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.”
More of Dianna’s Stories
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.”
Dianna Sinovic’s Books
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
Picture Perfect
January 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as beach, fiction, short fiction
Shaun held the framed photo of his grandfather and traced the image with his finger.
“He was such a great man.”
Granddad had died four years ago, but the rawness of grief still gnawed at Shaun. He’d lost the man who had raised him when his own parents couldn’t—or wouldn’t.
And here he was, reviewing plans for his wedding, his fiancée at his side. Erin would never meet the person he owed his life to.
“I see where you got your good looks,” Erin said. “Too bad I never knew him. My own grandfather died when I was just a baby, so I never knew him either.” She paused, and looked down at her notebook. “Maybe we can honor your grandpa in some way at the reception?”
She launched into an update on the guest list, the bridal party, and other wedding details he honestly didn’t have an opinion on. They were getting married, and that was enough. If only Granddad were here . . .
Once again he touched the photograph, taken when his grandfather was Shaun’s age, his eyes sparkling in laughter, his ever-present Tilley hat pushed to the back of his head. In the background, the surf at Brigantine crashed onto the sand, a gull winging overhead. Shaun had framed the photograph after he reached adulthood and went out on his own. He wanted to be reminded of how far he’d come, thanks to the man.
Erin continued her updates, and he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he was standing on a beach, with the waves rolling in below a clear sky. Gulls cried above him, and a briny breeze flowed off the ocean. Erin was looking at him, her mouth agape.
“Where are we?” she squeaked.
“Not sure,” Shaun said. “The Jersey Shore, I think.”
The beach was deserted except for a man walking toward them—the guy definitely had them in his sights. As the man drew closer, Shaun knew who it was, but not how or why.
The face was younger but unmistakable. “Granddad?”
In the warm summer sunshine, the man wore jeans and a tee, his head topped with his usual brimmed hat. His smile enveloped Shaun, and he followed that with a bear hug.
“Shaun, my boy,” the man said. “Good to see you.” He turned to Erin, shock still etched across her face. “And this must be your fiancée.” He extended a hand. “A pleasure, miss. You’ve got yourself a real catch in Shaun.”
Erin slowly put out her own hand, and the man covered it with both of his.
“But how . . . ?” Shaun said, his voice trailing off until the roar of the surf absorbed it. “You’re young—my age. And you’re here. It’s impossible.”
“Not impossible, but complicated,” his grandfather said. To Erin, he said, “You can call me Paul. I’ve known Shaun for years.” He offered his arm to her and winked. “I think it’s time to take a walk on the beach. Beautiful day for a stroll, don’t you think?”
For the next few hours, that’s what they did, talking and laughing as the waves tugged at their feet. With every step, Shaun tried to make sense of what was happening. Erin, trading jokes with Paul, was at ease as if she’d known the man for years, not just an afternoon.
Finally, Paul came to a halt and turned to Shaun. “You’ve done well, grandson. I’m proud of you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. “Take this. When the time comes to say your vows, this will stand in for me, since I can’t be there.”
Shaun took the coin, felt the smoothness of the metal, its unyielding strength.
“Thank you,” he said, content to remain in this must-be-a-dream state as long as he was allowed.
The wind gusted, sending up spray from the surf. Paul grabbed hold of his hat and settled it on the back of his head.
Erin, still at Paul’s side, reached up and adjusted it. “There, that looks better,” she said, smiling. “And it keeps the sun out of your eyes.”
Shaun shaded his own eyes in the brightness, closed them briefly—and he was again in his living room, the framed photo of his grandfather back on the side table where he kept it.
His right hand still gripped the silver dollar, and he opened his palm. The coin was real enough; he hadn’t dreamt that.
Erin shook her head, her eyes dazed. “What just happened?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
He glanced at his grandfather’s photograph. It was the same, and it wasn’t. The Tilley hat perched on the back of his grandfather’s head was now straightened, and his lips curved in a friendly smile.
Birthday Wishes
November 30, 2024 by Dianna Sinovic in category Columns, Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as holiday story, short fiction, writing
Today was her birthday, but her closest friends were busy, so Nicole took herself out to dinner. The Purple Potted Plant was her favorite restaurant for special occasions, and this year qualified as one: her fortieth.
She tamped down the urge to feel self-pity. She had no one to join her to mark the date; her ex certainly wouldn’t, and apparently, no friends felt strongly enough to share a birthday meal with her.
The waitstaff showed her to a table that overlooked a bustling street in Doylestown. Her birthday coincided with the start of the holiday season, and already giant, fake snowflakes hung from the lamp posts. They were another reminder that she needed to make plans soon to avoid being alone at Christmas. Daniel, her ex, would be with his new wife and their three-year-old.
Pulling herself back to the present, Nicole studied the menu. The chicken looked tempting, but the gnawing in her midsection was for something more than food. This milestone year was just the latest in a life she’d spent wondering who she really was. Adopted at as an infant, she had no memory of her biological mother. She craved details—any details. But the woman she called mother, the woman who’d raised her, had no interest in that.
“Isn’t it enough that you’re here, loved by us?” Brenda had said when Nicole begged her to tell what she knew. “No need to dig up a painful past.”
Nicole placed her order and asked for a glass of pinot grigio. Staring out the window, she watched the passersby, envious that they all had places to go. The swish of a moving chair drew her attention back to the table.
“Mind if I join you?” An older woman in a tailored, cloth coat stood there. “You seem like you could use a friendly smile.”
Taken aback at the woman’s forwardness, Nicole started to say no, but then shrugged. What the heck; it was better than moping alone in the crowded restaurant. “Of course. Please sit.”
“I’m Judy,” the woman said. “Pleased to meet you.” She removed her coat and sat down with a sigh. “It’s been years since I’ve eaten here.”
“I’m Nicole. What brings you here tonight?” Conversation was just what she needed, Nicole thought. Judy, in her dark pants and russet sweater, was a welcome distraction.
Judy’s smile grew warmer. “It’s my daughter’s birthday.”
“Oh?” Nicole smiled back. “How fun. It’s my birthday, too. But,” she paused, taking in the room full of chatting people, knives and forks clinking against plates, “shouldn’t you be with her to celebrate?”
“Oh, she’s near enough,” the woman said. “She has her own life now.”
Without really meaning to, Nicole mused aloud about her life—the pluses (she had a successful career as an editor) and the minuses (her failed marriage to Daniel). She shared her joy at finding the perfect hill on her morning walks to watch the sunrise and her disappointment over the loss of yet another friend who’d moved away. Then she put down her fork, feeling her face flush.
“How rude of me,” she said. “I’ve been talking about myself this whole time. I’m so sorry.” She usually deflected conversation back to the other person rather than talk about herself. What had gotten into her this evening? She picked at the food on her plate, no longer hungry.
Judy had barely touched her own food, seeming content to just listen to Nicole, offering a murmured “I see,” “That must have been difficult,” or “Interesting” from time to time.
Changing the subject, Judy said, “Since it’s your birthday, tell me, if you could alter anything in your life, what would you wish for?”
Nicole didn’t hesitate. “To know who my mother is. I mean, Brenda adopted me as a baby, and she and Paul, my adopted dad, love me, and I love them, but not knowing who gave birth to me brings me sadness even all these years later.” After that passionate response, Nicole caught herself. Was she really that starved for attention that she had to bring all of their talk back to her? “What about you?” she said. “What would you wish for?”
The older woman’s smile was bittersweet. She stood, pulling on her coat. “I’ve got to go now.” She slipped her bag over her shoulder. “To answer your question, though, if I could wish for anything, it would be to watch my daughter grow up. Fate didn’t grant me that. Instead, I missed all the milestones, I missed watching her turn from child to adult, but I’m so happy to see she’s turned out well.” She winked. “Even if she needs to trust in herself a bit more.”
Judy turned away just as the server arrived to clear the table. When Nicole looked up a moment later, the older woman was gone. Had the wink meant what she thought it did? She watched for Judy out the restaurant window, hoping to see her pass by on the sidewalk under the streetlights, but she didn’t appear.
“Happy birthday,” the server said, placing a slice of chocolate torte in front of Nicole. Edible confetti lay sprinkled over it, topped by a miniature flag printed with Best birthday wishes!
“I didn’t order this,” Nicole protested, although she was touched by the effort. “It’s fine, though. I’ll pay for it. You can bring the check for both of us—” She stopped. The place setting opposite her showed no sign that anyone had been there, the flat wear still wrapped in a cloth napkin.
The server chuckled. “Both of you, huh? But here’s another odd thing. I don’t remember bringing your check, but our system shows that your meal has already been paid for. You’re all set.”
Some of Dianna’s stories are in the following anthologies.
Featured Books
THE ULTIMATE BETRAYAL
To prove her father’s innocence, she’ll have to turn a killer's sights on herself.
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THE ULTIMATE GUIDE TO HORSE FEED, SUPPLEMENTS, AND NUTRITION
A comprehensive guide of the dos and don'ts of equine nutrition--featuring a full-color pull-out chart.
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PICK AND CHEWS
Carrie Kennersly tries to help her veterinarian boyfriend when he’s under suspicion of murder...Is he a keeper, or should she let him go off-leash for good?
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