a serialization in 14 parts

The Bridge That Would Not Burn

by Christina Rauh Fishburne

Week One:

in which Charlotte attends a most tedious carnival, with the even more tedious Mr. Porter.

Week Two:

in which Mr. Porter performs admirably in games of skill, and Mrs. Fellows is devilishly delicate.

Week Three:

in which the highly recommended Lt. Atchison takes the top apartment at Number 14 K Street, and Charlotte ponders how most to dislike him.

Week Four:

in which Charlotte slurps her tea, again, and does not ask Lt. Atchison if he found confederate treasure.

Week Five:

in which Charlotte and Lt. Atchison sit in each other’s chairs at the fire.

Week Six:

in which Dr. Ridgeway is unsure if the ladies wish to attend the exhibit he has already invited them to, and Charlotte finds it difficult to be bored in the parlor of Number 14 K Street.

Week Seven:

in which Charlotte contemplates the insolent humans with which she is forced to abide.

Week Eight:

in which Charlotte refuses to respond otherwise than agreeably to Lt. Atchison’s impudence, until Lt. Atchison arrives.

Week Nine:

in which Alice the chimneysweep girl lock-picks in her sleep, calling Charlotte’s attention to Lt. Atchison’s emptied wardrobe.

Week Ten:

in which Charlotte does not address Dr. Ridgeway as Daniel; Alice is found bleeding in the alley behind Number 14 K Street; and Mrs. Fellows provides comfort with her green travel coat.

Week Eleven:

in which Alice the chimneysweep girl does not know if she is 12 years-old, Lt. Atchison does not propose, and Charlotte has now no longer never said a proper goodbye.

Week Twelve:

in which appear a portending grandfather clock and an overlarge chess-piece knight, a defenestration and a small fire, and as much scandal as Charlotte can gracefully handle— though much more than her father can.

Week Thirteen:

in which there is a great deal of staircase awkwardness, and they make their dawn-light escape, but someone has a knife.

Week Fourteen:

in which there is acceptable proof of some aliveness at the threshold of a covered bridge, despite the exhaustion of wishing “good morning.”

Christina Rauh Fishburne is an Army wife and mother of three. She has an MFA from the University of Alabama, is working on a novel, and will cheerfully finish your cake for you.
She never sits in this, her favourite chair, because this chair does not appreciate her adoration of cake.
Find her at: 

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