No go.

The school called up and said "Sorry, our manpower issues have been resolved. We don't need you anymore."

WTF.

So, if you need a copyeditor or a proofreader, feel free to contact me.

Flash fiction: Sacrifice.

My mother's gift was a cedar chest. Intricately carved, with scenery from the homeland at the sides. The craftsman had etched my name, my personal name, on the lid: Peony, in the old script. Touching it brought back memories. Memories of my mother's own cedar chest.

The chest was tucked away in a corner of her bedroom. A solid presence, with its own secrets. My mother opened it one day and I peered inside, seeing her wedding gown still cling-wrapped, her wedding shoes, old jewelery faded ivory in color and a handful of mothballs. What caught my attention was the white fur pelt. My hand trembled when I stroked it.
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