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 (24)
Filter by community
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 6 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 19 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 19 days ago in Fiction
The Therapist's Room...Nearly...
The first sign of it was the horse. Not a real horse, although that would have been easier to explain to the neighbours than half the things that happened at my place on any given Tuesday. No, this one was painted on a child’s gumboot, one red gumboot abandoned just outside my office door with a smear of mud across the toe and a tiny plastic dinosaur stuffed in the top like it had packed for the apocalypse.
By Teena Quinn 22 days ago in Fiction
