MARCH 2026

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“Despite the forecast, live like it’s spring.”

–– Lilly Pulitzer 

FEBRUARY 2026

 

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“No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.”

— Hal Borland

JANUARY 2026

 

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“Kindness is like snow—It beautifies everything it covers.”

— Kahlil Gibran

DECEMBER

 

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‘Lord, grant that I may always desire more than I can accomplish.’

Michelangelo

NOVEMBER 2025

 

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“We mourn the blossoms of May because they are to whither; but we know that May is one day to have its revenge upon November, by the revolution of that solemn circle which never stops — which teaches us in our height of hope, ever to be sober, and in our depth of desolation, never to despair.”

— William Peter Blatty

In honor of a dear friend, Sue Anne Goldberg (Elephant's Child)

January 18, 1958 - September 28, 2025

AN ANGEL

I know an angel

of earthly fame

Many would seek her confidence

 Life is tough

living can become rough

This angel understood

Many lost hope

But her light was bright

her words pure

 This angel

with a heart so true

offered love and advice

Sue knew that 

recognized truth

meant sorrow disappeared

 Promise would return

Because her magic worked

She left many a happy folk

Thankful for

the blessing of knowing

God's messenger of love

  She was the restorer

of damaged souls

this holy vessel of truth

But Sue knew sorrow

and immense pain

more profound than most

 She suffered despite

her heavenly calling

Still, her beauty shone from within

Because

Sue gave all

despite her grief

 This spiritual being

is now an angel

of hope and love

Still giving from above.

***

Yolanda Renée Stout © 2025

RITUAL - A Halloween Treat

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RITUAL

In November 2023, I found my dream home. It was built in the 1700s and had good bones and the historic charm I craved. Though the interior needed work, I poured myself into the renovations, balancing modern comforts with its original character. By the time I finished, the manor gleamed. I was proud.

February 7th, 2025, was my first night in my newly remodeled home. At the stroke of midnight that night, I woke into a nightmare.

The house I had shaped was gone. In its place stood the home as it must have been in 1789. An intricately carved wooden frame replaced my simple modern bed—the warm glow of candles instead of electric light. The air was so cold I could see my breath.

I wandered through the house, trying to prove it was a dream. Behind one door, I found two strangers asleep, their faces ghostly under the moonlight. Heart pounding, I shut the door and crept to the stairs. The house had rebuilt itself — the walls I’d torn down returned, the colors dark and heavy. Everything smelled of wood smoke and wax.

I stepped outside. The landscape had shifted, too: dirt roads, towering trees, an endless forest. Through the trunks, a fire flickered, shadows circling it. A cloak hung by the door. I put it on and walked toward the fire.

Black-robed figures moved around the flames, chanting. Masks hid their faces; their voices blurred male from female. I tried to listen closer — but hands seized me, lifting me off the ground. They carried me into the clearing and bound me to a flat stone.

The strangest thing? I didn’t resist. Some part of me knew this was meant to happen.

I won’t tell you what came next. Does it matter? Perhaps.

Because when I woke, I was back in my own house. My own time. And it never happened again.

Until tonight.

Halloween — my favorite holiday. I decorated lavishly, even hosted a masquerade for the neighborhood children. The evening ended with laughter and warmth. I fell asleep easily.

But at midnight, I woke again to the same nightmare. The same house, but when I opened the front door, my front garden had come alive, with horrifically carved pumpkins, their twisted faces leering, though I never planted a single seed. The rhythmic sound of drums drew my attention to a bonfire burning in the forest, and I walked to the clearing again as if drawn by a magical force I couldn’t resist.

Surrounded by chanting masked figures, I was lifted to the table. It was only then that I realized I was pregnant. This time, I wasn’t bound, but I was naked. As their chants grew louder and faster, the world began spinning faster and faster. Labor pains tore through me. Then release. And in my arms, a son.

~~*~~*

Detective Cypress made his way through the heavy brush to a clearing that had been taped off. “Who found her?” he asked the officer in charge.

“The gardener. Well, his dog, really. Wouldn’t stop barking. He followed it and found her.”

“What is she lying on?”

“A stone or cement slab. Might have been a table of some kind.”

“Time of death?”

“Doc says around midnight. Same night as her party.”

“What kind of party?”

“Masquerade ball for the kids. Everyone says it was wonderful. She was generous. It ended before ten.”

The detective frowned. “And she was found naked. Heart missing. Like a sacrifice. But why? What kind of killer does this?”

 

© Yolanda Renée 2025

587 Words

This story isn't a rewrite; it's new and just for Halloween!

Although I can't claim originality for any of my Halloween tomes, because everything's been done over and over again, not only by me, but by many authors. They're told with different characters and settings, because the originators of all these monsters came to fruition long before I was born.  Plus, the Twilight Zone, Stephen King, and many more horror writers have influenced my writing. I always add a different slant, a humorous or interesting take on the usual. But I know for a fact that the scariest monsters are human!

Thank you for reading. I hope you have a lovely Halloween!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Photo by Jessie Nelson on Unsplash

 

JACK - A Halloween Treat

 

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JACK

Detective Cypress watched his prey with interest. The man sat quietly, staring straight through him. “Creepy,” he muttered to Sergeant Jones. “Why hasn’t he been stripped?”

“Forensics will be here soon,” Jones said. “They have his overcoat—plenty of blood. Claims his name is J. T. Ripper. One hundred forty years old.”

Cypress frowned at the absurdity. “Fits the age of the original, I suppose.”

“Happy Halloween, Cy,” Jones smirked, handing over a file and a blood-stained phone in an evidence bag. “The guy denies everything, but we caught him red-handed—literally. He was holding his last victim’s heart when we arrived.”

Cypress shook his head. “Unbelievable. And Halloween is weeks away.”

“Don’t matter, most folks celebrate the holiday all month. It is a full moon and they don’t come any crazier.”

“True. I need to break the code on this phone, then I’ll get his story.”

An hour later, Detective Cypress made the sign of the cross and entered the interrogation room.

The man’s eyes were black voids, unblinking until he smiled. Cypress laid out photos of the victims.

“The Master Interrogator,” the man said. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Dotted all the I’s and crossed all the T’s. So, Mr. T. J. Ripper, what’s your story?”

“Jack,” the man corrected, extending his left hand. “How should I address you?”

Cypress was struck by its iron grip. I kind of like Master Interrogator, but Detective Cypress will work.”

"A detective with a sense of humor. Don't find that very often."

So, Jack, what’s your motivation?”

“Fog,” Jack said. “Inspiration since youth. The mist hides, cloaks, energizes. Movies, slasher tales—all inspired by me. Love it, but it’s the victims I savor. They step into the fog, unaware. They chose me.”

“You admit they were your victims?”

“Why deny it? Modern science will prove it anyway.”

Cypress’s eyes narrowed. “And why these women?”

“They walked into the fog. They’ve chosen me. The rest is art.”

“Or did you lure them after they rejected you?” Cypress asked, sliding the blood-stained phone across the table.

Jack froze. “How did you…?”

“Tinder,” Cypress said. “Encrypted, yes—but the Ripper’s last kill date revealed everything. Your masquerade ends here, Mr. Terry O’Reilly.”

Jones entered, carrying a yellow-lined tablet. Cypress nodded. “Walk Mr. Terry O’Reilly, aka J. T. Ripper, through the process. Explicit details. Make it stick.”

“Sure, Cy. But another body’s been found,” Jones warned. “Torn apart, witnesses claim a wolf…a werewolf.” He handed the note.

Cypress read it. Beneath the address, a mocking line: “Just kidding about the werewolf. Couldn’t resist in front of this piker.”

He glanced at Jack. The man’s smirk was unnerving, his calm unsettling. But Cypress felt no fear—only the satisfaction of containment. The fog, the moon, the killer’s theatrics—all neutralized.

Cypress exhaled, straightened his jacket, and saluted Jones: Halloween, full moon, and madness—all in a night’s work.

Yet the fog waited outside, whispering. And in it, Jack’s dark gaze promised: the story was far from over.

© Yolanda Renée 2025

500 Words

Formerly published as Moonlight Confession's a Kindle Vella Story, rewritten this year for Halloween, a 500-word short. 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

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