Witchy Weekends: The Frog Wish (part 4)

Hello! Sorry this post is a little late, but there were too many holiday festivities over the weekend for me to get this scene into a readable state in time.

So below you’ll find the fourth installment in a new story I’m working on, working title “The Frog Wish.” I hope you’ll read it and give me your opinions on it. It’s best to start with the first scene and work through them in order for them to make the most sense.

Click this link for the first scene.

Click this link for the second scene.

Click this link for the third scene.


“The Frog Wish” (part 4)

The mirror world was cold. Eleanor wasn’t dressed warmly enough in the bum-around t-shirt she’d put on to move furniture. She let her hair out of its ponytail, but that only kept the wind off her neck and shoulders. It was something, but not enough. And she had no idea how long she’d been here because whenever she looked at her watch, the hands just spun around like a drunken compass pointing at everything but the time. And the landscape they gestured to appeared to be a grayscale world of nebulous wooded avenues and the vague sense of the outdoors. She couldn’t see far and didn’t want to go wandering, lest she become lost and unable to return to whatever portal Moira had sent her through. So she sat down in the shelter of a large silver tree and stewed in furious wait for Reginald to show up.

“A frog. How am I even going to recognize him?” He hadn’t looked particularly unusual, as frogs went, the one time she’d seen him in Moira’s shop.

Had that only been this morning?

Yes, she had just been in the shop today, and she remembered Moira had dropped something small and hard into her pocket. Eleanor was still wearing those same loose lounging pants and pulled the item out. It was maybe the size of three acorns tied together and wrapped in black and white ribbons. She unwrapped them and found a dark stone, almost burgundy-brown, covered in alternating bands of different shades of red. It was polished smooth and warm from being close to her body.

“Thank you for not traveling far from this spot,” came a croaky voice off to her left.

Eleanor spun around and saw a large frog staring at her. “Reginald?” she asked, hoping she wasn’t talking to some random frog and also, hearing voices that weren’t there.

“That’s me. Ribbit.” The frog’s tongue whipped from its mouth and licked its own eyeball.

“Moira sent you?”


“Did she tell you why she sent me into the mirror world?”

“Is that what you’re calling it? Ribbit.

“What else am I going to call it?” she asked, more shrilly than she intended. “How did she even put me here? How can I get home?” She lifted the book and the stone. “And what use are these?”

“You have any other questions?” Was it possible for a frog to look even more nonplussed than a frog usually did? If so, Reginald seemed to be attempting it.

Eleanor put her head down on her knees. “This experience has reached the limits of my ability to handle the surreal.”

“That’s okay.” She looked up at him. “I’ll wait until you’re ready to get going.” Reginald’s tongue flicked out again and caught something Eleanor couldn’t even see.

“Are you going to take me home?”

“Nope. Ribbit.

“I want to talk to Moira.”

“I don’t have a phone, so you’re going to have to wait until you get back to the other side.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that??”


Eleanor put her face in her hands and screamed. When she looked back up, Reginald was still sitting there, looking as calm as any frog she’d ever seen. Which is to say, just like all frogs. Frogs which sat on the edges of ponds, and under hedges near the sidewalk after a rain, and occasionally in the woods Eleanor had visited when she was a child and her family got out of the city for a couple of days. Frogs which could not, as far as she had ever known, do anything at all to be helpful other than eat mosquitoes.

Finally she got up and dusted off whatever black dirt might have gotten on the back of her pants. She held out the stone toward Reginald.

“What is this rock?” she asked. “Can you identify it?”

He twisted his eyes slightly. “Looks like a tiger’s eye.”

A stone of protection. Okay, best not to lose that. She stuffed it back into her pocket and wrapped the ribbons into a loop and put them in there, too. She held up the fairy tale book.

“And this? Why did Moira think I need this here with me?”

“Don’t you like to read? Ribbit.

She took a deep breath to avoid shouting at him. He was just a frog, after all. What did he know from books?

“How long am I going to be stuck here?” Moira had made it seem like it might be a while, if she was planning to take care of Eleanor’s house while she was gone.

And what about her client meetings next week?
And what about food? She was starting to feel hungry. So far she hadn’t seen anything in the twenty-foot radius she’d explored that might be edible.

“And what time is it, anyway? Do you know?”

Reginald’s eyes swiveled up at what passed for sky here: a dense canopy of metallic looking leaves. He looked back at her. “Night.”

She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. Then let it out. Then took another, and slowly let it out. After her third cleansing breath, she could speak in a calmer tone of voice.

“What am I supposed to do here?”

“My guess is go on a quest. Ribbit.

“And are you going to help me with that?” Why else would Moira have sent him?

“I could. I know a pretty terrific spot not far from here where people sometimes visit.”

She wondered what people, and whether Moira had shoved them through their own mirrors, too.

“All right then.” She bent down, then untied and retied her shoelaces a little more securely. When she stood up, she made her t-shirt as presentable as she could. She put her hair back into its ponytail then thought better of it; it was still pretty cold here. She looked down at Reginald. “Lead the way.”

“Ribbit.” He turned around and hopped off, pretty fast for a little guy. She had to jog after him to keep up.


Thank you for reading! In the comments, I welcome your feedback:
*  What did you like?
*  What confused you, if anything?
*  What needs work?
*  What are you most interested about?
*  What do you think will happen next?

The Witchy Weekends series is finished for another eleven months, but if you’re interested in reading more of Eleanor’s story, please do let me know! I hope you’ve enjoyed this little experiment of mine; tell me what you thought in the comments below.


Want to read more of my writing that’s already finished and published? Click here for poetry, click here for urban fantasy, and click here for realistic flash fiction. You can also buy my books in Houston at Blue Willow Bookshop!

Witchy Weekends: The Frog Wish (part 3)

Here’s the third installment of my newest story, working title “The Frog Wish.” I hope you’ll read it and give me your opinions on it. It’s best to start with the first scene and work through them in order for them to make the most sense.

Click this link for the first scene.

Click this link for the second scene.

And here’s the third one. Enjoy!


“The Frog Wish” (part 3)

Moira whistled low when Eleanor told her she’d spent over twelve hundred dollars on a few new pieces of furniture for her bedroom. “I’m sure it’s a fair price for everything,” she said, but Eleanor knew she was thinking it was just a whole lot of money. “Would you like some help getting everything settled in?”

Eleanor would. Moira arrived a little after six, as soon as she closed up her shop. The delivery men had been gone only about fifteen minutes, and as soon as she let Moira in, Eleanor sprawled out on the floor with a cold bottle of water sluicing condensation onto her forehead.

“The bed is actually already put together,” Eleanor explained. “I got the supporting slats after I left the antiques shop and made it home just in time. But there aren’t any sheets on it yet, and the bureau is empty.” She sat up. “And there’s the matter of the mirror.”

“What mirror?” Moira asked, lifting the tapestry satchel off her shoulder and making herself comfortable on the sofa.

“I bought an enormous mirror. I don’t even know why.”

“You like mirrors. This one must have felt special to you.”

Eleanor took the water bottle off her face and turned to Moira. “Look around you at all the mirrors in this house.”

There were maybe a dozen scattered around the walls in the living room, the hallway, even the kitchen. And all of them were smaller than eight inches in diameter, some of them so decorated by their frames that they weren’t even useful as looking glasses. Eleanor loved mirrors, but she didn’t really use them.

Moira shrugged. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been inside your house. What’s so special about this?”

Eleanor sighed. “The mirror I bought is…large.”

Moira grinned. “Maybe you’ll be able to check your outfit properly before you leave the house each morning.”

Eleanor flipped her half-empty water bottle at her, but she wasn’t really annoyed. Moira caught the bottle and laughed.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Eleanor said and heaved herself to standing. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Just a minute,” Moira said, rummaging in her satchel. She pulled out a gift-wrapped rectangle and handed it to her. “Here, have a house-reclaiming gift.”

“What is this?” Eleanor asked, eagerly sliding a fingernail under the edge of the wrapping paper.

“A book,” Moira said, although that was obvious from its shape.

The paper shed, Eleanor held a heavy volume of Grimms’ original fairy tales. She fingered the gilt edges of the pages and ran her palm down the thick spine, searching for something to say. She flipped through some of the pages.

“These illustrations are beautiful,” she said.

Moira smiled.  “I thought you’d like them, since you love the art in my tarot cards so much.”

Eleanor only nodded slightly, keeping her eyes fixed on the book. She didn’t want to risk another reading tonight.

“This isn’t a full set of their stories, of course––there are hundreds of them––but all the usual suspects are in there, all the stories that most of us grew up with.”

“It’s really nice,” Eleanor said. “But, Moira…”

“Yes…?” She was still smiling, although Eleanor felt a little awkward.

“Isn’t this––I mean, aren’t I a little old for fairy tales?”

Moira sighed, but her cheerfulness didn’t fade. “Actually, my dear, that is the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

Moira shrugged. “No matter. Let’s go see the new furniture.”

When Eleanor opened the door to her bedroom, everything felt strange and cold. Unlived-in. It actually felt like she really had just moved in.

Moira stepped over the threshold and let out a long, slow breath. “You really are reclaiming this space,” she murmured, her voice a mixture of admiration and awe.

“I suppose.” Eleanor sniffed. “It’s a lot of work––”

“Everything worth doing is,” Moira said, swiveling to catch Eleanor’s eyes. “Don’t be afraid of it. Even the upheaval can be an act of creation.”

That sounded like another one of those strange things Moira sometimes said that probably meant more than it Eleanor thought it did at first and which maybe felt a little confusing. Eleanor felt a sudden shift in her core that suggested she would understand it better later, whether she wanted to or not. She shuddered involuntarily.

Moira cocked her head. “Something the matter?”

“Just a chill down my spine,” Eleanor said.

Moira smiled and ventured farther into the room. As she inspected the carvings on the bedframe and the multitude of drawers and cabinets and hiding spaces on the bureau, her mood grew giddy. “You’ve made some beautiful choices,” she said.

Eleanor sighed and noticed a tightness in her chest. It didn’t feel like she had made amazing choices lately. A sudden powerful impulse to sit down and just have a good cry came over her. She didn’t want to, but she found herself plopping down in the middle of the floor, the fairy tale book in her lap, and leaning her face into her hands. Then Moira’s arm was around her shoulders, her head resting on top of Eleanor’s, and the world stopped spinning out of control. Eleanor sighed and lifted her face. Moira smelled like cinnamon and cocoa, one of Eleanor’s favorite combinations.

“Okay,” she said, dredging up a renewed sense of energy. “Come see this mirror and then let’s get some dinner.” They stood.

“Do you want a reading first?” Moira asked, opening her satchel again. “I brought your favorite deck.”

“I don’t think so but thank you.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to see what the cards had to say this time.

Moira opened her mouth but then just shook her head. Eleanor almost asked what she’d been about to say, but she knew if it was important to Moira she’d say it later over a roasted eggplant and spinach salad.

“Here we go,” Eleanor said as they stood in front of the new mirror. It took up most of the wall between the closet and the bathroom. The cloudy white streaks running down the entire surface distorted the image of the bedroom and of the two women standing in it. Moira cocked her head to the side again and flipped her long braids behind her shoulders. Her green sweater and broomstick skirt appeared to be one long dress. Eleanor’s unkempt ponytail looked even messier.

“Ah, I see,” Moira said.

That sounded enigmatic. “What do you see?”

Moira looked at her, a small smile pinching her lips, then went over to where they’d been sitting and picked up the Grimms volume. She came back and handed it to Eleanor.

“What’s this about?” Moira was acting more strangely silent than usual. She patted Eleanor’s pocket, the one she’d slipped the ribbon-wrapped something into earlier that day. Eleanor had forgotten all about it.

Moira smiled. “Don’t lose that,” she said. Eleanor reached into her pocket to take it out and see what it was, but Moira stopped her. “Not yet,” she cautioned. Then she positioned Eleanor squarely in the center of the mirror and stepped away. “Don’t move.”

Eleanor felt a strange compulsion not to, but she asked, “Why not?”

Moira reached inside her satchel. Out of the corner of Eleanor’s eye, she thought she could see a small vial, which Moira emptied into the palm of her hand.

“Do you trust me, Eleanor?”

Of course she did. Even when she wasn’t sure it was the best course of action. “You know the answer to that.”

Moira nodded, then stepped forward and kissed Eleanor gently on the cheek. “You’re going to be okay.” She stepped back out of the mirror range again.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but what––”

Then Moira blew whatever was in her hand into Eleanor’s face. She coughed in a haze of something glittery and sweet. This was getting a little theatrical, even for Moira.

“What was th––”

Then the floor trembled beneath her and she stumbled. The lights flickered. She dropped the book but caught it before it could land; for some reason, that seemed important. When she straightened up again and rubbed her eyes, she opened them onto a silvery landscape. She spun around.

“Moira? What was––”

She expected to see her bedroom, and she did, but it was a narrow view framed by the same beveled edge as the mirror. Long jagged streaks of cloudy white interrupted the view. Moira stood exactly opposite her, in the bedroom. But Eleanor wasn’t there with her.

She looked at her surroundings. They were both familiar and strange. “What the hell did you do, Moira?” She heard her voice growing impatient and felt her throat constricting. “What sort of hallucination is this?”

Moira shook her head gently. “It’s not a hallucination. And you’re going to be fine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t panic, love. I’ll take care of your house while you’re gone and be right here when you get back.”

“Back from where?” She gestured angrily around her. “Where on earth am I?”

“It’s all good, Eleanor. I’ll send Reginald to help you.”

“What? Your frog?? Are you out of you mind?” Eleanor felt like she was maybe out of her own.

Moira smiled. “Just sit tight. He’ll find you if you aren’t too far from this spot. It won’t take long.” She blew her a kiss then waved good-bye. When she stepped out of view, Eleanor’s bedroom looked unfamiliar and uninviting. Then the lights dimmed and she heard the door close.

She sat down heavily onto the silvery ground, trying to make sense of where she was and what had happened. But there was no way she could. Nothing in her reality could possibly prepare her for the possibility of entering a mirror world.

She pushed her hand into the streaky view of her bedroom, but she couldn’t press past the glass.

“I don’t believe this,” she murmured. She put her face back in her hands and waited for the sense of upheaval, the spinning and cold sweat, to subside.

When she got back to where she was supposed to be, she and Moira were going to have words.


Thank you for reading! In the comments, I welcome your feedback:
*  What did you like?
*  What confused you, if anything?
*  What needs work?
*  What are you most interested about?
*  What do you think will happen next?

Click here for the next installment in the story!


Want to read more of my writing that’s already finished and published? Click here for poetry, click here for urban fantasy, and click here for realistic flash fiction. You can also buy my books in Houston at Blue Willow Bookshop!

Witchy Weekends: The Frog Wish (part 2)

Hello again! As you already know if you’ve been reading this blog for longer than a week, I’m doing something a little different for this year’s Witchy Weekends series. Instead of sharing movies or books or music with you, I’m sharing with you a story I’m writing, a work-in-progress. (I’ve already written quite a bit of it, but not every last thing yet.) This is a bit of an experiment for me, but I hope you’ll enjoy it.

Here’s the plan: each weekend this month I’ll share a scene with you from this WIP (in which one of the characters is a witch), and you, dear reader, get to share with me your reaction to it. That’s right, I’m crowdsourcing a beta-read. I’ve never done this before, so I don’t really know what to expect — though you all are a very nice bunch, so I’m not expecting you to be rude.  🙂

Click here to read the first scene. (And I recommend you read the scenes in order for the story to make the most sense.)

Feel free to post in the comments what you think of the scene, any aspect of it, and what you think is going to happen next in the story. I’d love to know!


“The Frog Wish” (part 2)

The antiques store, a peeling pier-and-beam house in the unzoned Montrose area, was nothing if not old. But then all the vintage and antique shops lining this street were. It was like two blocks living in the past amidst some conspicuously hip restaurants and the artsy residential section of town. Eleanor climbed the noisy wooden steps to the front porch and opened the screen door. The oak door, whose red paint had faded to a morose coral, was propped open and blocked her view of what had probably been a dining room in the 1930s.

“Hello?” she called down a hallway lined with ornate wooden furniture. The living room to her left contained several sideboards and secretary desks, as well as some framed prints she thought might have dated back to the forties. She glanced around the oak door: the dining room was filled with small tables and their chairs. She heard a scuffling coming from the depths of the house, someone’s boots shifting on the wooden floors.

“I’ll be there in a sec,” a voice called out from the labyrinth of dressers and bedframes and curio cabinets and chairs and vanities Eleanor knew the house contained. All of these antique shops were alike­­­­––too many pieces of old furniture wedged into rooms barely big enough to hold both the merchandise and a passel of customers.

“I’ll come to you,” Eleanor answered and picked her away through the hallway to the next open space. Openish. At least the merchandise seemed to be in good shape. Other than a thin layer of dust on some of the taller pieces and the persistent aroma of incipient mildew germane to pretty much every place like this on the Gulf Coast that didn’t have central air and heat, the proprietor seemed to have a good handle on how to take care of the antiques. That encouraged her.

The shop owner came into view, navigating a row of end tables. He was an older man, probably approaching sixty, in a dark green t-shirt and blue jeans. He saw Eleanor and waved.

“Hey there.” His subtle twang suggested she was dealing with a born-and-raised. “I’m guessing you’re Ms. Richardsen.”

“I am,” she said, walking toward him with hand outstretched. He shook it. “Call me Eleanor.”

“Righty then.” He looked around. “I’m Joe. I just got some new dressers in last week, so the shop is a little bursting. But the––you were looking for bedframes?––I have some nice ones, about a hundred years old, from upstate New York.” He waved her toward the next room. “Rich mahogany stain, some lovely carvings.”

She needed a new bedframe because Lucas had taken theirs when he left. She’d bought a new mattress and box springs and metal frame on casters the same afternoon, because where else was she going to sleep? Moira had offered her the guest room at her house for as long as she needed, but Eleanor was determined to make her own space as quickly as she could.

It didn’t help that Lucas was Moira’s cousin and might show up there, looking for either company or commiseration or spells. Moira was staying totally neutral with her uncanny ability not to take sides. Maybe all the meditation kept her centered? Eleanor had no idea.

“How about this one?” Joe moved an umbrella stand made from a tree trunk off to the side and wiped a chamois cloth across the top of a queen-sized headboard peaked with an elaborately carved medallion. The image looked familiar, somehow, a triple spiral curling in on itself. It was pretty, but she didn’t know where she’d seen it before. The stain on the wood highlighted its grain pattern; the diagonal patterns on either side of the midline created an oppositional symmetry she found pleasing.

“I love it,” she said without thinking. She should have shown a little more hesitation to get the best price. Too late now, though. “Matching footboard?”

Joe nodded. It was propped up behind the headboard for some reason. “The side rails are solid and strong, no warping or chips at all, but you’ll need to add your own slats to hold the mattress and box.” He sniffed and scratched his scalp. “Probably four good two-by-fours oughtta do it, but get six if you want extra stability.”

For what? she thought sullenly but just nodded her head. She knew the enthusiasm in her eyes had dimmed. “How much?”

He leaned his head from side to side. “Six hundred, but we can work something out if you buy anything else.”

“Like what?” she asked. “Does this bed come with any matching pieces?” Lucas had taken the dresser, too, but she didn’t care as much about that. He was into Scandinavian “clean lines,” which she found utterly lacking in character.

“Course it does.” He smiled and led her toward a cluster of bureaus. “This is part of the same set.” His chamois wiped the top of an imposing cabinet almost as tall as she was. It had numerous large drawers and matching cabinet doors on the sides. The legs were carved in a style she didn’t see often. Every detail, down to the carved horn knobs, was thoughtful and deliberate. The top of the piece lifted with a trap door to reveal a modest storage space––she imagined it filled with gloves and the occasional decorative fan, maybe an embroidered handkerchief––and a place for a mirror, which was missing. That didn’t bother her, though. The bureau was gorgeous and in good shape.

“This is becoming an expensive appointment,” Eleanor said, injecting a note of caution into her voice.

“It’s solid stuff. You won’t find this design anywhere else in Houston.”

That much was true. She hadn’t seen anything else like these in all her years of collecting.

“Take both pieces, we’ll call it nine-fifty.”

“That bureau is missing its mirror.”

Joe grinned. “I got plenty of mirrors here.”

Eleanor sighed. She was going to buy this furniture, she already knew it. She didn’t even really mind how much this was costing her; she’d prepared for that when she’d decided to furnish her bedroom with antiques––to remake her own space in her own image, as it were––and these were fair prices for the value.

She backed away from the bureau section and followed Joe toward a room filled with glass. A single chandelier in the middle of the ceiling was reflected in thirty or forty mirrors lining the walls, so even though it had just a few warm bulbs in it, the room was the brightest in the shop so far. The selection was overwhelming. She could understand why this room was so far back in the labyrinth; in the front room it might scare customers off.

She turned around in a circle under the chandelier, trying to absorb all the different mirrors. Seeing herself reflected in so many distortions and angles made her a little dizzy, so she avoiding looking at that; she focused on the bevels and frames and occasional imperfections in the surfaces. Then another piece, framed in dark wood and standing so tall it nearly grazed the ceiling, caught her eye.

“I really like this one,” Eleanor said, pointing to the large mirror in the corner. It was propped up against the wall with a chiffonier in front of it, obscuring its bottom half.

“That one? Really?” Joe asked.

Eleanor looked at him, a little surprised by his hesitation. “Is something wrong with it?”

Joe shifted his weight and put his hands in his pockets before answering, as if he wasn’t sure how to explain to her what ought to be incredibly obvious. “Well, it’s just got all these water spots on it, so you can hardly see anything clear. We even tried Windexing the thing, but that’s as clean as it gets.”

“It’s not so bad.”

He looked at her skeptically, as if she weren’t looking at the same mirror he was. This mirror had long jagged streaks of frosted imperfection ripping its smooth surface from the top of the carved frame to the bottom beveled edge.

“I think it was in a fire or something,” he offered.

“The frame is marvelous, though, don’t you think?” She wasn’t sure why she was defending this piece, since she was pretty sure she could talk down the price if he didn’t expect the mirror could be sold.

“Well, yeah, it’s all right––but I’ve got a similar frame, in a smaller scale, over on this other mirror over here…” His voice trailed off as he made his way toward one hanging on a wall. It was an oval about a foot wide. The price tag was just about the same as on the one Eleanor had picked out, but her mirror couldn’t have been smaller than four feet by seven.

She looked at Joe over her nose as if amused. “There’s hardly a comparison.”

“But the glass on this one is perfect––you can’t hardly even see through the other one. It’s been here forever.”

She pretended to consider this point; she never really looked into mirrors much, anyway, but she loved having them around. The imperfections wouldn’t bother her at all. She walked carefully back over to her choice.

“You’re right, this one is quite flawed,” she said. “Perhaps you could lower the price on it? I mean, if you aren’t selling it otherwise, I could take it off your hands. Especially if I’m taking those other two pieces.”

The dealer looked like he was thinking about her offer, then said, “Ten percent off.”

She chuckled, ha! “How about twenty?”

“No, fifteen.”

“Sold if you’ll deliver all of it to my house for free. I’m just in the neighborhood here.”

“Yeah…okay. I can have someone bring it around this afternoon.”

“Done,” she said cheerfully, shaking Joe’s hand and then reaching into her purse for her wallet.


Thank you for reading! In the comments, I welcome your feedback:
*  What did you like?
*  What confused you, if anything?
*  What needs work?
*  What are you most interested about?
*  What do you think will happen next?

Click here for the next installment in the story!


Want to read more of my writing that’s already finished and published? Click here for poetry, click here for urban fantasy, and click here for realistic flash fiction. You can also buy my books in Houston at Blue Willow Bookshop!

Witchy Weekends: The Frog Wish (part 1)

Welcome to October again! This year, I’m doing something a little different for my Witchy Weekends series. Instead of sharing movies or books or music with you, I’m sharing with you a story. A story I’m writing, a work-in-progress. (I’ve already written quite a bit of it, but not every last thing yet.) This is a bit of an experiment for me, but I hope you’ll enjoy it.

Here’s the plan: each weekend this month I’ll share a scene with you from this WIP (in which one of the characters is a witch), and you, dear reader, get to share with me your reaction to it. That’s right, I’m crowdsourcing a beta-read. I’ve never done this before, so I don’t really know what to expect — though you all are a very nice bunch, so I’m not expecting you to be rude.  🙂

Feel free to post in the comments what you think of the scene, any aspect of it, and what you think is going to happen next in the story. I’d love to know!


“The Frog Wish” (part 1)

Eleanor couldn’t stop staring at the frog. A large creature, larger than the palm of her hand, it watched her as she circled the table, following her with its eyes and even turning a little to keep her in its line of sight. Maybe it was aware she was wondering about it? The thought made her a little uncomfortable. In her world, frogs were supposed to be garden animals. They did not possess the intelligence to be inquisitive about people. This one almost reminded her of Lucas, the way he had watched her sometimes from across the room, cocking his head slightly when she did something a little bit interesting. She circled around the table, and the frog’s eyes moved with her in an articulated curve, watching her until she stood behind him.

The frog lifted itself off its haunches and turned around, squatting once more, looking at Eleanor again. It made a little croak.

All the old stories of princes being turned into frogs by witches flooded her imagination. What would it feel like to kiss one? Slimy, no doubt… What would ever possess someone to try it? She looked over at Moira, measuring dried lavender buds carefully into a plastic bag for a customer.

“Now be sure to sprinkle those in the bath while the warm water is running,” she was saying. “And say the charm I gave you at the same time.”

The customer nodded her head. “Right. And I have to focus on myself only, not on anyone else.”

“You wouldn’t want to be unethical,” Moira smiled. She tossed a long braid over her shoulder. “Bad for your karma that way.”

“Got it. Thank you so much!” the customer called as she left the shop.

Moira looked back at Eleanor and grinned. “Some of them are so easy to please,” she said. “Just a few herbs and a decent meditation, and they think I’ve changed their lives.”

Eleanor looked at her friend more carefully, then glanced down at the frog, who’d just let loose a croak worthy of a blue ribbon. It blinked its moist eyes at her then looked away.

“This one of yours?” Eleanor asked, pointing to it.

“Who, Reginald?” Moira laughed. “He’s like a pet.”

Eleanor couldn’t believe she was about to ask it, but–– “Did you make him…?”

“Did I turn him into a frog, you mean?” The amused grin on her face tried hard not to look condescending.

Eleanor felt stupid now even for thinking something like that.

“No,” Moira laughed. “I found him that way. The Goddess has to take credit for that one.”

Eleanor sheepishly turned away from the frog, who croaked again, and followed Moira into the book room for tea and a cozy seat on the sofa.

The book room was Eleanor’s favorite spot in the entire shop. Oh, she liked the garden well enough, and the alcove filled with crystals and jewelry; the shelves lined with large glass jars full of powders and dried herbs fascinated her. But the book room, with its floor-to-ceiling rows of spellbooks, memoirs, meditation primers, and tarot decks, was absolutely the spot to be. Moira had set up a couple of Queen Anne wingback chairs (that might have been worth some real money if she’d reupholstered them) in the corners and a velvet divan under the window, and Eleanor often came in here to read or admire the art on the tarot cards. When things were slow, she and Moira would sit together for a cup of oolong or chai and pretend the world wasn’t a madly spinning maelstrom of nonsense.

Moira pointed to a small wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl on the coffee table. “A new deck arrived this week. I thought you might enjoy it.” She crossed the room to pour the tea.

Eleanor lifted the lid and drew back a dark blue silk cloth covering the cards. An intricate image stared up at her, a wildly overlapping pattern of jewel colors and shapes she couldn’t quite identify, and when she tried to impose some order onto it, the image seemed to shift back into chaos. An optical illusion, she thought. Clever. She flipped the first card over and saw The Fool, cheerfully traipsing down a haphazard path. Nothing she hadn’t seen before, even if the art was vibrant and appealing. She lifted the rest of the deck out of the box and sifted through it. The Major Arcana were gorgeous but easily recognizable, even without glancing at their titles or numbers.

Moira brought two teacups over and sat down. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla permeated the room.

“I still haven’t figured out how you manage such perfect foam without a latte machine,” Eleanor said.

Moira wrinkled her nose in a cute smile and sipped, then said, “What do you think of the new cards?”

“They’re lovely. Have you used them yet?”

“Just some idle browsing.” Moira set down her tea. “Would you like a reading?”

Eleanor glanced at her watch. She still had half an hour before her appointment with the antiques dealer. “Maybe a quick one.”

“Go ahead and shuffle them then,” Moira said and spread the silk cloth across the table. After Eleanor handed the cards back, Moira laid out three in a row, face-down. She turned the middle one over. “The Empress.” She gave Eleanor a sly smile. “Where have we seen this before?”

Eleanor dismissed it. “Yes, yes, you’re very optimistic about my ability to effect control over my own life blah blah blah.” She drank more of her tea.

Moira shook her head. “Not with that attitude, I’m not.”

“Please continue.”

Moira sighed. “In your past…” She flipped over the left-most card. “You have the five of cups.”

Also no surprise. Neither of them said anything, because neither of them wanted to argue about Lucas. Not again. Eleanor looked at the figure on the card mourning the spilled wine and ignoring the full chalices just out of reach. Moira gazed at it, too, but rather than say anything, she buried her face in her teacup.

After a moment, Eleanor cleared her throat. “Go ahead,” she murmured. “Show me the future.” As if a deck of cards could do such a thing.

Moira flipped over the last card. Death. The card that meant not actual death, but change. Big change. The kind of change no one could help you with or see you through. The kind of change you had to deal with alone.

“Well.” Eleanor took another sip then placed her teacup down as quietly as she could. “I suppose that’s good news, then, isn’t it?”

Moira looked up at her and crooked an eyebrow.

“I mean, right now, almost any change has got to be good. Hasn’t it?”

Moira laughed then, and the tension in the room crackled into a broken web. “We can do a longer reading later, if you like.” She gathered the deck into her hands and began idly shuffling them.

Eleanor shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I believe in all this stuff.”

Moira paused and gave her a skeptical look. “That would explain why I’ve done more readings for you than anyone else in the last fifteen years. Combined.”

Eleanor opened her mouth to speak but found she had no clever response, so she downed the last of her tea instead. “I need to go anyway. Work beckons.”

The wind chimes in the front room signaled a customer had come into the shop. “So it does,” Moira said and took both teacups back to the tiny closet she’d turned into a snack station.

Eleanor wrapped the cards carefully back in their cloth and returned them to the box, closed the lid. “I’ll call you later,” she said. Moira nodded and they both walked into the front room, where a skittery young man was looking through a small box of watercolor greeting cards.

“I’m looking for a gift,” he said before Moira could even ask.

She nodded. “I know just the thing.”

This caught him off-guard. “You do? But I haven’t told­­––”

Moira shook her head gently. “No need.” She smiled, and he suddenly stopped fidgeting.

“Oh,” he said, looking a little confused. “Oh.”

“I’ll show you.” Moira gestured to the garden just beyond the open back patio door. He nodded and stepped toward it.

Moira patted Eleanor on the shoulder and slipped something into her pocket. “Call me later,” she said and walked back toward her customer.

Eleanor felt a small hard something wrapped in ribbon next to her car key. “Will do,” she said and headed out the front door to a meeting that would be far more straightforward than this visit had been.

A single croak stopped her progress halfway over the threshold. She turned and saw the frog again, perched on the desk, watching her. She resisted the urge to tell it good-bye. It was a frog.


Eleanor paused. Then she shook her head. “Nope.”

She walked out.

Continue reading the story! Click here for part 2.


Thank you for reading! In the comments, I welcome your feedback:
*  What did you like?
*  What confused you, if anything?
*  What needs work?
*  What are you most interested about?
*  What do you think will happen next?

Check back next weekend for the next installment in the story!


Want to read more of my writing that’s already finished and published? Click here for poetry, click here for urban fantasy, and click here for realistic flash fiction. You can also buy my books in Houston at Blue Willow Bookshop!

“Women Writers Wednesday” Meets “Whom I’ve Been Reading”: Naomi Novik

Sometimes you read a book that defies some of the more basic “rules” of writing, or one that’s outside your usual category, but it works for you in so many ways that you can’t help but tell people about it. Naomi Novik’s Spinning Silver, which I just finished reading on vacation last week, embodies both of these for me.

This book follows Novik’s Uprooted in what I hope will become a series of standalone novels. Both these excellent stories take familiar western European fairy tales and then transform them into an uncanny valley version of themselves, blow them up and out into something so original that you might not recognize the source material in it. Whereas Uprooted played fast and loose with “Beauty and the Beast” in a medieval Slavic world with magic, Spinning Silver borrows key elements of “Rumpelstiltskin” and drops them in the middle of…Russia perhaps? At the time of horse-drawn wagons, the Jews as money-lenders in walled communities inside of walled towns, the tsar and the boyars.

And how does this story break conventional wisdom? It’s a multi-POV novel where all POVs are told from the first person, and new perspectives come into the story late in the novel. Yet all the voices are distinctive and clear, and they all enhance the story well. This is a novel where marriages are strategic and the three young women at the center of the story grow and think and create agency within the limits of their world and the situations, magical or mundane, they find themselves in.

Spinning Silver falls squarely in the YA category, which I often enjoy but which is not usually my very first choice. It doesn’t shy away from genuine violence now and then, but those scenes are vital and artfully crafted, and I could easily recommend this book to any sharp reader as young as late middle school. If I could find a way to weave it into the curriculum for one of my high school classes, I would. The writing is gorgeous, and the structure of the novel really lends itself to deconstructive analysis as a model for what works.

And for those of you who like a long book for your money, this one will do — without feeling like its pacing drags. You should also look into Uprooted if you like fairy tales, and if you like alt-history, Novik’s Temeraire series is particularly charming: the Napoleonic Wars fought from the sky on the backs of dragons.

Spinning Silver won the 2019 Locus Award for Best Fantasy Novel and was nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Novel (also in 2019). I am just not remotely surprised.

Witches #4

This morning I heard a really fascinating report on the place of women in folklore and fairy tales, and of course it revolved around the theme of the witch. I may write more on this subject later, when I’m not trying to be the superwoman of the to-do list, but for now, I want to share this brief article with you and know your thoughts on the matter.

Consider this the most benevolent and festive homework you’ll get this week. Please click on the link above, then read, and then discuss in the comments. I really do want to know what you think!

Women Writers Wednesday 6/24/15

Instead of a review this week, I want to take a minute to talk more about this series and the reason it was started.

There’s been a lot of press in the last year or so about gender bias in the publishing industry. Many people have observed that it’s hard to get traditionally published if you’re a woman, especially if you’re also writing about women. With the exception of the romance genre, literature is still, somehow, “a man’s world.” And all this despite the oft-repeated statistic that most book buyers (and book clubbers) are women. I’d heard and read all these things over and over again, but for some reason, it wasn’t entirely resonating with me.

Why? I go to conferences, and more than half the agents at every conference I go to are women. In the writing industry seminars and classes I take––whether in town or at a conference––at least half (sometimes far more) of the writers around me are women. I read books by women (though not exclusively). I read books about women (though not exclusively). There’s no shortage of women on my bookshelf and in my recommended reads on Amazon.

But wrapped up in my own experiences, I wasn’t seeing the bigger picture.

The more I investigated this topic, in talking to other authors I know, in reading articles about it online, in seeking out multiple perspectives on this issue on social media, the more I began to see that there really is a problem. It’s not just about the writing industry, of course: it’s about our society more broadly. I’ll try not to be too much of a SJW here, but things like gender bias, discrimination, rape culture, and hating on women are some of the most insidious cancers in our culture. They’re particularly damaging not just because they are bad in and of themselves, but because in our culture, we have a belief that everything we do is infused with inalienable rights, with freedoms to be and say and do whatever we want. Sometimes, though, this crosses a line, as anyone who has ever paid attention to free speech debates surely knows.


Paul Downs Colaizzo said of his play Really Really that its genesis was in part the current youth’s hook-up culture and in part the 2006 Duke lacrosse team rape scandal. He cited some interesting points about American culture in a talkback after a Black Lab Theatre performance of it, directed by Jordan Jaffe, here in Houston last spring. When asked the question, “What do you want most for your children?” the WWII generation wanted their children to grow up to be good citizens. Those children, when grown, when asked the same, wanted their children to be happy. Those happy children? They grew up to tell their own kids they could be whatever they wanted to be.

Does any of this sound familiar? It’s a charming progression. On the surface, it doesn’t seem like there’s anything wrong with it. But then when a generation of people are raised thinking they can be or do whatever they want…

We get––among other things, some of which are good––our current state of rape culture and Internet trolldom.


What is my point here? It may seem like things are hunky-dory on the surface because we have a lot of personal freedoms (especially if we’re white men). But that’s not the whole picture. Unless you’ve been living in a cave the last couple of months you know that a bunch of the evil -isms of the Human Condition are alive and unfortunately well in our great nation. “Something rotten in the state of Denmark” doesn’t even begin to cover the mess we’re in. I’ll digress too much if I try to list it all here.

Gender bias is just one part of this.

We have to pay attention to it.

The Women Writers Wednesday series on this blog was begun in an attempt to help rectify just one part of this tangled problem.

In this series, female authors share their views on books by other female authors. The idea was to highlight women’s contributions, now and before, to literature. The books are chosen by the reviewers/responders; I don’t curate the titles in general. Want to know something interesting? Out of nearly two dozen reviews/responses we’ve had in this series since November, all but four have been about books written about women––and those four were about both women and men.

So the books are out there. And they’re good. They’re inspiring people. So what’s the problem?

These books aren’t being recognized. And I don’t mean just the books in the WWW series. I mean books by women about women, in general. Check out these chilling pie charts by author Nicola Griffith:


This chart shows the winners of the Pulitzer Prize since 2000.
This chart shows the winners of the Pulitzer Prize since 2000.




This chart shows the National Book Award winners since 2000.
This chart shows the National Book Award winners since 2000.


(You can see Ms. Griffith’s full blog post with several more pie charts and a discussion on this subject by clicking here.)

I don’t know where the problem begins, but I don’t think it’s a lack of women writing, or even of women writing well. I also don’t know what the solution is, but I am very sure nothing will get solved if people aren’t talking about it. And preferably in constructive ways. (You know, the kind that don’t involve simply dismissing the issue or attacking women verbally in the public sphere.)

Ms. Griffith has also posted a call to action: to help acquire more data. More information, after all, will help everyone to see the problem and its potential solutions more clearly.

Take a look. Get involved if you can. Start with literature, branch out to interpersonal relations. Make the world better.