Short Story Sunday: Garlands and Glühwein (Part 3: The Conclusion)

Amelia was stacking her packets of Lebkuchen, roasted almond brittle and marzipan sweets on the makeshift counter of her stall. She tried not to check her watch for the umpteenth time. Ella had left for the lot more than an hour before and neither hair nor hide of her had been seen since. She hadn't even been on her phone, according to the "last seen" time stamp. It's not that Amelia was worried. On the contrary, she was excited.

Short Story Sunday: Garlands and Glühwein

Jonas carried the last of the logs to the stack beside the hearth. "That should last until New Year's Eve, at the very least."

"Thank you, dear. I'm sure we'll be fine. And my grandsons will be here for Christmas, so I'll enlist them if we need more fuel." She smiled at him. "You're sure you won't stay for a cuppa? Carrying wood is thirsty work."

"I'm OK, thanks, Mrs Evans."

She shook her head. "Well, nobody can accuse me of being a bad host. I've left your money on the table at the front door."

"Much obliged." Jonas tugged his beanie over his ears and went to the entrance. "See you at the Christmas Market?" he shouted down the passage.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

Jonas smiled. He pocketed his earnings and pulled the door shut behind him. He could see his breath ahead of him as he walked to his pick-up. It was just after four in the afternoon, and he could already count the first stars on the horizon.

Short Story Sunday: Latchberry Farm [Part Two]

After three hours in the downpour, Jacob found the sound of the water dripping from the rim of his hat soothing. What had started as a routine evaluation of the fence on the lower ridges of his property had ended up as a herd and rescue mission. Something – or someone – had spooked the sheep and he and George had their hands full trying to calm them again.

Poetry Post

The Hounds of Winter

I wake --
They snap at my heels,
Pressing noses to my cheek,
Chilling my bones. Their

Breath escapes in clouds,
Icy spots track their paws:
The Hounds of Winter are
On the prowl, feasting on
Warmth and hope before
Slinking into shadows and
Waiting for the first frost.