A Heart of Ice

Published on p. 43 of the Midwinter Special by Three Drops from a Cauldron


“Thank you.” Rosalie leaned forward and grabbed Lea’s hand. “For everything.”


Lea regarded her sister’s swollen belly. The father, a good for nothing prospector, had cut town months ago. “It’s nothing,” Lea shrugged. But it was something. After years of being ignored by her beautiful older sister, Lea finally felt needed. After years of loneliness, her little cabin would finally be filled with the warmth and laughter only a child could bring.


Rosalie smiled. “You have a beautiful heart.” Picking up her needles, she swiftly added another line of stitches to the tiny sweater taking shape on her lap.


Lea snatched up her bearskin coat and hat and strode toward the door. “I need to check the traps.”


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Published in Youth Imagination Magazine,  with reprints in Strange Constellations and FrostFire Worlds


The hairs on the back of Symonne’s neck stood at attention. No doubt about it, someone was following her. The wind whispered warnings, carrying the sound of leaves crunching underfoot to her wary ears. She curled her finger’s tightly around the handle of her bucket in anticipation.


She had known something was wrong the moment she stepped outside, but she pressed onward, forcing her shoulders to relax while her senses strained for clues. Locking herself indoors would have been a death sentence, for the weathered, crumbling walls of the little hut where she lived with her father were...


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Black Sands and Blue Eyes

Published in Strange Fictions


Sy knew the rumors about Talia were true the instant she raised her arms and twirled into the surf. The water witch had to be part nymph, to be able to move like that.


Decan grunted appreciatively and took a nip from his flask. The two warlocks sat in the cliffs above the beach, in an alcove between two boulders that offered an impressive view of the shoreline. Black sand stretched for miles in either direction, interrupted by spits of land that reached out into the water like crooked fingers.



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The Belles of the Brawl

Published in The Saturday Evening Post

The football game is the place to be in Huntsville on Friday night, but my sorry butt isn’t in those bleachers. Blair guilt-tripped me into babysitting Grandma instead. So here I am, stuck in a muggy warehouse on the outskirts of town, biding my time while “Gram” hangs out with her friends.


The crowd erupts in a chorus of cheers and boos. I close my eyes and rub my temples, reminding myself that I’m doing the right thing. “Your grandma isn’t as young as she thinks she is,” Blair said as she packed the minivan just a few hours earlier. “I’m counting on you to look out for her.” The kiss of death came when she gave me the look. You know, the one moms everywhere use to make you feel all crappy and selfish for wanting to do your own thing.


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