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By the time Clara finished retching up the last of the belladonna and undergoing something called “gastric wash,” dawn had already broken; by the time Edward was stitched, packed with gauze, and transferred to a proper ward, the sun was high; and by the time two uniformed officers from the York County Sheriff’s Department requested statements, the hospital smelle...
The trees at the edge of the woods loomed black against the molten gold of sunset. The last of the day clung stubbornly to the horizon, staining the sky like dying embers, while the shadows beneath the branches were already deepening into something inkier and hungrier. The air smelled of wet earth and old leaves as the group gazed into a forest that had nearly swallo...
For many authors, the writing bug attacks us when we’re young. Indie author Marcelina LoBue has had the writing bug for years… But she’s still young herself! This teenage author published her first book just after fifth grade, and she hasn’t slowed down since. ...
The inn had gone still hours ago.
Most of the other guests were asleep, and the soft hush of midnight had settled over the hallways like dust. Only the muted ticking of a lobby clock and the occasional groan of the old pipes broke the silence.
Clara sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, sorting through the scrapbook she’d filled with left...
“Silence fell again, thick and unnatural.
And somewhere in the dark, the last vestige of the family I thought I had cracked and fell away, taking my childhood with it.”