Merryweather

Charmy could find a beat in anything. It’s why she was such a great percussionist, and it’s why Mr. Luger begged her to join the marching band in eighth grade.  But she couldn’t find a beat in the beep of Aurora’s heart monitor.  Hospitals run on rhythm, but as Charmy rested her head in her

Mr. R.

Ari stood with the phone pressed to her ear, though the caller had already hung up. Her hands shook as she suppressed the mounting panic and welling tears. The bell above the pawn shop’s door rang out, announcing a customer. Her troubles would have to wait. Inhaling deeply, she choked on the unpleasant scent of

The Curse of the Lioness

It was a day full of peculiarities. Rose’s rusted teakettle was crying bucketfuls of tears with great heaves in the corner of the kitchen. Above her head, leather-bound books flapped from shelf to shelf with more volition than usual, causing Rose to duck and cover while scrubbing the floor and doing the dishes. Outside of