I’m going to start a new thing where I’ll post a cozy fantasy short fiction each day to warm your heart. So here it goes -

The elven maiden beckoned the weary travelers home. All they had to do now was pass through the portal to the elf kingdom of Reh Belanore. Aelrius looked forward to seeing his sister again and having a cup of her specially made Morning Sun tea that calmed the soul. They’d catch up while lounging on her balcony overlooking Lilypad Lagoon where tiny fae flitted from flower to flower. It was good to be home.

Free image from Pixabay

I will NEVER get over the fact that I can write stories. Like I can weave threads of whimsy in a whole new world and make people feel things if I weave them well enough???? Stories are worth so much!!! Lines of poetry are literally currency to me like I get to write little lines and then writing little lines helps me notice things when I read other peoples' lines????? Magic! Whimsy! Characters! Words! Words! Words!

New shory story is up in cozy fantasy lit mag Tales & Feathers! It is a short story abt displacement, family, home, and identity told in a framework abt a a lesbian dryad and a lesbian necromancer (and death doula)

you can find my other work at www.kwamesounddaniels.com!

All The Creatures Were Stirring

Original Cozy, Queer Fiction. Rated T. 10k words. Supportive Family, Found Family, Asexuality Rep/Romance Read in Full: cgaubrey.com

When the Halloween Knight goes missing, misfit hearth witch, Merry Claus (yes, that Claus) must team up with their mercurial steed to find Hallow and save Halloween.

‘Twas the Night of All Hallows and through the Dark Wood All the Creatures Were Stirring as well that they should.

Merry Claus was born a frightening nearly eight weeks early, on what would have been Halloween night if Christmas Town had such. She was very like every other Claus in a hundred generations–face pleasingly round, moon-pale, red-cheeked, and dimpled—and she laughed twice before she ever once cried. Her hair was so wild and wispy that she always needed a cap, but it wasn’t the rainbow-white of new-fallen snow, it was the color of cobwebs and dreams of wood smoke. The shape of her eyes was the same as her father’s, wide and wondering, but they did not twinkle as a good Claus’s should. Instead, they gleamed darkly, deep as a scrying mirror.

In time, Merry grew as plump as her parents, with her father’s strong shoulders and her mother’s broad hands, and she was as ever stalwart, loving, and true. But it became quickly obvious to everyone that she would never be fully happy at the North Pole. The Winter Forest was too quiet. Faced with perpetual hibernation, most creatures had chosen a warmer clime, and Merry, who read every wildlife book she could find, loved every creature, great and small, beautiful and terrible. So much so that she was lonely for them. She tried making friends among the arctic creatures, but they were shy or more solitary even than she. And after the incident with the polar bear, her poor parents had no choice but to keep her close to home, which meant she had only the reindeer, and the chickens, and her mother’s two turtle doves.

None of whom wanted to abscond on fright-night adventures with the young cobweb-haired witch of Christmas Town.

Merry did her best to fit in, though that was never demanded of her. No Santa worth his snow, her father always said, would repeat the mistakes of Rudolph’s. Still, Merry didn’t mind wearing the family’s traditional red. It was as dramatic as any vampire cape and layered well with autumn plaids. And she shared her mother’s love of baking, of cinnamon and spice. No one ever complained that she added pumpkin to every recipe, or carved spooky silhouettes into her pie crusts.

When the elves baked Winter Solstice cookies, Merry iced the stars in orange, the moon in harvest yellow with black shadows flying before it: witches and bats, ravens and owls. The elves laughed good-naturedly, asked if she had gotten lost, but her parents would not let anyone correct her.

“That would imply,” said Father Christmas sternly, “that she had done anything wrong.”

But Merry would realize that she was different, even if different didn’t mean wrong. 

[Continue Reading For Free on My Website]

Follyglass : Gate

The warnings already rang loudly in my mind, and if one didn’t already know and was drawn to a pretty park in which to while away a morning, there was a bold sign attached to the wrought iron gate – a bit chipped but still legible – ‘exit the same way you entered, or you will be forever changed’

It was said that the grove was cursed by a lavender witch. It was said that the warning sign was true.

Still, I entered, though my heartbeat seemed to pause when I passed the iron. With only a few steps in, the grove grew larger around me, trees and bushes sprung up and slid around dizzyingly and the path I was on split and braided away from me. Without really meaning to, I glanced back, and could only see the very top curl of the wrought iron gate I had just passed through. It felt a days’ hike away. This was a much bigger endeavor than I had previously thought, and the fear of taking the wrong path struck at my breast, but I quickly remembered that fear was what first drove me to the grove and pushed me through the gate to begin with.

With determination steeling me I pressed on and walked for hours, picking the paths that felt the most true. The darkness eventually sunk me into shadow, and I grumbled at myself for not bringing string or crumb or light or map. Was there even a map? Forests have a funny way of misleading you, especially when darkness slides within it. Eventually, sleep overcame my logic and sense of direction, and I nestled in the mossy hollow at the base of an oak, amongst the acorns and autumn leaves.

When the sky began to blue – a color beautiful in its frail defiance – I could see the silhouette of a gate not far from where I was. The gate was not the curl of wrought iron, instead, it was simple picket, but still had the warning sign attached ‘Exit the same way you entered, or you will be forever changed.’

Curses are funny things. If you hold them up a certain way, they shift their form, and some see a key.

I strode through the picket, because it was exactly what I had yearned for, and the fear that I had taken with me to the grove fell away like the gates behind me.

All sales are final...

I didn’t expect to see him on my doorstep.

“All sales are final,” I said, shutting the door before he could speak.

“Wait!” He shoved a booted foot in the gap, the oak slab crushing his toes. “I only want to talk.”

I opened the door, releasing his foot back to him.

“Moira.”

I shook my head. “You gave up permission to call me that.”

He sighed. “Miss Delaney.”

“Better.”

“The potion…”

“... is fake,” I interrupted him. “I told you. Some herbs and spices. A dash of honey to make it go down smoothly. At the most, it might cure your bad breath.”

“It wasn’t for me.” He lowered his chin. “She wanted it, thought it might strengthen our love.”

“She’s a fool.”

“Well...”

“You’re a fool,” I added. “Go home. Back to your lovely house and lovely girl and all the riches she’s brought you.”

“Moira,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

My hand went to the latch. “Go home, Finn.”

“I should’ve never left you,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t stand to be poor anymore, to toil and slog my way through life.”

I nodded along with his words. “And I gave you nothing,” I said. “Except everything I had.”

“You mix concoctions.” His lip curled upwards. “You’ve no real power, no skill with charms. And I was to work my fingers to the bone, for both of us?”

“You’re right.” I looked down, a study in penitence. “I’ve no skill with charms.”

“Moira, I—”

A whisper from my lips, and he diminished. A plop on the doorstep, and there he sat, all soft black feathers and pointed beak and two small wings.

“No skill with charms at all.” I scooped up the bird. “But this is a transformation spell. And if you were smart, you would’ve learned to tell the difference.”

Hello! My short story, "The Coffee Bar on 72nd Street," was recently (i.e., today) published. It's now available to read--for free!--in the link below.

I had a really fun time writing this story. Most stories I've written, long and short, have had a lot of action and high stakes, but I wanted to do something a little different this time. Something more chill, you know? And there TOTALLY isn't anything strange happening at the coffee bar. No sir, not at all. 😉

Please enjoy. 🧡☕️

The Guardian of the Emerald Sea

The man hadn’t been dead for long. His body sat, lifeless, propped up against a tree. Were it not for the gruesome wound in his chest and the dried blood one could be forgiven for thinking he was simply sleeping. Across his lap lay a beautiful sword. It’s jeweled pommel gleaming in the midmorning sun and casting a blazing rainbow of radiance across the trees.

All around the man the wood was quiet, as if in reverence. No birdsong or buzzing insect dare break the serenity of this warrior’s final rest. Then, abruptly, the crunching and crashing of a heavy body. Heavy, furred paws padded through the reverent quiet, uncaring of any meaning it may hold. There was meat to be had, and if that meant breaking some quiet to get at it, then that’s what the bear would do. It had been a while since it had tasted meat, and this wasn’t so old that the flavor was off yet. The bear poked it’s snout toward the corpse and raised a heavy clawed paw to begin tearing when it heard a sound. A strange muffled noise that made no sense to it. The sound hung in the air all around the bear and it raised it’s head looking for the source. It let out a brief, cautioning growl. A ploy to scare away anything coming for it’s meat, but the sound persisted. 

Then, all at once, the sound became understanding.

“Perhaps this will help you to understand what I’m saying?” a voice said to the bear. The bear’s ears perked up and it looked around, warily. “Ah, finally. The wells of my knowledge may be bottomless, but I still had to delve further than I expected to find a way to speak that you would understand.” the voice said, clearly proud of itself. The bear’s scan of the forest continued, and it began to back away from the corpse. “No, no, no. Stop leaving this instant.” The voice was impatient. Annoyed. “If you are seeking that which speaks these words into your pitiful brain, then look no further. I lay before you.” The bear stared at the corpse, dead, unmoving. It cocked it’s head and raised a paw to scratch behind it’s ear before turning to leave. Clearly meat was not worth this much bother. It began to walk away, entertaining thoughts of finding a nice stream where some fish may be swimming unaware. The voice spoke again, “You damnable beast. Come HERE.” This time the sound was like a thundercrack and the bear, startled by the sudden jolt of violent noise, turned, fangs bared, back toward the corpse at the tree. “I...apologize. I am unaccustomed to conversing with creatures that require such...concrete explanations.” The voice’s tone was softer now, kinder. “I did not speak in jest when I told you I lay before you. It is merely that I am not the pitiable husk propped up against this ancient elm. I am the vision of magnificence laid across his lap.” The bear approached the sword cautiously. “Yes, now we are appearing to understand one another. However, you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. It is improper for one to be asked to hold a conversation all on their lonesome. Would you be so kind as to come a bit closer?” The bear was unsure what to do next and began to root around the corpse’s lap. In passing, it’s rough, wet nose bumped against the sword’s grip and in an instant the understanding became knowing. “Aha!” the sword exclaimed, “There is potential in you yet. Lift me up, that I might commune with you more clearly. It appears that I am not the only one with a vast depth of knowledge. However, where mine is free and easily aCK-” The sword’s words were cut off in an instant as the bear took the grip within it’s jaws.

All at once it was like a vast universe of sights, sounds, and experiences was laid bare before the bear. It looked around and took in the forest with new eyes. Those creatures in the sky, they were called birds. Their noise, their...song...merely a way to make themselves known and attract mates. This man who had been laying against the tree was dead. Killed by a grievous injury to his chest. The bear’s head was spinning with this intoxicating burst of knowledge. The breadth of this new “knowing” seemed infinite. But as the bear continued to take in this awakening the sword spoke once more. 

“UnHAND me you damnable beast. I am the Steward of the Green. The sword who must be given to the Guardian of the Emerald Sea!”

“I...am, sorry.” the bear replied, all at once amazed at his own ability to communicate as the sword did. “I was not the same...thing I am now when I picked you up.” The sword fell from the bear’s mouth and clattered on the knotted roots jutting out of the dirt at his feet. 

“BE CAREFUL!” the sword shouted at the bear once more. This time, rather than alarm and anger, the bear felt something new. Contrition. The sword continued, “I cannot be given to the Guardian if I am destroyed in the process of finding them.” the bear kept his head low and considered the words that the sword had said. 

“Yes.” The bear finally responded, “I was careless. But if you want me to carry you it will have to be in my mouth.” 

Steward was scandalized by this response. “Impossible! I won’t have it. The Steward of the Green, caked in your spittle and mucus? Pah!”

The bear blinked and nodded solemnly. “Then I must leave you here. I thank you for the gift that you have given me though. I wish there were something I could do to return the favor.” With that the bear turned to venture into a new world. “Wait…” Steward’s voice trailed behind the bear. “Perhaps I was hasty. I have been mussed before and I should not be difficult to clean. I have reconsidered your offer and find it beneficial to the both of us.” The sword’s words were cloying in their sweetness. The bear smiled to itself, something that came natural though it was unsure how exactly it knew how to do so.

“In that case,” the bear lifted Steward into his mouth, gripping it tightly but being careful not to damage the fine leather grip, “I am happy to be your escort through these woods.” The bear began to walk deeper into the forest, awaiting instruction from the sword. The instruction never came. “Pardon me, Steward…”

“Steward of the Green, if you please.” the sword responded, haughtily.

“Either way” The bear responded, feeling the faintest claws of irritation begin to pick at his good mood. “Where are we going?” The sword’s response was no more than silence. The bear continued to walk, perfectly content to give the sword the time it needed. After a few minutes the bear asked again. “Steward, where would you have me take you?”

“Erm…” the sword stammered, struggling to find it’s response “Despite the largesse of my majesty and the sheer expanse of understanding at my disposal…” Steward trailed off again. “Well, I don’t know where we go from here.”

The bear continued his pace, relaxing it slightly. “Alright.” the bear began, “Then how is the way that you have chosen new Guardians in the past?” The bear’s question was a simple one, and the sword’s silence felt strange. The sword was not new, and it clearly knew what must be done. Why could it not simply tell the bear where to go?

The walk continued in silence for a few more minutes before the bear began to hum to itself. It had never hummed before and the experience was a pleasant one, though what the bear hummed it could not have said. “Please, bear.” Steward said, breaking the silence between the two, “If you could cease your intonation I would be much obliged. The vibration through your teeth tickles, and I find that there is nothing I can do about it.”

The bear stopped walking and looked skyward. “Curious.” It said aloud, “You called me bear just now. Is that my name?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what your name is, or if bears carry the sophistication to even take a name.” the sword said flatly. “That makes sense. Perhaps I will call you Sword, then.” The bear mused.

“You will do no such thing!” The sword’s tone was back to lofty irritation now, “I have told you my name and you should use it as such. I am the Steward of the Green and my mission is of dire importance.”

“Hmm.” The bear wondered aloud, “Then perhaps I shall need to take a name myself.” The bear considered this for a while longer as the two walked, “Steward. You said your mission is of dire importance. But you don’t know how to complete it?”

The sword sat in a stung silence before finally answering, “In the past…” it began, carefully “It was they who found me within the Emerald Sea who were chosen as the Guardian.”

“Ah.” The bear replied, “But there was no one who found you this time.”

“That is correct.” Steward said “But, that isn’t entirely true. Is it?” The bear was onto something now, and Steward feared he knew precisely what it was. “I found you, didn’t I?” 

“Well, yes. But…” The sword struggled with a proper response

“And this gift you’ve given me. It has given me the wisdom that one might need in the role of Guardian.” “It’s not like that…” The sword floundered

“So it only makes sense that, if the first one to find you, who also gains the wisdom of the woods by picking you up, is me. Then-” The bear was enjoying itself now, “That means that I am the new Guardian of the Emerald Sea.”

The sword went silent again for a short time. The bear waited patiently for Steward’s response, and when nothing came it began to hum again. “Damnation, Bear. FINE.” The sword’s exasperated response came much to the bear’s delight. “Yes. You are the Guardian of the Emerald Sea now. The Swordbearer of the Wood. The Protector of the Denizens of the Forest. Are you happy now?”

The bear continued to walk in silence, and Steward sat in agitation waiting to hear what it’s new bearer would say. But no answer came and the sword began to grow anxious. Still it waited, and still the bear trudged along seemingly oblivious to his new role.

“That’s it!” the bear shouted, dropping Steward in the process. The sword hit the ground with a soft thud and was quickly scooped back up in the bear’s gentle jaws. “What is it you blasted creature? What could have been so groundbreaking that it necessitated you dropping me? Again!” Steward’s frustrated response was largely undercut by the reassured tone in its voice to have finally heard from its new lifelong companion. The bear stopped and held his head up high. “Well, the Guardian of the Emerald Sea should have a name right?” The bear asked.

“I would say so. Else those titles should feel hollow to be borne by one who cannot be referred to anything but them.” Steward was curious now.

“Then I want it to be Bjorne.” The bear’s voice bore no signs of hesitation. Steward’s grip grew warmer in Bjorne’s mouth and the bear continued his pace, now with greater purpose in each stride.

“Very well.” Steward replied. “Bjorne it is”

“Bjorne and Steward” The bear said aloud, “The Steward of the Green and it’s Swordbear.”

“I believe it is supposed to be ‘Sword BearER’” The sword said. “I know.” Bjorne replied simply, a smile creasing his face once more.

Sneaking in here before #Shabbat to remind everyone that today’s #FictionFriday release has been delayed.

New dates are pending! The next short will be released in February, so stay tuned for those updates!

#Shabbat shalom, darlings!!

More details here:

https://writinglynn.com/accepting-my-own-neurodivergence/

Get an early holiday treat!

It’s almost that time of year. Are you craving cozy winter stories? We have a surprise for you! For those who have purchased Trials of the Innermost, we want to send you a free advanced reader copy (ARC) of our new short story, The Lady’s Crownbearer.

Fill out the form at the link below, showing proof of purchase of Trials of the Innermost (such as a picture of your physical copy, kindle receipt, etc.) and we’ll send you a copy of the short story before it’s available on December 1st to the public! Read on for the story’s description.

It’s like Christmas and May Day fused together in this cozy fantasy adventure short story.

As the finishing winds blow and the weather turns colder, Kilahym the bard arrives at his hometown to perform for the Day of Laphrim celebration. His friend and peer, Ansgar, is there to make sure everything goes according to plan—but Ansgar has a nose for trouble. Amidst the scent of honeyed nuts and revelers weaving ribbons around a tree, a plot is afoot. When Kilahym’s performance doesn’t go as planned, Ansgar seizes the moment and leads him in pursuit of a legendary creature. Will they find something magical in the forest, or will something find them instead?

Step into the world of Etherea in a winter holiday short story set before the events of the novel Trials of the Innermost. Readers of the Etherea Cycle will see the character Kilahym before he was chosen for the Trials, and the loveable rogue Ansgar.

This cozy fantasy adventure is packed with sass, charm, and magic. If you enjoy the cozy fantasy in things such as Legends and Lattes, and the winter holiday vibes in The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe then this story is for you!

You can also preorder it now!

I'm On a Podcast!

In which the writer does a podcast and has loads of fun!

My writing dreams just keep coming true. A friend of mine has a wonderful podcast, called “Tales from the Trunk.” Hilary brings writers on to read stories that didn’t make it to submission and talk about their writing processes among other things. They had some openings in their schedule for season four of the podcast and were gracious enough to have me on to talk about cozy fiction, patience…

View On WordPress

Cover reveal for my book, Spell & the Heart, a cozy fantasy short story collection of fairytale and mythology retellings. This book, specifically tailored for the Kindle short reads category of one to two hours, is perfect for a relaxing afternoon read. Available now for preorder on Amazon. Releases April 30th https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BZN45BXG?ref_=pe_3052080_276849420

In response to criticism of your writing, be aware there is always a way to make something work even if your critics say it's insane to try. It's always always about the execution.

"Too descriptive?" "Too purple?" Try reading Robin McKinley or Patricia McKillip and tell me description and flowery writing can't work.

"Too low-stakes?" The entire field of cozy fantasy laughs at the very idea. Check out Legends and Lattes if you haven't yet.

"Not enough description?" I used to read Patricia Wrede books where I still to this day don't know what anyone looks like. Don't care.

"Too violent/gross?" The field of horror would like a word.

"Too unoriginal?" Baby, people are still writing the same tropes and getting published. Tiktok loves that stuff, as I understand it.

"Too long?" Have you seen Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell? That puppy was a debut!

"Too short?" Flash fiction. Short stories. Novellas.

I could keep going. The point is, it's not what you do that makes your writing sing but HOW you do it.

Unfortunately, figuring out how can take a lifetime!

Different Genres, Different Fight Scenes.

Romance

No real gore; write entertaining fight scenes with an illusion of reality

Avoid excessive arobatics or feats of unbelievable strength. Stay realistic - describe the weather, how the ground feels.

Add a layer of erotic tension.

Use injuries as opportunities to test the hero and heroine's relationship, for displaying touching and tender care.

Fight scenes in romance tend to be short (<700w)

Where there are several fight scenes: (1) he comes to her rescue - (2) she comes to his rescue (3) together they fight in the final showdown.

Fantasy

Fantasy fight scenes will primarily be enertaining, but have considerable grit.

Since readers needs to retain their suspense of disbelief in dragons, fairies, unicorns, etc. it helps to keep fights realistic.

Heroes will be skilled in using the weapon of their choice, and he climax of the fight will be prolonged, detailed and technically precise.

Science Fiction

Invent a special weapon for your book. To make it plausible, take a real-life weapon and extrapolate.

To make it interesting, the weapon will have a critical flaw or have consequences to the user which will make the plot more interesting.

Thriller

Fight scene in thrillera are very gritty, with real violence and gore. There will be several injuries and death.

However, the hero will also show off his skill in prolonged fight scenes, making it entertaining.

The suspense section is typically long

The hero will often have advanced level fighting skills.

Horror

As long as the blood is plot relevant, readers will want to see gore and grit.

The suspense and aftermath sections will be long, with unexpected twists that gets the hero behind his back.

Cozy Mystery

Cozy mystery won't have too much fighting involved, but if it does it will be be short.

Focus on how the hero struggles towards the next clue as a result of the fight rather than on the fight itself.

Historical

Fight in historical novels can be anything between entertaining and gritty.

Consider the periodic background, tech level, and relative wealth of your fighters before you give them weapons and armour.

In period where life expectancy was shorter and violence was more commonplace, your heros will be less bothered about seeing death, gory gutting, or having children in battle. Less qualms about killing.

In most periods and societies women didn't fight, and you must come up with a plausible backstory for her.

Literary

Either the fight takes place off stage or it is shown in all its realistic brutality.

Literary fight scenes are gritty and short.

You will choose to focus on the aftermath - play up the tragic, sinful, meaninglessness, etc. of violence for the reader and how it affects your hero's psyche.

Young Adult

YA fight scenes are entertaining, but it can escalate to be very scary.

he plot often revolves around he protagnoist performing implausible feats of fighting, often with exceptional martial arts skills.

Choose whatever martial arts teenagers find "cool" and build up your knowledge about it.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

reading for fun

reading is such a wonderful way to escape into different worlds, learn new things, and relax, but sometimes it can feel like a chore. here are some tips to help you rediscover the joy of reading:

find what interests you: start by exploring genres, authors, and topics that genuinely pique your interest. whether it's mystery, romance, fantasy, or non-fiction, there's something out there for everyone. don't be afraid to try new things and see what resonates with you.

set aside dedicated time: carve out time in your day specifically for reading, whether it's in the morning with a cup of coffee, during your lunch break, or before bed. by making it a regular part of your routine, you'll be more likely to stick with it and enjoy the process.

create a cozy reading nook: find a comfortable spot where you can curl up with a good book and immerse yourself in the story. add some soft blankets, fluffy pillows, and ambient lighting to create a cozy atmosphere that invites relaxation and focus.

ditch the guilt: let go of any pressure to read certain books or meet arbitrary reading goals. reading should be a source of pleasure, not stress. give yourself permission to read at your own pace and savor each page without worrying about finishing quickly or keeping up with others.

join a book club or reading community: connecting with others who share your love of reading can be incredibly motivating and enriching. join a book club, participate in online forums, or follow bookish accounts on social media to discover new recommendations, discuss your favorite books, and connect with fellow bookworms.

mix it up: don't feel like you have to stick to traditional novels or lengthy tomes. explore different formats, such as short stories, graphic novels, poetry collections, or audiobooks. variety is the spice of life, and experimenting with different formats can keep things fresh and exciting.

embrace the power of rereading: revisiting old favorites can be just as rewarding as discovering new ones. reread beloved books from your childhood or revisit classics that have stood the test of time. you may be surprised by how much you enjoy rediscovering familiar stories and characters.

remember, reading is all about pleasure and personal enrichment, so don't stress about meeting quotas or reading the "right" books. focus on finding joy in the process and allowing yourself to get lost in the wonderful world of words. happy reading!

Follyglass : Plums

Mrs. Rimpleton’s eyes had just begun to close when the doorbell rang. Of course she wasn’t going to answer it, the hour was much too late and she wasn’t expecting anyone. Though she did edge her face to the window, enough to watch someone disappear around the hedge. Or perhaps into the hedge, she couldn’t tell.

She waited what she considered an appropriate amount of time, then she opened her front door. There on her welcome mat was a small but crisply wrapped basket of fruit. Within the cellophane there were two ruby plums, two peridot plums, and two pearl plums. But there wasn’t a name, either to or from.

Such a fantastic gift was clearly not meant for her, since she was allergic to plums.

So, she threw on a robe and her scuffy slippers and set about bothering the neighbors- ‘many apologies, but might this be yours?’ Of those that did answer the door, - it was late, mind- nobody confessed to be in search of or in need of their midnight plum delivery, ‘as if such a thing existed,’ she laughed to the Smitsons.

So, Mrs. Rimpleton brought the basket into her house, and seemed to notice a prickly feeling coming in at her heels. It seemed to feel quite like she was making a promise that she wasn’t entirely sure she could keep.

And then she set the plums down on the counter and went upstairs to join her dearest, who was already snoring.

The next morning before sunrise, the Rimpleton’s dog, Toast, needed a walk. So, all three of them shuffled out into the summer morning coolness.

While Toast snuffled at the weeds, Mr. Rimpleton raised his eyebrows as he listened to his wife’s previous night’s adventures. He was happy about the plums. They were a small joy when he woke hungry, greedy, and he eagerly ate two of the plums before his wife came downstairs.

Their dog lead them on a path that rimmed the edge of the woods, and when Mrs. Rimpleton finally noticed Toast staring into the oaks, she listened. Beyond the finches’ song, and through the cool deep green, there seemed to be…something. A lack? Could a lack of something be a thing? As if a balloon was set into a sink full of water, the lack of sound seemed to be the air that was being pressed at by the balloon and the surrounding water.

Her husband asked her “you hear that music, too, don’t you? Weird instrument. Stringy and hollow, like some kind of flute…harp?”

She did not hear it, though she tried. And when Toast tugged at his leash, she turned to see what had caught his attention now but found only a chipmunk causing the grasses to dance. When she turned back to answer her husband, he was gone.

The forest’s breath was cool. And Toast had quieted, lowering his head.

Mrs. Rimpleton took Toast home and consulted her husband’s pie crust recipe - so much butter! - and turned the oven on. At nine am, she had a crimson slice of plum pie, still warm, too sweet, and she waited. The linen curtains billowed with the cool breath of the forest, and it was then that she could hear the music.

She patted Toast and said, “I’ll be back with your dad before the postman drops off the bills,” and she disappeared. This, she knew, was a promise she could keep.