The key slid into the lock. Richard entered his apartment, carrying his mail and briefcase. He felt the stress leave his body as he crossed the threshold. He loved his apartment. Although it was much smaller than the house he had shared with his now ex-wife, it had a writing room. A room dedicated to the true passion of his life.
Richard entered his sanctuary carrying a letter for the wall. Another story rejected. The wallpaper glue and letter dropped from his fingers. He smelled a faint fragrance of oranges. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. “Someone’s been here,” he thought.
The first Christmas after Jack died, Jane drank herself into oblivion. The house was too quiet and there was nothing else to do. The sun was shining on her face when she woke up the next day. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, her head pounding and the cheery light did nothing for her mood. It had been two and a half months since Jack had succumbed to the cancer that had taken over his body.
Well not so good at the moment. How could a Monday morning go from typical to disastrous within the space of five minutes? People are screaming at me, pointing fingers, yelling at the security guards. Curse that faerie thief. Please don’t look at me like that. I need you to believe me.