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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0 0 Read moreA 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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2 0 Read morePhoto Finish
May 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as short fiction, spec fiction, writing
Three long weeks. Marla checked her calendar for the fifth time that morning and stared at the next cubicle, vacant, as it had been for twenty-one days. Where was Chet? Her work queue glared at her, each extra file on her screen a reminder that her coworker was shirking his duties.
He wasn’t on vacation. (He’d have bragged.) He’d said nothing about taking a leave. (He had bills to pay.) Was he ill? At death’s door? At near age forty (her best guess), Chet wasn’t old enough to have anything terminal. Although Marla’s knees reminded her daily that she was a solid fifty-two.
In the breakroom, word was Chet had won the lottery and quit the company, leaving the photos of his dog and his latest girlfriend pinned to the divider panel, the small plastic figure of Yoda next to his keyboard, and his spare jacket draped over this chair. But Marla didn’t believe it.
Her supervisor was mum about Chet, deflecting questions with a cryptic “I can’t say.”
And so Marla doubled down on her work queue, cursing Chet with each completed file.
“Freeloader.”
“Lazy ass.”
“Coward.”
Guilt crept over her. He might be odd, but her coworker wasn’t any of those other things, really. She was just angry at having to shoulder the full load of their work. With no explanation from him.
Her cell phone pinged.
I need that photo of Brandy.
Who was this?
Then it registered. He had her number.
Chet? she texted back. Where are you? What’s going on?
Bring Brandy’s photo and meet me outside the Starbucks on Main.
It was near break time; she could slip out for a quick errand.
OK, she responded. 10 minutes?
A thumbs-up appeared on her text. She would grill the man when they met. Find out why he went AWOL. Was he now a fugitive?
Not knowing whether Brandy was the dog or the girlfriend, Marla took both photos, tucked them into her purse and left the office at once. It was three blocks to Starbucks, and she strode purposefully, eager to hear Chet’s story.
He wore a ballcap with the brim pulled down, as though in disguise. That was the first detail she noticed. The second was the shimmer that surrounded him, almost like a hologram. What the …?
As she approached, he held up his hands. “Don’t come too near.” His face held both worry and excitement.
“I’ll stand right here, but you’ve got to tell me what’s happening.” She pulled out the photos from her purse and held them out. “I didn’t know which one you wanted.”
Chet’s form shimmered more intensely as he took them from her. “Thanks,” he said. “I can’t say a lot, because I don’t have much time, but I’m leaving.”
“Leaving Doylestown? Bucks County?” Marla would miss him, even if he was weird.
Chet’s laugh was more of a cough. “Leaving Earth. I insisted that they bring Brandy along, too.” He waved the photos. “They needed an image to locate her.”
Leaving … Earth? “Are you okay, Chet? Can I call someone for you?”
“No need,” he said. “I’ve got to go now.”
“And your dog?” Marla hoped he’d arranged for someone to adopt it. If he was having a mental health crisis, he wouldn’t be able to care for the critter until he was well.
He waved the photos at her again, this time singling out the canine. “Brandy’s coming. They promised me.”
The shimmering became blinding, and Chet was gone, leaving Marla alone on the sidewalk, the roar of traffic on the busy street muffling her gasp. She glanced around her, but no one else seemed to have noticed the flash of light that consumed her coworker.
Well, she was at a Starbucks. Might as well grab a latte before heading back to the office—and that endless queue of files.
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0 1 Read moreA Pet Project
April 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as cabin, Road Trip, short fiction
Sixty miles into the drive, Jill had second thoughts about the wisdom of bringing her animals with her. The cat, sequestered in her carrying case on the front seat, kept up a steady mewling. Except when the beagle in the back seat got too near, which set off a yowl. That prompted a barking response, joined by the woof of the English setter in the rear compartment.
Jill turned up the volume on her playlist, trying to drown out the cacophony, but then worried she wouldn’t hear the mysterious clunking sounds that had started from the back end of the car about fifteen miles ago.
It wasn’t that she was foolhardy. She’d considered asking a friend to accompany her on the trip, either to drive or help manage the menagerie, but no one was available—or they were conveniently busy when she offered the ride.
“I’ll pay for your train ticket back home,” she said, but got no takers.
Now her destination in upstate New York, a rental cottage on a lake, seemed far, far away. Just under three hundred miles left and way too many pit stops to go.
Kenneling was not an option for the month she planned to be away writing—or trying to write. And when she located the rental (pets allowed for a small upcharge), bringing the critters was an easy decision.
“Petey, pipe down,” she said to the beagle. He snuffled the cat’s case, poking his head between the front seats to get at Tux, and then baying. “You, too, Chips.” She glanced in the rearview mirror to check on the setter, who couldn’t access the back seat (and cause even more chaos) because of the cargo net. “The next rest stop is in sixteen miles. Hang in there.”
The minutes and hours slipped past, and Jill felt pulled between the poles of her endpoints, home and rental. Then Petey stuck his nose in her ear and licked it.
“Gah!” she sputtered.
At a rest stop, she pulled up near its tiny dog park and gave Petey and Chips the run of it. As she was corralling them back into the SUV, Chips pulled the leash from her hand and eagerly headed toward a family of four making their way to the rest stop building.
“Chips,” Jill called, quickly shutting the side door to keep Petey in place. “Come here, boy!” She hurried after the setter. He could charm a rock into giving him a pat.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, short of breath, when she reached the family and grabbed the leash.
The two young children huddled behind the parents, peeking at the dog, who pranced near them. In the distance, Petey’s bark told Jill he was equally interested in the situation.
“No harm done,” said the woman, although she was frowning. “But you really should keep better hold of that dog.” The parents turned their backs on Jill and pushed the children ahead of them.
Jill narrowed her eyes. As if I wasn’t doing my best.
Back in the SUV, she gassed up and continued north, the sun already past high noon. Three more pit stops—but no more leash mishaps—and she finally exited the interstate, turning onto the winding roads leading to the rental.
Her mood darkened as the GPS route inched forward. Why had she thought this would work? Between walking the dogs and refereeing the guaranteed skirmishes between the canids and the cat, she would have little time to concentrate, let alone be creative.
The long, unpaved driveway to the rental led through thick stands of oak, maple and birch, until a final turn revealed the lake. The sudden quiet when she switched off the engine stopped the dogs from whining, and even Tux fell silent.
No other houses interrupted the scenery. She heard only the scolding of chickadees and the lap of water against the lakeshore. Out of the car, she breathed in the scent of pine and spruce.
Immersed in the serenity of the setting, Jill saw the dogs curled up beside her on the floor of the cabin, while she tapped at her keyboard, the cat tucked away in her own hidey hole. Thirty days of freedom. She was ready.
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0 1 Read moreOverturned
March 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic tagged as compassion, Cooking school, Dianna Sinovic, turnovers
Hannah dipped a brush into the egg wash and spread the pale fluid over the turnovers, mentally crossing her fingers. Beside her and across the steel work table from her other students concentrated on their entries. She had to ace this final exam; if she didn’t, her budding pastry career would never rise to reality.
She slid the tray of turnovers into the oven and set her timer. Some students had their trays in the oven ahead of her, but at least five others were still assembling. Their instructor, Bridget, a tall, large-boned woman with a perpetual frown, kept her gaze moving around the commercial kitchen.
“This is no time to dawdle,” the instructor said, addressing the room. “The clock is ticking.”
Indeed. The test required that the turnovers be done to perfection by a specified time. Hannah relaxed slightly; hers were baking. She had nothing more to do until she removed them from the oven and placed them on the cooling rack.
Pastries. Turnovers. Cakes. Pies. She wanted to make them all. Every day. And if she passed this final exam, she could open her own shop, maybe. Someday.
She was pulled out of her daydream by soft sniffles. The student to her right was frantically stuffing her turnovers while sobbing softly. Pamela, slender as a spatula, routinely was the last to complete a class baking assignment.
The other students, all of whom now had their entries in the ovens, chatted in clumps, ignoring Pamela, although a few sidelong glances said they were quite aware of her struggle.
According to the class rules, each student was to work alone. This was not about collaboration but the ability to complete a task within a time frame. It required focus and efficiency. Pamela seemed lacking in the latter, but to her credit, she never asked for help.
To hell with the rules. Hannah washed her hands and stepped up beside Pamela.
“You fill and I’ll crimp,” she said. “You’ll be done ASAP.”
With a small gasp and a look of gratitude, Pamela moved over to allow Hannah to join her. There was a rise in murmurs from the other students, and Hannah felt the instructor’s eyes on her.
“Miss Stevens, you know the class guidelines,” Bridget said. “This is solo work only. Miss Murray must complete the assignment by herself.”
Hannah did not look up, did not stop her work. Within minutes, the batch was prepped, brushed, and in the oven.
“Thank you,” Pamela whispered, her flushed face turning even redder. “I know it’s not allowed, but . . . ” Her eyes teared. “I’m going to flunk anyway. And now you are, too. Why I thought I could do this . . . ”
Hannah hoped her smile was reassuring. “That’s bullshit. You won’t flunk. You’ve turned out some nice pieces.” She searched her memory for something she could call out, but came up blank. Mostly burnt or underdone. Unappetizing. Bitter flavors.
“What’s your plan after the class ends?” Hannah helped wipe down the table and wash the prep tools.
“To open my own shop.” Pamela looked away. Exactly what Hannah dreamed of. “I’ve got the business savvy down. My dad’s a CPA, and I’ve soaked up what he does. Numbers are my happy place. But baking . . . ” Her words trailed off.
Bridget, the instructor, circulated through the kitchen, stopping to inspect each turnover batch as it emerged from the oven, making notes on her black clip board. By the time she made it around to their side of the work table, Hannah’s turnovers sat cooling on a rack. The aroma made Hannah’s stomach rumble. The crusts were perfectly crisp and brown.
Leaning over the table, Bridget surveyed the platter and nodded briefly. Hannah handed her a knife, and the instructor cut one turnover exactly in half, then sliced a sample. Another nod as she chewed and swallowed.
Pamela, meanwhile, removed her batch from the oven.
Scribbling on her assessment sheet, Bridget gave no hint of her judgment. “Under normal circumstances, your work would place at the top of the class,” she said. “But unfortunately, I must give you lower marks for ignoring the rules.”
“That’s not fair,” Pamela said, her voice rising. “Hannah stepped in because she knew I was behind. It was an act of compassion.” She glanced at Hannah. “And I’m grateful. Don’t mark her down for that.”
Bridget gave a half-smile. “I’m afraid compassion has no place in a commercial kitchen. Speed and efficiency are what matter. As well as a superior product, of course. Miss Stevens must learn that if she hopes to succeed.”
Pamela reached in front of Hannah and picked up half of the turnover the instructor had sliced. She took a big bite, chewed and smiled. “Well, this is a ‘superior product’ despite the compassion she showed.”
“With all respect,” Hannah said, “I think there’s room for kindness along with efficiency. A kitchen staff has to feel part of a team, and you get there by practicing empathy. At least, my staff will.”
“You’ve a long way to go, Miss Stevens,” Bridget said. “You’ll learn or go under.”
Hannah fought the urge to argue back. She wouldn’t win. Instead she turned to Pamela.
“I have an idea.” She took a breath and realized she had the attention of the entire class. “What if we partnered? I hate math, so you keep the books, and I do the baking.” She quickly added, “You could help bake if you want.”
Hannah bit into one of Pamela’s turnovers and squelched her reaction to the off-putting flavors. With luck, the shop would keep Pamela too busy with sales to allow time in the kitchen.
It was after Pamela’s squeal of approval, and after class had ended that Hannah opened the handwritten note the instructor had attached to her graduation certificate.
“The test of any person lies in action.” Below it, in red, her grade: an A.
