Dianna Sinovic, Featured Author
September 1, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Featured Author of the Month tagged as Dianna Sinovic, Featured author, Scream of the Silent Sun
Author of the Month: Dianna Sinovic
Born and raised in the Midwest, Dianna has also lived in three other quadrants of the U.S. She writes short stories, poetry and novels. Her full-length novel, Scream of the Silent Sun, was a finalist in the 2026 Next Generation Indie Book Awards for first novel.
She is a member of Sisters in Crime, Horror Writers Association, The American Medical Writers Association, and The Bethlehem Writers Group, LLC.
Dianna helped edit Celebrating: 20 Years of Sweet, Funny, and Strange Tales which includes her story, “Tommy.” She is a contributing author in the last four anthologies from The Bethlehem Writers Group, Season’s Readings: More Sweet, Funny, and Strange Holiday Tales, An Element of Mystery: Sweet, Funny and Strange Tales of Intrigue, Fur, Feathers, and Scales, Sweet, Funny Animal Tales and Untethered, Sweet, Funny & Strange Tales of the Paranormal. In addition to being Chief Editor of the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable ezine, she also contributes stories and articles.
Since writing and editing is clearly not enough work, Dianna is also a Book Coach. You can learn more about that on her website: https://dianna-sinovic.com/.
Dianna has a regular column here on A Slice of Orange, titled Quill and Moss, in which she frequently includes short fiction.
Dianna Sinovic’s novel and some of thebooks that contain her short stories.
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.
Dianna’s Books
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.”
More of Dianna’s Stories
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.
More of Dianna’s Stories
Photo 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.
More of Dianna’s Stories
Featured Books
WHERE EAGLES CRY
Jilted by love in 1834, Cara Lindsay sails from Boston to Mexico’s rugged California to begin a new life with a favorite aunt.
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