Margaret Mendel

The Caldera: A Halloween Ghost Story

by Margaret Mendel

Bev trusted her instincts, always had. So far she figured that’s what had kept her out of harm’s way all these years. Her mother moaned and complained about all the crazy schemes that her daughter had come up with. Though this time her mother said that none of her other ideas sounded half as ridiculous as this one. “You’ll end up a pile of bones,” were her mother’s last words as Bev closed the door behind her and descended the steps of the front porch.

Easter Haunting: An Easter Supernatural Mystery Short Story

by Margaret Mendel

Charlotte usually experienced a transition at dawn. She had lost count of how many of these she had undergone, but then, since her murder, not much made sense. There was a familiar feeling when this smoky life force came over her. Charlotte often thought it must be how a butterfly feels when it comes out of a cocoon. There was no casing though for her to break through only heaviness that weighted her down making it difficult to move about as she once again became active.

Vengeance in Cadmium Blue: Mystery Short Story

by Margaret Mendel

Georgia stood at the kitchen window; her hands wrapped around a coffee mug, watching Bill back his motorcycle out of the garage. He had no idea she knew. Dumb as a nail, her husband had only three talents: fixing cars, drinking beer, and trying to get his hands on any female that walked by. But this time he’d gone too far and it would take more than apologies to right this situation.

Crepes-Perfect For Your Valentine’s Day!

by Margaret Mendel

Crepes are not that difficult to make and are a real crowd pleaser. For the first time crepe maker the rules are simple and once you get into a rhythm everything runs smoothly. Just remember that the pan needs to be at a consistently medium high temperature, the perfect dolloped of dough should be dropped into the pan, and these thin, delicious goodies will take only a couple of minutes to slide off the pan and into the waiting dish.


by Margaret Mendel

When my sisters and I were nine and ten years old it became our job in late summer to follow mom into the steamy pathways between the rows of corn. My sisters and I each dragged a huge metal bucket, kicking up dust, while we filled those heavy containers with the ears of corn mom said were ‘ready’.