It’s All About Passion

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My first banner seemed wild enough until summer arrived and the snow melted.

This week marks my 2nd blogiversary. First of all, I think it’s funny that bloggers are primarily writers and they can’t decide how to spell it. Is it with an i or an a? Google corrected it for me, so blogiversary it is.

I never thought I would be a writer. I am an artist and was a medical illustrator before becoming a full-time mom, but have always loved telling stories. Maybe it’s the Irish in me. After spinning one of my yarns almost three years ago, a friend of mine said, “You should really write these stories down.” Her words shocked me and a light bulb turned on in my head.

This happened at a time when I was often introduced to random strangers who asked, “What do you do?”

I never had a proper answer. I had been out of a job since my kids went to college and had been searching for a way to express myself.

You see, I had never really found my passion. I enjoyed creating through different mediums like illustrating, painting, gardening, cooking, decorating, and even sewing, but when thinking about turning any of these into a career, I would moan and groan and grumble. I enjoyed seeing the fruits of my labor, but didn’t enjoy the labor part of the experience.

I took my friend up on her idea. While outlining a snarky and satirical non-fiction book about women and life in Boulder, I plodded along. I was such a slow typist and changing anything was excruciating. Navigating the minefield of not being offensive to anyone while trying to avoid blowing up my relationships, took forever. It was hard enough to find the letters on my keyboard.

Then, I was told that no one would publish my book unless I started blogging to build a writer’s platform. I only knew blogging as a diary form of word vomit. I wasn’t that thrilled about journaling, but I read a few posts and realized I could choose my own focus – hence the Wild Ride!

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I loved this second banner, but I got bored, opted for vibrant color and cut off my hair.

When I started blogging here at WordPress in May of 2011, I could not figure out how to get views. Just when I was about to give up, I discovered the home page and realized tags were crucial to being visited. Remember, this is two years ago, way before WP created the Reader.

After writing blog posts for a couple of months, I reviewed my book proposal with anxiety. I found my voice and writing style right away since I write the way I speak, but the genre was wrong. I could feel it in my gut. Non-fiction is tricky. It involves real people, places and events. I had to be careful not to alienate any of them.

I was falling in love with fiction through writing 100 word flash on Fridays. The freedom of writing whatever I wanted allowed my vivid imagination to explore all kinds of exotic places and different types of characters, some of whom I admired, a few who made me laugh and others who came from nightmares and dark places in my mind. I loved this new creative medium.

Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I found my obsession and my passion.

I shelved my non-fiction project with a huge sigh of relief and had to choose which fictional idea to expand. Looking back, I could not have picked a wilder or more challenging story for my first book. What was I thinking?

I had to stop writing flash fiction on Fridays since the characters in my book would start partying down with the new ones in my flash and they would wreak havoc in my pea brain. I needed a split personality to deal with all of them and keep them separated. It was hard to stop writing 100 word fiction for my blog, but once I did, my book flowed.

Now my paranormal thriller is done and I am very excited about it!

Third try's a charm

Looking back on the last two years, my blog has changed how I define myself, the stories I want to tell, and the focus of my life. I am in the throes of embarking on a writing career which is challenging, humbling and more exciting than anything I have ever experienced professionally.

I am looking forward to querying an agent and getting my story out there. Will I take a break? Hell no. I have eight more books I want to write. Two more in this series, three which took a back seat when I drew straws for which one to write first, a screenplay, a historical fiction, a compilation and that’s off the top of my head!

Now when someone asks me what I do, I have an answer.

Have you found your passion?

Leaping for Love, Lust and Lulu on Valentine’s Day

Along with bushy eyebrows, Lulu had been burdened with helicopter parents. She never had a moment alone with little Harold. They had dated for two years without a single kiss.

Towering over him had been a turnoff. Sitting down put him at ease.

Harold came a-calling on Valentine’s Day. Electricity shot between them the moment he entered the room. She had to have him.

the date 1 Continue reading

Oh Thrill Me Baby!

October arrived at midnight like a blanket of fog cloaking the twisted path. I woke to this first day with a rekindled primal need deep down inside my core. Lust and longing permeated my senses. I needed an adrenaline rush.

Flooded by memories and covered by goosebumps, I realized there was only one cure.

I had to make a list of my favorite spine-tingling thrillers of all time. Continue reading

The Christmas Wish – 250 Word Flash Fiction

As Carol scrawled her signature inside the Thomas Kincade Christmas card, a chill sent a shiver like the touch of a cold fingertip along her spine. She buttoned her cardigan and folded the greeting card. While studying the picture of the artist’s painting, Carol smiled at the warm glow emanating like amber from the windows of the cottage nestled in the snow. She imagined the home filled with friends and family. Lifting her gaze through the window above her desk, dense fog and ice had collected on the gnarled oak trees and shimmered in the moonlight. Her heart ached with the familiar sense of loss. “I miss you, John.” She looked around her dreary home once filled with life, regretting her decision to skip decorating this year. What was the point?

She slipped the card into the envelope as a single tear slid down her soft wrinkled cheek. “I wish…” Her shoulders slumped and Carol sobbed.

A flickering light reflected in the window caught her attention. She spun around and a warm roaring fire glowed in the gas fireplace. Silent Night began playing on the radio.

“What the…?” Carol sprung from her chair and as she approached the hearth she heard the doorbell. She wiped the tears from her face, turned the brass knob, and opened the front door.

“Surprise Grandma!” Carol’s three grandchildren, her daughter, and son-in-law stood in the snow on the front doorstep.

“I’m glad you’re here too, John,” Carol thought as she looked up and smiled.

Is there someone you wish you could visit during the holidays?


Thomas Kincade photo of painting by

A Warm Welcome – 100 Word Flash Fiction

Jane’s special day had come again and she bounced through the house with renewed vigor.  It seemed like a lifetime had passed since she felt this strong. Her illness had dissipated. An old memory skittered back to her like flipping to a page in her blue velvet album. Continue reading

Is Anybody Home? 100 Word Flash Fiction

Justine pulled into Mr. Hanson’s driveway as the rain fell down in sheets. She retrieved the casserole from the passenger seat and then splashed through puddles to the door. She turned the knob and let herself in.

“Mr. Hanson? I brought your dinner!” A smell of mothballs and Lysol hit Justine like she’d been slapped. Continue reading

The Cutting Edge – 3 – 100 Word Flash Fictions



Joanne finished typing the last line of tomorrow’s post, saved it, and closed her lap top. She rose from her desk in the now empty office. So seldom was she ever there alone with only the quiet humming of the overhead air filtration system.

The lighting seemed queer tonight, shining a pale shade of green. She nervously looked over her shoulder while waiting at the elevator. When it arrived, she entered. As the doors began to close, a hand gripped one side of the door and it reopened. The blonde handsome man towered over her with a knife and lunged.


Springing up from her sound sleep, the rolling chair banged the cubicle wall behind her. “What a nightmare!” She gazed around the empty office, grabbed her laptop, and headed for the elevator. She took a deep breath when the door closed behind her.  She entered the basement parking lot and sprinted to her car. Once inside she locked the doors and drove home.

Her black Labrador Rex laid down outside the shower while she soaped up. She heard him growl and then bolt out of the bathroom. “Is someone there?” Searching for a weapon, only shampoo bottles lined the shelf.


He crept up the stairs, hearing the water pounding in the shower. He smiled knowing she wouldn’t see him enter. He took care of the dog and then stepped onto the tile floor.

Her mind flashed to the movie Psycho. She tried to keep looking through the glass shower door as she rinsed off and couldn’t help visualizing Rex lying in a pool of blood. She stepped out of the shower, swung around, and gasped.

Her husband Richard handed her a bouquet of white roses. “Congratulations! Sliced made the best seller list! We’re celebrating!”

“I need a vacation,” thought Joanne.

Have you ever woken up from a dream that completely unhinged you?

Have you ever dreamt you were running away, but your legs felt as though they were under water?

Photo by S. Lindau

The Mistresses of Mayhem

As the days grow shorter, I begin to feel autumn’s chill through the drafts in my house which seems to penetrate the floor and slip up my pant legs then settle down deep in my bones. While running upstairs to retrieve wool socks for my cold feet I am reminded of the time of year and begin to long for All Hallow’s Eve and a month of ghostly tales. When I was a teenager, my girlfriends and I would gather around the television at midnight and dare each other to look at the spectacle originally written by Edgar Allen Poe or Mary Shelley. I would peer between my fingers which covered my eyes as my heart quickened and my stomach clenched in the inescapable mix of shock and horror. After a sleepless night of hearing the water trickle through the pipes in our family room thinking one of the undead crept around our scattered sleeping bags, I would rouse myself and smile looking forward to next week’s episode

Wikipedia defines Gothic fiction, sometimes referred to as Gothic horror, as a genre or mode of literature that combines elements of both horror and romance. When I think of authors of gothic horror the first to come to mind is Edgar Allen Poe. The Fall of the House of Usher(1839), The Pit and the Pendulum (1842), and The Telltale Heart (1843) are a few examples.

Many years before Poe was born, some of the early masters of the macabre were actually mavens. Ann Radcliffe first wrote The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne in 1789. This tale of a lonely woman included paranormal conventions interwoven with the very first vivid descriptions of nature. She gave natural explanations for the supernatural occurrences in her book making this genre acceptable for the first time in English society. She ended her chapters with cliff hangers keeping her readers flipping through pages.

1816 was known as “the year without a summer” for many in Europe. Mount Tambora erupted on an Indonesian island obscuring the sun for more for many months and creating a mini-ice age. Mary Shelley spent that summer in a villa on Lake Geneva, Switzerland with her husband Percy and friends including Lord Byron, and John Polidori.  Since the days were cold and nasty they spent many of them indoors reading ghosts stories. One day Lord Byron challenged each of them to write their own. Polidori created the vampire genre with the book, The Vampyre and Mary wrote Frankenstein.

Each author wrote gripping tales of suspense and terror keeping the reader on the edge of their seat. Speculation over their fascination with death and the supernatural in some cases seems obvious and in others not so much. Edgar Allen Poe’s mother was an actress who played Juliet when he was a young child. He found it confusing and upsetting to watch her die on stage every night. Eventually she succumbed to tuberculosis and died back stage. At 25 five years of age Poe married his 13-year-old cousin who died of the disease when she turned 25. Many historians believe that Poe’s tormented mind originated from the dread of contracting this white plague. He died mysteriously –most likely alcohol poisoning- at age 40.

Mary Shelley endured horrible headaches and passed away of a brain tumor at age 40 as well. Maybe that is why she came up with a monster made of bits and pieces from other bodies. She may have felt like getting a brain transplant!

I love that researchers couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary about little Ann Radcliffe.  She lived quietly with her husband and worked as an editor of The English Chronicle. She seems to have created these twisted tales without any documentation of torment, living until age 58. Her husband continued to support her writing by having the last of her work published after her death.

I have my own theory as to what motivated these authors. I began writing my own Gothic Fiction recently and can say that the thrill of writing them comes from being inside the character as I go through the process of typing out the words. No sooner have I set down the first sentence, does my own heart begin to race along with the story. Regardless of the personal fears the author may have had, I think they all enjoyed writing these thrillers just as much as their readers enjoyed reading them.

It is written that Ann Radcliffe passed the lonely cold winters writing her Gothic tales near a warm fireplace most likely feeling the grip of winter through the icy fingers of chilly drafts. My guess is she would have enjoyed our sleep-overs where we peeked out from our sleeping bags and glimpsed old black and white films of Frankenstein and Dracula. I wonder if Ann would enjoy Stephen King and what she would write if she were alive today.

Do you enjoy Gothic Fiction?

Who are your favorite authors today?

Illustration from Google  – Poe’s “The Raven” 

Stolen Regret


The biting wind struck Maeve’s frail body with force so she drew her mother’s thin red shawl around her shoulders tighter. She shivered remembering what she had done. The stunning ring had been lying on Mrs. Carver’s bedside table along with her yellowed false teeth which floated in a glass of water. She moved the tumbler and dusted, then slipped the ruby ring into her pocket.

Trudging home on the icy path through the shadowy forest, the weight of the stone spun the ring around her thin finger. When the vagrant grabbed her from behind, it flew into the gloom.


After a long cold winter, sun-filled days thawed the frozen earth and birds migrated back from their winter respite. A squirrel sprung from his warm leaf-lined den in the trunk of an ancient oak. With pangs of hunger he dove to the forest floor and dug for buried acorns. A bright glint like crimson berries caught the attention of his black beady eyes and he hopped through the decomposing leaves hoping for an edible treasure. Cocking his head to one side he gazed at the ruby ring. An ebony crow swooped down and snatched it up with its hooked beak.


“What are you afraid of Chelsea? Ghosts?” Jack taunted. Mary and Thomas giggled, but the tales about the woman in the woods and the thought of meeting down there at midnight to have a séance made her flesh crawl.

The moon hung like a fingernail clipping over the old Carver house where the remaining shards of glass in the windows seemed like a menacing grin.

The rhythmic crunching of their footsteps on the path into the dense forest kept time with the banging in her chest. Jack found an old oak and the four friends settled underneath its gnarled branches.


Maeve floated through the forest on the wings of the gust’s frosty breath twisting with the wailing wind. Like so many nights before this, she found herself on that muddy path with the ruby ring heavy on her finger like the weight of guilt on her soul. Sometimes she caught glimpses of others completely unaware. Other times they seemed alarmed then faded into the gray snowy night.

Tonight the pull at her core caused a ferocious velocity of writhing. She whipped towards the foursome dislodging something from the old oak which fell between them.

Return it!” Maeve howled with wind.  


Hell Hath No Fury… Flash Fiction

He looked at the angry sky and wondered if tomorrow would ever come. The tremors had been felt for days now and he had been warned. With an aching knot deep in his gut he knew the time for action had passed. Surrounded by hissing, steam escaped from moist vents like vipers in a pit. He stepped around them. It was hard to tell where the land and sky met as they combusted with the same infernal heat.  Like molten lead, heaven and earth had opened up becoming liquefied, dueling in a fight to the death. “It won’t happen again.”

Photo by S. Lindau

Can you figure it out? It is a riddle…

Lost – Flash Fiction Friday – 666 words

Nikki had hiked for hours certain the trail had been just ahead of her, but it was no use. She was lost. The sound of the river had been her guide and now she heard nothing but the crunching of leaves and twigs under her hiking boots and the blood pounding in her ears. Haunting evergreens with branches at odd angles towered over her like giants. She checked her cell again, but still didn’t have service. “Damn it!” A flash of lightning followed by thunder rang out through the canyon. Her water bottle was emptied  hours ago. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise in warning. Just behind her she heard rustling in the underbrush.

She began to run and stumbled, but caught her balance before falling. Nikki looked back over her shoulder and whatever it was, gained speed and was closing in. The sight of a flickering light which danced through the dense thicket gave her hope and she sprinted faster. The blisters on her heels opened up, but she forced her way through the pain. As she approached, she could see the light which seemed to pulsate through the small window of an old shack.

She ran up to the door and banged. “Please, let me in!”

With an aching thirst and fear of what lurked behind her, Nikki turned the door handle, spun around and slammed the door shut. She was overwhelmed by an unfamiliar acrid smell. She turned and gazed around the small cabin. Some kind of meat was cooking on a spit over an ancient-looking stone fireplace which cast a warm glow in the mid-evil room. The floor was covered with a sticky substance and a stench filled her nostrils. She drew closer to an old plank table filled with bowls of all sizes and a huge iron pot.

As she leaned over to peer inside she felt someone take hold of her arm from behind and moan. She screamed and searched for a weapon to defend herself. She grasped a brass candlestick and swung her head around. To her amazement she gazed upon a handsome man who let go of her and raised his arms to protect himself.

She dropped the candlestick which clanged to the floor and stepped backwards.

“I, I am sorry. I’m Nikki. Who are you?”

The tall man swiped long dark curls out of his eyes and began using sign language.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

There was a thud on the roof and a howl. The man scrambled across the room. He picked up a torch leaning against the wall and lit it in the fireplace. Nikki heard several heavy footsteps up above. Then she heard it jump to the ground and then strike the front door.

The man swung the door open and groaned while waving the torch around.

He came back inside and bolted the door shut.

Nikki trembled.

He ran across the room and snatched a notebook and pencil from a blue frame pack.

He wrote something down on the pad and showed it to her.

“My name is Kevin and I am mute. Where did you come from?”

“Denver. I came to hike for the day. I started early this morning, but got turned around and lost the trail. The trees are so unusual. I didn’t recognize the mountains in the distance before the sun set. Where are we?”

He scribbled again.

“I have no idea. I have been lost for over three years now. Every time I’ve tried to escape, I ended up back at this cabin.”

“What was that thing?”

“I have never seen it, but it is as real as you and me.”

As she read the notebook, the window flew open on its wrought iron hinges and a cold gust blew into the small room extinguishing the fire. Complete darkness engulfed her. She reached out and said, “Kevin?”

A bony hand as cold as ice clutched her wrist and she screamed, “AAAHHHHHH!”

When was the last time you were truly frightened?

Photo by S. Lindau

Flash Fiction Friday – The Hunter and The Hunted

The cool night struck my energized body with force, electrifying my hair follicles. The full moon cast long dappled shadows across the trodden path. A pungent scent of vermin and nervous perspiration mixed with death filled the heavy night air. A great horned owl hooted swooping in front of me, its wings leaving a rippled current in its wake. The north wind rattled branches of ancient oak trees while its leaves trembled like old hands. My heart beat wildly in my chest and I began to lope. My mouth salivated as I imagined the taste. It was a perfect night for hunting.

She knew she should have listened to her mother and taken the bus. It was farther home this way than she remembered. “Did I go the wrong way at the last fork in the road? Hadn’t I always veered to the right? Why doesn’t anything look familiar?” Her heart began pounding in her ears as a chill went down her spine. “It is getting so dark and…. Wait! What was that?” She heard branches snapping behind her. She whipped her head around to see, but there was nothing but a blackness that engulfed the path as if it was being devoured by darkness.

Photo by Madison Woods

From the creepy television series Twin Peaks

Facing Cliff Flash Fiction

In a response to Madison Woods‘ Friday Flash Fiction prompt, I have written two 100 word flash fiction stories inspired by this rock formation. Madison took this photograph and if double clicked, 4 faces can be seen peeking out from the rock. Can you find them?

A Fight for Life

The thin gown clung to her damp skin as a trickle of perspiration dripped between her breasts. She glanced at the rocky cliff wall searching the wizened old faces carved in rock and weathered over the years by wind and rain in hope of gaining enough strength to continue. A violent wave of excruciating pain struck her body leaving her weak and nauseous. She felt as though her insides were ripping apart.

“Now push!”

She bore down and pushed her baby boy into the world.

In the photo of the Sepulveda bluffs taped on the wall, the old men seemed to smile.

 Cherished Love

They had met at this picturesque spot many years ago. The morning light had set her azure blue eyes glinting like waves on the distant shore. With the touch of a simple handshake electricity coursed through his being and their souls entwined.

He looked at the rock formation and his throat closed up as he gazed in wonder at the ancient looking faces that had survived thousands of years. He had prayed for just one more. He opened the jar of ashes and released her into the gentle breeze.

“I love you!” he cried.

Can you see the faces? What do they seem to be saying to you?

Mirrored Vengeance


“Be careful of the woodwork!” Kathryn directed the moving men who lugged the heavily carved dresser up the stairs of her honeymooning daughter Allison and son-in-law Derrick’s house in San Francisco.  Once in place, across from the entry of the newlywed’s bedroom, they fastened the ornate mirror to the top of the dresser. Kathryn looked at her reflection in the diamond dust and brought her hand up to her mouth. “I wonder who sent this. What an usual wedding gift.” She looked at the stains on either side of the top drawer and made a mental note to try to have it repaired. She reached down to graze a manicured finger over the teeth of one of the carved heads which flanked the drawer and yelled, “Ouch! Why, I think it bit me!” Kathryn looked back at the mirrored dresser with a shiver.

The moving men laughed. “Yah, right!”

Two weeks later, Allison and Derrick arrived home in San Francisco. “I am going to check around the house and make sure everything is okay. Why don’t you lie down and I will order Chinese.” The three week honeymoon cruise left Allison empty inside.  What had she done? She wished she could wake up from this nightmare. She kept going over it in her head and felt too terrified to share the memory with anyone.

Her engagement to Derrick had been logical. He was handsome in a very Nordic way and a successful lawyer. He fit all the criteria she had made for the perfect mate except for one thing. He had hardly touched her. Allison thought of his old-fashioned sensibilities as cute, but as time went on, it had become frustrating.

A month before the wedding, Allison’s girlfriends called wanting her to get together with them to catch up. What started out as a simple girl’s night out soon escalated in a full out binge. After several rounds of cosmopolitans, she began to dance. She caught the eye of a dark dangerous looking man. She boldly grabbed him by the hand and the two of them danced. She had never felt this deep sexual attraction before and the dancing soon spiraled into an erotic grind and she could hardly control herself.

It was as if a different person emerged that night and took hold of Allison’s body. At that moment, she wanted and needed him more than anyone and the alcohol removed all inhibitions. Derrick was lost in the dark shadows of her mind, as she ditched her girlfriends and pulled him out of the bar. They barely made it into her nearby apartment before they stripped off their clothes, never making it to the bed.

She awoke on the floor, squinting against the blaring sun that streaked across her clothes scattered about the room. “What did I do?” The impact of regret hit her at the same time as the pounding headache that threatened to split her head in two. She reached over to her blouse and slipped it back on.

“Here. Drink this lovely lady.”

She gasped as she looked at the bare feet of the gorgeous man she had met last night working her way up slowly. In this light he looked older.

“Oh my God! What did I do?”

Tony reached out to help her off the floor and on to the couch.

The horror of what she had done slowly made its way to the cognitive part of her banging head and she began to shake.

He set down the coffee cup and began stoking her hair. “We had a great time. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I am engaged to be married next month!”


“Last night was a mistake. You need to go. Now!” She stormed over to the door.

“Hey! You couldn’t keep your hands off me,” Tony said knitting his brow and stepped towards her.

Allison stepped back not sure of what to do if he got violent. Her cell phone was in her purse across the room.

Then his eyes softened and he tried to embrace her.

She pushed him away. “Just go. Please.”

“You’ll change your mind.”

Tony reached over to kiss her and she turned her head. “I’ll call you.” He walked out the door and she locked it behind him.

Allison fell on the couch and sobbed until her girlfriends began calling wanting all the details about the night. She told them she got sick and Tony had walked her home.

This began a nightmare that went on until the wedding. Tony called her non-stop. She felt stalked, but because of the infidelity, she couldn’t tell a soul. She began staying at Derrick’s house in his spare bedroom. She would be moving in with him after the wedding anyway.

Finally, they were married and Allison took the first deep breath in weeks.

It was the first night on the cruise and Allison and Derrick had just finished their lobster dinner in the main dining room. Derrick didn’t feel well so they walked up to the ship’s deck.

“I think I’ll go back to the room. Do you mind?” Derrick asked. They had planned to go dancing afterward.

“No. Go right ahead. I think I might stay out here and enjoy the fresh air.”

As she stared at the moon’s reflection on the water, she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Did you miss me?”

Allison gasped and whipped her head around and saw Tony dressed in a black tuxedo. “What are you doing here?”

 “You don’t love him. You love me.” Tony pulled her close and she could smell alcohol on his breath.

“You’re hurting me!” Allison tried to rush past him but he staggered towards her and grabbed her arm.

“Stop!” They struggled and Allison used her leg for leverage. With all her strength she pushed him away. He tripped over her, wheeling around just as the ship hit a swell, lost his balance, and fell over the railing into the black ocean below.

She saw his head bob twice and then disappear with a rolling wave.

“Help! Help me!” Allison screamed, but no one responded. She seemed to turn to stone as she stared out into the ocean. It seemed like hours before Allison staggered back to the room.

For the rest of the honeymoon, Allison’s secrets weighed her down as if Tony still held her tightly in his grip.


After a quiet trip back to San Francisco, Allison felt relieved to be home.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she was struck by her own reflection in the mirrored dresser. Her mother had told her of its mysterious arrival. Unblinking, it drew her into the room. Something about it attracted and repelled her. She stepped into the bedroom and the diamond dust luster began to glow from an unknown source. A cold sweat broke out all over her body and she shuddered with dread.


Allison stared into the mirror and it began replaying the events of the last month in its refection. As the images progressed, they became projected in front of her. She stepped back appalled at what she saw. She gazed at the image of Tony and her dancing at the bar and later having sex at the apartment. “No!” she murmured, shaking her head. Then she saw herself struggle with him, sending him over the edge into the sea. She did nothing to save him. Allison screamed, “No! No! No!” She continued backing up towards the stairway and her heel caught the top step. She tumbled down, breaking her neck in the fall.

“That should do it!”

The moving men tied off the last rope in the van and slammed the door. Under the packing blankets the mirror began to glow. It sifted through all the reflections it had collected over the last 150 years held within the diamonds. The carvings began to writhe. Blood trickled down the front of the bureau out of the mouths of the carved gargoyles.

 All photos by S. Lindau

The photo of the reflection is in an original diamond dust mirror!