldn’t even tell me to my face.” The smoke shifted abruptly toward her, bringing instant tears. “Just a text.” I’ve met someone else. As if their past happiness meant nothing. “I love him.” She sniffed, her head spinning from the alcohol. “I want him back, but I don’t know how to make that happen.”
“You won’t.” Aimee’s words stung like a slap. She added immediately, “I mean, once a guy’s decided to end it, he’s done with you. There’s no use trying to win him back.”
Cora leaned toward Dulci. “I know you’re suffering, but Aimee’s right.”
Aimee, single again after two sizzling marriages that ended in meltdowns.
“Would you even want him back, given how he fucking dumped you?”
Point taken. Revenge, then. Rad trussed up while Dulci flailed him with a whip. Rad in chains kept in a dungeon only she knew about. Rad aflame in the fire pit, begging her for mercy.
She smiled. “Thanks. Somehow I just need to move on. Easier said than done, though.”
Her phone buzzed. Rad?
Hey, babe. Ready to roll?
What was this? Her jerk of an ex’s attempt at gallows humor?
Almost immediately, Aimee’s phone buzzed. She looked up at Dulci, her panicked gaze registering the truth for Dulci. The message hadn’t been meant for her.
“You?” she said, rising from her chair. “You’re the one?”
Cora grabbed Dulci in a firm embrace to stop her from sprinting around the pit. Their dropped wine glasses shattered on the stones around the fire, and Aimee vanished into the darkness beyond them.
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Fish Tale by Dianna Sinovic
July 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic tagged as A lifetime, Bartender, Celebration, marriage
Two months into the job, and Cordi knew every regular’s preferred beverage. She could sift the deadbeats from the barflies who had dough, and had memorized The Bartender’s Guide, from the Apple Martini to the White Knight. Mostly, she poured and listened.
The Flying Fish did a brisk business at dinner of seafood and burgers, and then stayed open until two with a part-time night cook in the kitchen for late-hour snacks. Cordi worked the Thursday-Friday late shift, the shift with the best tips.
“Fish and rings tonight, Skip?” Cordi set a frosty glass of ale in front of her favorite regular. He might be fifty—or eighty. She didn’t know, and at twenty-two, anyone older than thirty seemed ancient. Skip Jowett’s beard was more salt than pepper, and he wore a battered captain’s hat, the only remnant left, he said, of his long years skippering a fishing boat off the Jersey Shore. He was quiet. Even as the hours passed and he asked for yet another tall one, he never grew belligerent – or fell asleep, spilling his drink.
“How about the halibut?” He was more somber than she’d seen him.
“Everything okay?”
He waved her away. “Fine, fine. Tell Drew I want the fish extra crispy. And the onion rings, too.”
After passing on the order to the kitchen, Cordi switched her attention to the others at the bar but kept an eye on Skip. He sipped his ale and watched the basketball game, but he was distant, distracted.
Drew’s fish platter momentarily brightened Skip’s face. He pushed his ale aside, tucked a napkin into his polo shirt, and with a wink at Cordi, got down to business.
“If you want to talk, I’m here,” she said. “Scout’s honor, whatever’s bothering you stays here. It’s like client privilege, for barkeeps. We don’t gossip.” Then she walked away, to let him think it over.
At a quarter to midnight, Skip finally motioned to her.
“Another Belgian?”
He shook his head. “I’ve had enough, too much probably.” He placed a fifty on the smooth wood. “That should cover it.”
Cordi put her hand on his, feeling the roughness of the skin, the prominent veins. “You need me to call a cab?”
The clink of glasses and the roar of the crowd on the TV filled the silence he let linger. “In a few minutes, I’ll have been married forty-five years. That’s a lifetime. Tomorrow she’s going into hospice. Hell of a way to celebrate an anniversary.”
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A Trip of One’s Own
June 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as mystery, Road Trip, short fiction, vacations, writing
The cereal poured from the spout so quickly it overflowed Marie’s bowl and fell to the tile floor in the breakfast bar. She and Todd were on the second day of their summer vacation, and bar was a stretch. Other early risers crowded past her, their shoes crunching on the small O’s she’d spilled. She barely had room to turn around to find the milk. Meanwhile, Todd ignored her for his phone, doom scrolling through the morning news.
She plopped her bowl down on the high-top table, this time causing the milk to splash.
“Are you eating this morning?” Marie sipped her large coffee, glad for the caffeine, eager for the jump start it promised.
Her husband waved a hand, not looking up “Later. I hardly slept last night. The traffic noise, your snoring.” He finally glanced at her, with a scowl. “And you have to drag me out of bed at this ridiculous hour.”
The cereal had already gone limp in Marie’s bowl; she suspected it was an off-brand.
“We agreed that we would visit the Frederic Church house today.” She was not going to let Todd ruin the trip, ruin this precious time away from their cramped twin in Frenchtown and the Ginmans next door, whose three dogs never stopped barking. The rustic hotel along U.S. Route 9 had looked inviting in the photos posted online. Reality proved different. Small was an understatement.
“I’ll just wait in the car when we get there,” Todd growled. “You like that cultural stuff. You know I don’t.”
Fifteen years with this grouch. Had he always been this way? Her mother’s words, whispered in her ear as she adjusted the flounce on Marie’s wedding dress: Enjoy this while you can.
Once upon a time, she did. But now . . .
A hotel staffer appeared at Todd’s elbow and speaking in low tones requested that he report to the front desk. There was an issue.
“What’s wrong?” Marie asked. Todd’s clothes were strewn around their room, but that was nothing new. She would tidy up, as she always did, before they departed. Checkout wasn’t until Sunday.
The staffer ignored her. Todd grimaced, muttering under his breath, but followed the hotel rep away from the breakfast nook. Every table (there were only five) was filled, and the line for the coffee urns wound its way out to the lobby.
After twenty minutes and no return of Todd, Marie tossed her trash in the receptacle and went in search of him. She wanted to spend the day at the Church house and studio. She loved the artist’s glorious landscapes, even if all she could afford was a print of his Marine Sunset she had framed at Michaels with a discount coupon.
Todd was not at the front desk, which was unmanned. Aside from those in the coffee line, the lobby was empty.
“Hello?” She waited a moment, hit the brass bell on the counter, but no one appeared to help her. She fumbled for her cell phone and tapped on Todd’s number. The call went straight to voicemail. Had he returned to their room and fallen asleep?
Marie strode back to the room, steeling herself against his ongoing complaints. Like the lobby, though, the room was empty of Todd. Empty of his clothes too.
“Where the hell is he?” She was ready to head out without him. He could just stew for the day, hang out at the hotel, walk to the strip of small retail businesses across the road. She would savor an outing without his dark mood coloring every moment.
Back in the lobby, she stopped again at the desk. The staffer was the same one who had fetched Todd earlier.
“My husband, Todd Slifer,” Marie said. “He never returned to breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” The staffer’s eyebrows rose. “Perhaps he’s gone to your room?”
Marie sighed, the morning slipping away. “You summoned him to the desk. He’s not in the room or in the lobby. What was the issue?”
The staffer turned to his screen. “There must be some misunderstanding, Ms. …”
“Slifer.” Marie allowed her foot to tap out her impatience on the lobby tiles. This was vintage Todd, playing passive-aggressive when he didn’t want to do something she wanted. “Room 265.”
He tapped a few keys. When he looked up, she took a step back.
“Ma’am,” he said, with a slight shake of his head. “The room is booked for a single occupant, you. The room rate is good for two people, if your husband has come along. Shall I add his name?”
The lobby walls seemed to shift, and she grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from falling. “Are you saying that you did not drop by our breakfast table earlier and ask my husband to accompany you?”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t left the desk since I came on at seven.”
“Thanks.” Had he winked at her? Marie straightened up and pulled her purse higher on her shoulder. “You’re right. A misunderstanding.”
She wouldn’t look too hard for Todd, now or later. The tour of the Frederic Church house awaited her.
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