Teena Quinn
Bio
Counsellor, writer, MS & Graves warrior. I write about healing, grief and hope. Lover of animals, my son and grandson, and grateful to my best friend for surviving my antics and holding me up, when I trip, which is often
Stories (29)
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The Last Biscuit. Content Warning.
The Last Biscuit By nightfall, the river had eaten the road. Not metaphorically. Properly. The old gravel strip that ran from the highway past the gum trees, over the dip, and up toward The Therapy Room had vanished under a sheet of black floodwater that moved with purpose. It wasn’t rain anymore. Rain was only the beginning. This was the river remembering where it used to go, and taking the land to task for forgetting.
By Teena Quinn 6 days ago in Horror
The Biscuit Tin
The Biscuit Tin By the time she arrived, the kettle had already begun its usual muttering. It did that before certain clients, as though it had a roster and took its responsibilities seriously. I had long suspected the house knew things before I did. The floorboards had their own opinions. The back door swelled shut in damp weather and only opened for those with patience. Even the biscuit tin, dented and blue, seemed to know the difference between a social visit and an emotional emergency.
By Teena Quinn 6 days ago in Motivation
What Nobody Says First
The Therapist’s Room: What Nobody Says First Part of a rolling series The first sign of it was the jar. Not an interesting jar, which would at least have had the decency to be cursed or ancient or full of teeth. No, this one was an ordinary glass jar with a green lid and a peeling sticker that had once said pickles. It sat in the middle of my waiting room table full of smooth white stones, like a small domestic mystery.
By Teena Quinn 14 days ago in Fiction
The One's Who Come Back
The Therapist’s Room: The Ones Who Come Back Everyone knew the old story. When someone dies badly, they linger. That was the version passed around in whispers and television specials and badly printed paperbacks sold beside incense and dreamcatchers. A spirit with unfinished business. A presence in the hallway. Cold spots, flickering lights, footsteps overhead. The dead, apparently, became poets the moment their heart stopped. They floated about in old houses wearing sorrow and purpose, waiting to deliver messages in riddles to whichever woman in a linen blouse happened to be spiritually available.
By Teena Quinn 28 days ago in Fiction
Before Anyone Says So...
The Therapist’s Room: Before Anyone Says So The first sign of it was not dramatic. That is important. People always think beginnings arrive with cymbals. A speech. A slammed door. A woman standing in the rain with mascara on her chin and a suitcase she packed with furious clarity, as if life had waited politely for her to become cinematic.
By Teena Quinn 28 days ago in Fiction
