Once Upon a Time
A novella excerpt by Jennifer Frost
That night, Millie was in her bedroom, its walls the color of fresh cream, cottony carpeting underfoot, a demure dressing table beside the closet. The windows behind her were closed eyes covered with practical blinds, dressed with a tasteful set of linen drapes too thin to keep out January’s blasting cold. The room was bright but sterile, clean but austere, where dust never settled on the uncluttered surfaces. A rose-pink pillow on the armchair under the windows was a button of color at the center of a soft array of neutrals. A landscape print hung facing the understated double bed. Its muted shades of blue and gray evoked a smoky mountain scene, a white circle sun rising over a nameless ridgeline, stark trees picked out in lavender, raisin, and black. It was as indifferent as a hotel lobby, anonymous and inoffensive.
On The Edge 