Short Story
The Mourning Dress
In the year eighteen hundred and seventy-one, the calendar of mourning ran with the precision of a church bell, and Honoria Vance had learned every stroke of it by heart. Twelve months, the almanacs of etiquette decreed, for a sister burying a brother: six in the deepest black, crepe upon crepe, veil drawn to the collarbone; then six more permitted to soften, gradually, toward the muted violets and greys of half-mourning, until at last, on the anniversary, a woman might step again into the full chorus of color and call herself restored.
By Tim Carmichael10 days ago in Fiction
The Grave That Called Again
In the year of my confession, the swelter of July pressed upon the valley with a heaviness few summers before it had matched, and the orchard boughs hung heavy, their foliage drooping under a sun that seemed to have forgotten its proper temperature of mercy. The heat stuck to every surface of Marchmont Hall like a second skin, and even the deep cellars, where the family had once stored their wines against such extremities, offered scant relief from the sweltering torpor that gripped the estate. It was in this season, this blistering, insect-droning height of summer, that the thing came to me that I shall spend the remainder of my days attempting to explain, and failing.
By Tim Carmichael12 days ago in Fiction
Vivace
With no end to the storm in sight, Vivace’s dad pushed a heavy wooden slab over the opening to the turret. It softened the thunderous noise outside. He placed his forehead against the slab in contemplation. Turning around, he looked toward his workbench and the letter. To his right sat an empty chamberstick. He picked it up and walked to his table. Lifting a lit candle, he poured some hot wax onto the chamberstick and secured it to the base. He turned around and fixed his gaze on the columbine.
By Casey White12 days ago in Fiction
The Last Night At The Carnival
“I really don’t think we are going to find anything. I doubt the store inside is even open,” Trevor muttered, pulling into the highway rest stop. I rolled my eyes and exchanged a look with Amanda. “Come on, Pete, back me up. This is so stupid. We should just get some beers and go back to the house.”
By Leah Suzanne Dewey12 days ago in Fiction
