Roadwork
August 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Columns, Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as relationships, short fiction, vacations, writing
Carrie’s SUV coasted to a stop along I-78, the rest of the weekend morning traffic zooming past, hurrying on their way to Dorney Park or the Poconos farther on. The dashboard lights flashed a warning, but she already knew the problem.
“What did the mechanic say about the oil pressure?” She grabbed her phone to call for a tow truck, but first frowned at Hugh. He glanced away and shrugged.
“Maybe a leak.”
“Maybe?” She shot him a glare then spoke to the Triple A contact, who assured her someone would be there within a half hour. A semi passed the vehicle at seventy, rocking the SUV in its wake.
“And did he fix it?”
Hugh did what he usually did when confronted with an example of his failure to carry through. He turned the tables back onto the confronter.
“You could have checked it yourself.”
Five years. Their nickel anniversary. A planned weekend getaway lay two hours north and west, at a lakefront Airbnb. Which now looked like a long shot, given the dashboard oil light and a thirty-minute wait for a tow. And then probably pricey repairs.
Three of those years had been a joy. The last two, not so much. Yet, altogether a major improvement over her ex, who had kept his cheating ways so hidden, she’d felt like the ultimate stooge when she finally learned the truth.
Carrie chose a smile over the irritated sigh that threatened to burst out. “I’m looking forward to our mini-vacay, hon. It doesn’t do any good to point fingers at this point.” Her phone pinged. The tow driver. “Fifteen minutes, he says.”
In truth, she wasn’t excited about the end-of-summer weekend ahead. She’d be back in front of a classroom of seventh graders in just a few days, and had suggested the trip as a way to glue the fractures threatening to cleave their relationship. She didn’t much care for sitting at the edge of a lake, but Hugh fished, and the rental included a dock and a small boat. Her hope lay in what happened between them when he wasn’t dangling his line in the water. Or staring into his laptop.
The growl of a 500-horsepower engine edged up beside the SUV, and then the flatbed truck pulled onto the shoulder in front of them.
Carrie met the driver between the vehicles to confirm the tow details. Hugh emerged from the passenger side and hung back, hands in his shorts pockets. If he spoke, she didn’t catch it over the rush of the highway traffic only a few feet away. Exhaust fumes eddied around them.
She moved to the far edge of the shoulder, and Hugh followed, as the driver readied to position the SUV on the flatbed.
“Allentown,” Carrie said, raising her voice over the traffic noise. “It’s this next exit. There’s a service station that can take a look.” The morning sun beat down on them, waves of absorbed heat flowing up from the concrete. She pulled her sleeveless tee away from her back, damp with sweat. “We’ll be on our way by noon, maybe.”
Why did she always feel the need to be upbeat around Hugh? She was like a defective tire jack, continually boosting up the car of their relationship but never quite able to get the wheel off the ground. Maybe it was time to fold up the jack and let it go.
In the cab of the tow truck, Carrie let Hugh ride next to the driver and she took the window seat. She lowered her window to escape the stifling odor of cigarette smoke.
“Where you headed?” the driver said, putting the truck into gear.
Carrie prepared to give a brief summary of their weekend plans, but Hugh answered first, a surprise.
“We’ve rented a place on a lake,” he said, a hint of eagerness in his tone. “Good fishing. Good weather, we hope. About two hours from here.”
He reached over and squeezed her hand, a second surprise.
When had he last done that?
“Yep,” the driver said. He switched on his signal to exit the highway. “Looks like a fine couple days for you. The station’ll get you squared away. Don’t you worry.”
Carrie squeezed Hugh’s hand back.
The trip looked better already.
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Picture This
July 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as crime fiction, short fiction, writing
When Kristi saw the blue ribbon, she smothered her surprise. Yes, she should have been ecstatic—first place for acrylics in the local arts festival. But the backstory for the painting, “Raging Storm,” was still too raw, too fresh.
“Love that piece,” gushed the festival director, who appeared at her side. “And it sold. Congratulations.”
“Ah … thanks,” Kristi sputtered.
“Those oranges and reds and dramatic splashes of purple,” the director continued. “The person who bought it remarked on the powerful emotions it seems to embody.”
Like searing anger? Soul-sucking depression?
But Kristi didn’t share that. “Yeah, well, I was just letting my feelings flow.”
Looking back, she should have seen the mismatch from the start: she, with her creative spirit—which Trey later dismissed as “flaky”—and he, with his dedication to rules and order. Hah. Their marriage vows had mentioned the rule about being true to each other. Then the news camera doing a feature on beach towns caught him unawares, walking arm-in-arm with a blonde, a senior VP at his company. Neither was dressed for the office. In fact, they were at the Jersey Shore.
Becca had warned her when Trey proposed and she’d accepted.
“You’re so different.” This from her bestie who was still searching for Mr. Right. “I’m trying to be honest but kind,” Becca said. “You won’t be happy with him. As I’ve told you, I always find corpses—those hidden flaws that lead to ruin. That’s what I’m feeling for you.”
But Kristi was positive about Trey. He was the one; differences made a relationship stronger, didn’t they? Being too much alike was boring. And everyone has flaws.
On their honeymoon, also at the Jersey Shore despite the wind-whipped October weather, she’d whispered in a moment of bliss, “Tell me everything.”
He, while amorously tracing the line of her arm, responded coolly. “I don’t have to. We all have secrets.” He continued his line drawing along her body, unaware she had recoiled. “I don’t expect you to tell me all of yours.”
Those first few years were glorious and satisfying, or she pretended they were. She painted and sold a few pieces; he spent long days at the office and climbed the corporate ladder. The whimsy he said was charming about her at the outset soured into a dirge of complaints. She could do nothing right.
When Kristi saw the news clip Becca forwarded, finally understanding what his latest secret was, she grasped that there had been others. She’d been played for a fool.
It’s midnight and I’m blue, she texted her friend. What now?
The reply came immediately. Leave the bastard.
She did, in her own way, by giving into her anger. He had it coming. That’s how she justified it. What had Becca said about finding corpses? Trey’s would never be found.
Then she got out her acrylics and a blank rectangle of canvas. It was too soon to compose an image of her life ahead. First, she needed to exorcise her sorrow and wrath.
“We hope you’ll enter a piece in our next festival.” The director was still nattering on about her painting and the other artwork on the walls that surrounded them. “You’ve got a good eye for color.”
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Washed Up
June 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as Jersey Shore, mystery, writing
“Did I tell you about the time Aunt Jen and I found a wooden box on the beach?” Molly pulled her jacket tighter against the chill that had descended along with the sunset. Her three kids sat around the fire with her, listening to the crackle of the flames as the night around them darkened.
“A treasure chest?” Aaron, the romantic in her crew, clapped his hands in anticipation. She smiled. Of course his imagination would leapt to a tale of pirates and doubloons. This was his birthday weekend, the reason they were camping.
“I’m afraid not,” Molly said. “It was a small box, room for only two or three coins. That’s not much booty.” She held up her hands to mime the size—more of a ring box than anything.
Aaron’s face registered disappointment, but Lara perked up. “Jewelry!” She was a year older than Aaron. “Earrings and gold strands, I’ll bet.”
Not willing to be outdone by his sister, Aaron immediately countered. “It was a tiny map that led to buried treasure.”
“No.” Treena, at thirteen, two years older than Lara, filled the captain’s role for Molly’s gang of three. She offered her pronouncements calmly but forcefully. One day she’d be a CEO, Molly predicted. “Let Mom finish her story. I doubt it was any of those things.”
“Do you want to venture a guess?” Molly put another piece of wood on the fire. They were camped on a friend’s property, on their way to the Jersey Shore, their destination for tomorrow. “What I remember best was that the top of the box had an octopus carved into it. Its tentacles hugged the sides.”
“Where is it now? Or did you lose it?” Treena’s gaze challenged Molly, a more and more frequent occurrence these days. And just like the teen to hit on the stickiest part of the story.
What possessed me to bring up the box?
“Your dad took it when he left.” Molly stirred the fire again to buy some time. “So, no, I don’t have it. He may have tossed it.” Like so much else Kurt had tossed in their lives. It took years of not seeing that—until the day it was so obvious she cringed.
“You still haven’t said what was in the box.” Lara was hopping from one foot to the other.
“And why would Dad want to take it when it was yours?”
Precisely because it was hers. She’d searched for it in the days after he walked out, even as she grasped that the empty spot in her drawer was there because he couldn’t resist one last blow. Still, she refused to talk trash about her ex; he had visitation rights.
“In the box …” Molly let the words linger. “No gold coins, no jewelry, no treasure map. Aunt Jen was probably thirteen, like you, Treena. That would have made me twelve.” She’d kept the box despite its warped wood and a chipped corner, despite Jen’s worry it was infested with sand fleas (it wasn’t). She’d kept the box as a memento of her childhood, of a time when Jen was strong and healthy.
“When we pried it open, we thought we’d find a note written by someone who was lost at sea.” It hadn’t occurred to them that any paper note would have turned to pulp.
“But it was empty,” Treena said. Her tone shaded in her opinion: stupid story.
“It was not empty.” Nestled inside was a pair of dog tags, pitted and corroded by years soaking in saltwater. She and Jen could make out the soldier’s first name, but the last name and military ID were undecipherable. Blood type O+, religion Lutheran. They guessed Navy, but it could have been Army—only the “y” at the end of the word was clear. They also guessed at the war, the same one their great-grandfather had fought in.
For years, Molly studied the dog tags and wondered. Was he already dead or about to drown when the tags were stashed in the box? Who would have removed them and why? His imagined face surfaced in her teenage dreams; a young face, of course, a face far different from the man she ended up marrying.
When their third child was born—finally, Kurt said, a son—she named him Aaron, to honor that long-dead sailor. Kurt didn’t understand her fascination, and maybe she didn’t either. She just knew she was drawn to the stranger.
“Your namesake,” Molly finally said to her son. “That’s what was in the box. That’s why I told the story tonight. It’s a true birthday tale.”
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Down to Earth
May 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as climate fiction, short fiction, writing
Lily pressed her flowered handkerchief to her forehead and wondered for the fifth time that day why she had signed up for the Festival of the Earth event. The May sun beating on the roof of her canopy turned it into a DIY heat lamp. Stacks of her ecological thriller sat ignored on her table. The crowd was more interested in the pastry shop’s tent next door, the line for lunch turnovers stretching down the mown pathway from the parking lot.
She’d hoped to sell at least several copies of her book Unplugged, a fictional tale about a full-off-the-grid society; after all, its theme aligned nicely with the festival’s. In fact, the vendor on the other side of her was hawking solar panels, and she considered flagging everyone who passed her up to let them know her book was relevant—her main character had four panels on the roof of her cottage.
It didn’t help that the cumin-and-coriander aroma of the turnovers made her stomach grumble. Her packed lunch of peanut butter and jelly had lost all appeal in comparison.
Another hour in, and one book sold, to the mother of a family of three littles ready, she said, for something “more mature than Sesame Street.” Lily tucked away the cash in her pouch and watched the family stream toward the kids’ crafts tent—a place where youngsters could launch gigantic bubbles to float elongated and short-lived across the nearby park field.
She sighed. Even with the sunny weather, the day was a bust so far. Not ready to give up yet, though, she left her booth long enough to introduce herself to the solar vendor. Networking was important at sales events. Busy in the full sun, the vendor was bent over the electrical hookup for the largest of his panels, muttering under his breath. He didn’t seem bothered by the heat, even as Lily fanned herself with an event program.
“Just wanted to mention that the novel I’m selling today is about folks who embrace solar.” Lily stuck out a hand, but withdrew it when the vendor ignored her. “That’s a nice fit with what you’re selling. You know, about being unplugged.” When he finally looked up, he squinted at her with a frown. “Nobody reads books any more.”
The hell they don’t. She stomped back to her table, threading her way through another wave of potential tire-kickers for the solar cells. “Stop by my booth next,” she called to them, with a friendly wave. “I’ve got free snacks!”
But her mini-bags of pretzels were no match for the tasty turnover tent, and eventually Lily succumbed, taking a spot at the end of the long queue. She hoped the turnover supply would last until she arrived at the front of the line.
“You’re Lily Spruce, right?” The young woman at the turnover counter wrapped up a chicken turnover for her, but waved away the bills Lily offered. Her name tag read Rachael in precise hand-lettering. “I read your book on a friend’s recommendation. Really, really good. This is my contribution toward your authorial efforts.”
“Wow,” Lily managed to say. “Thanks.” Back at her booth, she savored the unexpected treat—from an unexpected fan. The day was worth it for that, if nothing else, she decided. And a breeze picked up, carrying away some of the tent’s stifling warmth and bringing with it the faint rumble of thunder.
It was then that she noticed the advancing cloud bank. Checking her phone, she skimmed the severe weather warning. As though one of the next-door solar panels had activated, the energy of the crowd changed to one of urgency. Already the wind increased, making the canopy tents pop and threatening to send them aloft. The line dwindled to nothing for Rachael, the turnover vendor. The kids’ craft tent emptied, and people hurried toward the parking area.
Lily packed away her books, wrapping them in plastic against the approaching rain, and pulled out her rain slicker. The smell of rain mixed with the lingering aroma of cumin and coffee.
In the next booth, Rachael struggled against the wind to take down her canopy. Lily sprang into action. “Let me help. And then maybe you can help me with mine.”
Rachael looked up, surprised. “Sure thing.”
Together they collapsed the canopy, working in a light mist. Then they tackled Lily’s, and slipped the tent into its sleeve just as the mist turned to rain.
The park stretched out beyond them, now empty. Only a few vendors remained; the rest had fled.
Rachael pulled her wheeled cart onto the pathway, heading for the parking area. “So much for a festival for the Earth,” she said. “A pity it’s rained out.”
Wasn’t that the definition of unplugged? Lily pictured her novel’s protagonist, facing whatever Mother Nature threw at her: storm, drought, flood, heavy snow. You were thankful for sunny skies when you got them, but the changing weather kept things interesting.
“It’s all part of life,” Lily said with a shrug. “But hey, we can make the most of it. Let’s go grab a beer and commiserate.”
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Financial Fore-cast
April 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic tagged as Dianna Sinovic, flash Fiction, magic, Spells
The accountant opened the folder and skimmed the stack of documents it contained. A W-2, 1099s, receipts, investment summaries, it was all there, Annie hoped. Matt always left it up to her to compile the papers needed before they sat down with Tom, their CPA. Her business was laden with supply orders, customer invoices, and back-end pay-outs. Matt worked in analytical statistics for a pharma company: salary, health insurance, 401(K), easy-peasy.
“This expense here.” Tom tapped his finger on a receipt. “Shadow essence. For your shop?”
“Yes. I go through three boxes a week, minimum.” Annie had opened her store, A Spell on You, three years ago and had yet to turn a profit—a sore point with Matt, who was used to assessing revenues in the hundreds of thousands.
“How much longer are you going to play at this?” he’d groused several days ago as she was assembling the folder for Tom. “Give it up. Get a real job.”
“I’m not playing. This is my dream and I’ll make it work.”
“Yeah. Conning people into thinking you can ‘cast spells.’” Matt didn’t believe in magic; he believed in numbers. “Numbers don’t lie.” His favorite three words to live by.
Annie knew in her bones she was the real thing. Her testimonials were glowing. Her repeat customers came with a list for her to work through. If only there were a few more customers. Still, imposter syndrome ate at her, and Matt’s griping made it worse. She didn’t want anyone to know she was uncredentialed, a seat-of-the-skirt kind of gal, when it came to spelling. But books on spell craft filled three full shelves in her shop’s back room, and she’d memorized most of them.
Tom coughed politely, and Annie pulled herself back to the present.
“Sorry,” she said, her face hot. “Did you have a question?”
Matt sighed in annoyance. “Come back from la-la land, bae. Tom doesn’t have all day for you to daydream your way to financial success.”
Putting his readers on, Tom smiled kindly at her. “I’m in no hurry.” He turned back to the folder and held up another sheet. “Now this one for spider milk.”
And on they went, with Tom asking questions, to which she supplied explanations, while Matt rolled his eyes.
At the session’s end, after shaking hands with Tom, they stood at the elevator. The doors swished open, and Matt strode into the empty car, his anger obvious in the set of his jaw.
“Next year, we file separately,” he said. “I’m tired of this hocus pocus shit.”
“Let’s try something,” Annie said, as the car descended, with a clunk, from eighth to the lobby. “You don’t believe in magic, so we’ll put it to a test. See who’s right.”
Chuckling, Matt shook his head. “Can’t you see how ridiculous you are?”
She cocked her head, moved her feet in a patterned sequence, and spoke in a monotone. “Five, twenty-three, fourteen, thirty-nine …” She continued on with a handful of additional digits. It was a spell she’d been waiting to use, patiently watching for the perfect moment.
A low groan filled the elevator, and Matt sagged against the rear wall. His eyes held panic—understandably, since he could no longer move or speak.
The car settled on the ground floor, and the doors swished open.
Annie smiled sweetly at her husband. “Matt, dear, I agree with you. Numbers don’t lie.” She walked out of the elevator, leaving him where he was.
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