Midnight Snack
October 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as dark fiction, Halloween, short fiction, writing
At the chiming of eleven bells, the retreat’s evening session began. Squeezed around the table, six people scooted chairs until no one brushed up against anyone else. The room’s reddish glow came from a candelabra on a nearby shelf, and the air hung thick with cedar incense.
Jana coughed into her hand and took side glances at the five others. Duvan, whose laughter burst out at the oddest moments; Metrie, whose face was as pale as the ivory cloth that covered the table; Tartas, who kept shifting among her multiple forms so that Jana wasn’t exactly sure who she was at any moment, and two others, whose names and peculiarities she couldn’t recall.
“This meeting, on Allhallows Eve, marks the time of year when we can at last show our true faces,” Metrie intoned, her voice just above a whisper. Somewhere in the darkened room came the slow ticking of a clock. “Place both your hands on the table, and please remain silent.”
Palms down, Jana let her gaze rove, careful not to engage with anyone. She had heard that one of the five—four, if she didn’t count Metrie, the leader—was a transformed cryptid. More precisely, the Pocono Polecat. Research had pointed her to this Pennsylvania gathering, on this night, when transformers slipped however briefly into their original shape.
A tiny camera, attached as a bead to her necklace, would capture the change when it happened. She hoped. Then she’d have the proof needed for the article she was writing for The Cryptozoologist.
Metrie recited a prayer in an ancient language filled with hard glottal stops and velar clicks. A breath exhaled through the room, bringing with it a rank smell that wrinkled Jana’s nose.
Polecat.
The seat where the black-haired woman wrapped in a white shawl had been sitting was now filled with a human-sized black-furred mammal, a thin white stripe down its nose. It laid its two long, sharp claws on the table.
“Welcome, Shkak,” Metrie said, in English. Duvan exploded in laughter, and Tartas blinked through three form changes in as many seconds. The sixth person at the table, the one with close-cropped hair the color of burnt leaves, collapsed off their chair with a moan.
Jana felt her necklace, rubbing a finger next to the embedded camera, hoping it had recorded what she needed. In response, Shkak bared her teeth at Jana, who gasped. The stomach-turning stench overwhelmed the smoke of the cedar incense.
“You’re real,” Jana croaked, trying and failing to hold her breath. Duvan and Tartas fled the room.
“Of course, she’s real,” Metrie scoffed. She held a lace handkerchief over her nose. “Be careful what you ask for.”
A low-pitched rumble vibrated the table as Shkak stared at Jana. It had to be a growl. The polecat’s claws tore through the table covering, making long slashes.
Covering her mouth and nose with her hands, Jana dropped her gaze. “I’m so glad to meet you … as yourself.” Taking a breath and holding it, she dug out her cell phone, opened her camera app, and turned to Metrie. “Can you snap a photo of the two of us?”
Shkak rose to her full height.
Metrie smiled and put her hand out to take the phone. “Be glad to.” She added, “You do realize that polecats are omnivores, not herbivores, right?”
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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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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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Plans Best Laid
March 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as crime fiction, short fiction
The conversations murmuring around her provided white noise for Erica as she sat at her laptop in the busy coffeeshop. One more chapter to finish. Then a scrap of an exchange broke through her deep concentration.
“He’d kill us if he had the chance.”
She glanced up, her eyes focusing on the photo of a sailboat framed on the wall, trying to hear what the couple said. From their voices, it was a man and a woman. They were at the table immediately behind her.
“We’ve got to do it.” The woman spoke calmly, as though they were discussing vacation get-away plans.
“When?”
The roar of the latte-maker drowned out any response from the woman. Erica shifted in her seat, feigning a look in her backpack in order to see the couple. Just a quick glance, nothing to let them know she’d overheard. Both in their mid-thirties. The woman pretty in an old-fashioned way, with dark, sculpted curls that tucked under at her neck. The man with a hint of chisel in his features, white-blond, short-cropped hair.
Erica pulled out a notebook she didn’t need to make it clear she had purpose to dig into her bag. The machine noise stopped abruptly, leaving only the gentle background jazz piped over the shop’s speakers.
With her back once again to the couple, she pretended to write.
“Do you think he knows we’re here?”
The man laughed. “Almost certainly.”
“But he can’t hear us—” The woman sounded alarmed.
“No, of course not.” The man seemed to realize his seatmate’s concern. “That’s why we chose this place. You can relax.” Erica imagined him patting the woman’s hand to comfort her.
The counter machine again kicked into action, once more damping all conversations. Squealing, a tot ran past the table, with the mother close behind.
Erica chewed on her lip. Were they planning a crime? Or just kvetching over the woman’s ex, who just happened to be violent? What should she do?
Slipping out her wallet, she rose to order another espresso. That would give her a chance to see them clearly, to make a mental note of their appearance in case she needed to report them … later.
On the way back to her table, she scrutinized the couple but kept her gaze wandering, as though she were lost in her thoughts. Which was why she failed to see the tot’s small toy on the floor. Tripping on it, Erica threw up her hands and the coffee splashed on the man’s face and down his blue polo.
“Gah,” he said, reaching for napkins to dry himself. The woman dabbed at his shirt with more napkins.
“I’m so sorry,” Erica said. So much for stealth. “I’ll go get paper towels.”
“We’re fine,” the man said. “Don’t worry about it. We were just leaving.”
They both stood. A shop server arrived with more towels and sopped up some of the liquid from the tabletop.
“Sure I can’t buy you another round?” Erica said, searching for something more to say.
The woman shook her head. “We’ve been here too long, I think.” She was studying Erica’s face. Perhaps to memorize it for later retribution.
“Well, if you change your mind …” Erica left the words hanging. “About your plans,” she wanted to add.
The man stopped his turn toward the exit and looked back at her. “We won’t.”
[Inspired by the 1974 film The Conversation]
Stories by Dianna Sinovic
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