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.
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A 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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Overturned
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.
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Tardy Slip
January 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as fate, short fiction, tardiness, writing
Most of the seats at the DMV were filled when Charla arrived, license renewal form in hand, and she ended up taking an unoccupied plastic chair against the far wall. She had an hour and maybe a smidge more to get her new license before Sam started docking her pay for being late from her lunch break.
She’d meant to renew weeks ago, when the notice first arrived, but lateness was programmed into her psyche. Her license was now expired, and what with people getting stopped routinely and forced to show their IDs, she worried about driving with a permit no longer valid.
The room was subdued despite the crowd of fifty or so, with conversations kept muted. As a chime sounded at intervals, a steady stream of people rose from their chairs, made their way to the counter and conferred with the official on the other side of the plexiglass window. Six numbers lay ahead of Charla’s, with the clock ticking. She studied her expired license: Only four years had passed, but she grimaced at the image that stared back. The smile, tepid; her hair a mess, and that sweater, making her round face rounder.
“Those cameras are designed to make us look like criminals.” The man seated to her right was shaking his head, showing her his own license, which did indeed show a portrait that could have graced a wanted poster.
Charla, laughing, shoved hers back in her purse. “We’ll see what they capture of me today.” She checked her phone. “If they call my number before my break ends.” She’d missed doctors’ appointments, movie theater starts, and parties because she was always running late. Why couldn’t she ever be on time?
Her seatmate was soon off to the counter. The room slowly emptied, but Charla’s number still lagged, now behind two others. She had exactly five minutes left to complete the renewal. So much for lunch. Maybe Sam would let her sprint to the Wawa for a quick sandwich if things were slow at the dealership when she returned.
At last, she stood at the renewal counter and handed over her paperwork and old license.
“Waited a little too long, did we?” The clerk’s tone was kind despite the snark of his words.
“I kept meaning to get here,” Charla said, her face warming. “And then it was too late.”
The clerk checked her information on his computer screen. “It’s never too late.” He grinned. “The good news is that you’re not so late that you have to retake the written test.”
“I’d have to do that?” She was not prepared for any exam.
“Only if your license was more than six months overdue.” He directed her to sit back in the chair. “Ready for your picture?”
She patted down her frizzy hair and smiled half-heartedly at the camera. She should have primped in the bathroom before her number was called. Too late now.
Within ten minutes, she was done. Her photo caught her smile—and the wild patch of hair that always stuck up. Now fifteen minutes past her lunch break, she left the DMV lot and sped up the road.
Two blocks from the dealership, cars stacked up behind flashing police lights.
More delays. Sam’s annoyed face loomed in her mind. Was this the day she lost her job? Time was never her friend.
Turning onto a side street, she looped through an adjacent neighborhood to reach her workplace from the opposite direction. The Wawa store was on the way, so she stopped to buy a snack to get her through the afternoon—and early evening, to make up for the extra half hour she’d “borrowed.”
Traffic was backed up on this side of the wreck, but Charla cut through a parking lot to reach the dealership. She hustled to the door, feeling like the tortoise in the race against the hare of time. A fire truck pulled up to the wreckage, and sirens continued to blare.
Instead of an angry frown over her tardiness, Sam’s face showed only relief. Several salespeople joined him, and Charla was wrapped in a sudden cocoon of welcome.
“You’re safe,” Sam said. He stepped forward as if to hug her, but stopped when she backed up. “We were so afraid you got caught up in that mess.”
Charla’s shoulders relaxed. “I was running late…” As usual, she almost added.
For once, time had been on her side.
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Season’s Greetings
December 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as holidays, short fiction, writing
Just one week until Christmas. This is my last craft fair for the season—thank god! I have been selling my hand-crafted greeting cards every weekend since early October, and let me tell you, I’m burned out. I’ve done okay, made my table fees back at most events, but it’s a grind. Today, I’m set up in a community center near Reading, along with what must be forty other vendors.
This is your last chance, people, to find the perfect gift! My perfect gift would be a medical miracle for my dad. He’s been unconscious for two weeks, since the car wreck on I-80. The doctors say he should recover—if he wakes up. But he’s pushing eighty. It may not happen.
That would make a good card theme, right? A get-well wish made for people whose loved one is in a coma. May they snap out of it. Or, how about: Wake up, sleepy Jean. But that’s my dark humor bubbling up. Damn it, now my eyes are blurry.
The crowd today has been steady, and there’s plenty of buying going on, judging by the packed bags people are toting around. Most of the merchandise has no appeal for me; I’m not into ninety-dollar stone reindeer, or fat crocheted cats, or ceramic tabletop Christmas trees, or polished plaques that say “What-cha cookin’.” To be fair, my stuff doesn’t appeal to everyone either. I’ve had window shoppers tell me point-blank, “I don’t send cards.”
Still, I have my regulars and I love ‘em. They buy from me every year, oohing and ahhing over my new designs. But the nonbuyers are right: Who sends greeting cards anymore? Especially when you can zap out an e-card or text an emoji or even write a general Insta post—that takes care of a lot of people in one sweep.
Greeting cards are special to me, though. I used to do a bit of calligraphy, fancy addresses on envelopes, cool name tags, that sort of thing. Then I discovered watercolors, and the people at work said I had talent, and here we are.
But you can’t please everybody. Some folks don’t like my designs. Not religious enough, they say. I say, my cards touch people’s souls; do you? Other folks want a poem inside—they’re the Hallmark crowd. I don’t do poetry, not that kind anyway. Make me write a poem, and I’ll give you Macbeth: Foul is fair and fair is foul.
And some people even expect me to mail the cards for them. If you pay for postage, I’ll think about it.
It’s about a half hour before this craft event is over and I can stuff my wares into my SUV and head home. Later, I’ll stop by the hospital and sit with Dad for a while. And keep my fingers crossed, hoping. Mom passed six years ago, and he’s all I’ve got left. My brother lives across the country and can’t be bothered.
I reach for a box beneath my table to start packing up. The place is emptying out; I doubt I’ll get many more customers at this hour. Then I see him, one of my regulars. He’s heading my way, his eyes roving my displays and finally finding my gaze.
“Hi, Roy,” I say. “It’s about time you showed up.” I rib him gently; he always buys a handful of cards.
“What’s new this year?” He stands about my height, stocky with a beard. His watch cap in Eagles green has slid up his forehead, revealing the worry lines that come with life. I know nothing about him beyond his first name. He’s friendly enough, but he’s never revealed anything personal in our interactions. Married? Loner? I have no idea.
I spin the rack to a new design, a swirl of deep indigo tinged with a hint of orange along one edge. The dark of the storm before the dawn. Before I can pick it up, he has his hand on it.
“Yes,” he says. “This’ll do.” He selects a half-dozen other designs, then stares at me briefly. “The storm clouds are thinning, I think.”
I record his purchase and place the cards and their envelopes in a slim paper bag. He hands over the cash. Without thinking, I blurt, “Peace be with you.” Where that came from, I have no idea. I’m not devout about anything but my cards.
He nods once. “Best wishes for your father,” he says, and strides away.
“What?” I murmur. I must have misunderstood. When I open my hand to count the money, mixed in with the bills is a Patriots key chain. My dad’s favorite team, even years after he left New England. “Wait,” I call out, but when I look up, Roy has merged into the trickle of customers. I no longer see him.
Odd. He must had carried the key chain in his pocket and pulled it out without realizing it. I run a thumb over the raised logo. A Patriots symbol deep in Eagles country, just like Dad. He’ll chuckle at the irony—. I stop my thoughts before I lose my composure. How did Roy know about Dad?
As I box up inventory and break down my racks, my phone lights up. It’s the hospital. Suddenly lightheaded, I sit on my folding stool, gripping the phone so hard my fingers ache.
“Yes?” I say, afraid to hear whatever news they have to share.
There is a pause as a connection switches and it’s the nursing station.
They say: My father is now awake and alert.
And he’s asking for me.
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