Abigail stood frozen in the doorway, her mind spinning as she tried to make sense of the peculiar sight before her. There, on her doorstep, stood a porcupine. Not just any porcupine—this one tipped its hat with a deliberate gesture and held a neatly rolled map in its paw. She blinked, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her, but the porcupine remained solid and real, its eyes calmly meeting hers.
Porcupine Quinn seemed entirely out of place, yet somehow, strangely familiar. Its unexpected appearance stirred something deep within Abigail—a connection to memories she had long ago buried. The skunks, beavers, weasels, and groundhogs that had visited her during DJ’s prolonged illness were those secret companions who had brought her comfort when the weight of reality threatened to overwhelm her. But as the years passed, she had convinced herself that they were nothing more than figments of her imagination, fleeting distractions to help her cope. And yet, here Quinn stood, as real as a chill in her body.
QUINN: “Good morning, Miss Newton. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Investigative Reporter Quinn, and I’ve been sent with important news. I believe we have much to discuss.”
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat, the disbelief slowly giving way to a cautious sense of wonder. Perhaps those companions weren’t mere figments of her imagination after all. Maybe, just maybe, they had been real all along.
ABIGAIL: “Well, you’d better come in, uh … Quinn. It seems we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Quinn entered the living room with a soft tap of claws against the hardwood floor, small eyes darting around as if scanning the room for clues. The pale green-gray walls were adorned with Southwestern art—a collection she and DJ had curated during the rare good years. The large, vibrant bear titled Powerful Medicine hung prominently over the green couch, its companion piece, Coyote Survivor, on the adjacent wall—both by the artist Nieto, their symbolic titles hinting at a deeper meaning behind their purchase, years after DJ’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis.
Scattered amongst the Native American art were pieces of French Faience—antique Quimper pottery that Abigail had painstakingly collected and displayed, most housed in a black lacquered secretary. She often joked about her eclectic style, calling it “the French and Indian War” of decor, but the room had found an odd sort of harmony, a peace between the disparate elements that seemed to mirror the balance she had found in her life.
Quinn hopped up on the forrest green leather couch, placed its hat on the adjacent seat, and set the map on a glass-topped table across from the couch while Abigail started to sit in a tweed orange chair next to Quinn, but before sitting said …
ABIGAIL: “Oh, my, where are my manners? Would you like a refreshment? Maybe something to drink. Perhaps water or some lemonade? Actually, given the circumstances, would you prefer something stronger?”
Quinn raised an eyebrow—or what might have been an eyebrow—the small face breaking into what almost seemed like a smile.
QUINN: “How thoughtful of you. I would be honored if you joined me in a glass of wine. We can toast to the return of your old friends—or should I say, their descendants? It’s been seven years since you said your tearful goodbyes to Sebastian, Sabrina, and Willie.”
Abigail had entered the kitchen when she heard Quinn mention three of her sorely missed friends. Feeling the breath leave her body, Abigail’s hand flew to her mouth. Then, with heart thudding and voice cracking, she asked …
ABIGAIL: “What do you mean, their descendants?”
QUINN: “Precisely, the reaction I predicted. I can explain when you join me in that celebratory glass of wine. I can’t wait to share my news.”
With trembling hands, Abigail retrieved an already-open bottle of white wine from the fridge, her mind racing. As she poured two glasses, her thoughts tumbled over themselves, trying to piece together the meaning behind Quinn’s cryptic words. Her secret companions—the ones she had long since mourned—had descendants? And why was Quinn here now, after all these years?
She returned to the living room, her hands still shaking as she handed a glass to Quinn. He took it with a nod of appreciation, raising it in a toast.
QUINN: “To old friends—and new beginnings.”
Abigail clinked her glass against Quinn’s, her mind swirling with questions. What could this investigative reporter reveal that would make sense of the impossible? She sat down, bracing herself for the answers that were surely coming.
I can hardly wait to hear what comes next, Gail. This must be a
lot of fun for you to write.
Phoebe
I just read Phoebe’s comment on this blog post and I agree … you are the QUEEN of the Cliffhanger!!!! Looking forward to your next post.
Thanks, Phoebe and Cynthia for your positive comments. I do have fun writing, and even though I know the end of the story, it’s always an imaginative adventure finding out how my characters will get to where I need them to be as well as accomplish what I have been unable to accomplish for over fifteen years!
You did it again! I am so impressed with your imagination.
It takes me back to my childhood when I first read Peter Rabbit
and all my wonderful fairytales. You bring a smile to my face
and a sigh to my heart.
Thank you,
❤️ Geraldine