The worst that can happen is rejection. E.C. Myers mentioned that Sybil’s Garage was taking submissions until November 30th. Honestly, the Susy Twain story I’m working on now is probably more Sybil’s usual cup of tea. That said, all I have laying around right now is Two Vampires and a Panel Discussion, which is a humorous urban fantasy.
I took you seriously, Sybil, when you said don’t assume what we do or don’t want, but honestly, I really do think it’s a long shot, and I will take what I am pretty sure will be a rejection with good grace. Know, however, that I was interested enough to send you something!
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Meanwhile, here’s where we are tonight with Mark Twain’s Daughter.
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There was no need to fear the dark. Susy told herself this every time she stayed a little too late and dusk began to fall in the house at Hartford. The house no longer smelled neglected and musty, as it did when she first opened it up. As twilight fell, the sheets over furniture glowed albino in the last of the light.
She never thought of them as ghosts, as she was too good a writer to describe them that way, so she played with images as she descended the stairs. Sails? Common. Sea foam? Interesting, and worth mulling over. Cloaks over souls, glowing from within? Now, that was an image worthy of a musician and a poet!
Like her, her father was more of a poet than he allowed the world to know. He wore a mask over his face and pretended no one else could see what he really was. Comic Pierrot! Comic father!
Did sea foam mean that the tumultuous waves of her father’s craft continued to churn at Hartford? The room was still on the surface, but she could feel the house moving under her, as the art of her music and Clara’s piano concertos, the characters of her father, and the drafts he meticulously wrote, flowed from the grain of the wood, from the tiles on the walls, from the iron studs that held the house together. She leaned on the banister so she didn’t fall into the sea below her and drown in its depths. She would sink like a stone.
Catherine
