From the Writer's Desk

Jack woke to the rhythmic fall of the pick axe as it bit the earth. Only Maggie wielded that thing. She’d turn the soil outside while he surfed channels inside. He hadn’t heard it since her death more than a year ago. In his midnight stupor, he thought, “Am I dreaming?”

He rolled over to try to sleep on, but the thunk, thunk continued. Annoyed he slid out of bed and stumbled to the window to discover the cause. In the pale moonlight a ghostly form worked the overgrown garden he'd failed to tend.

“Maggie?”