From despair to hope... #Romance #Literary

Waiting On Hope
by T.M. Souders


She stepped to the ledge of the balcony, welcoming death—and the mercy it offered.
Three more steps and she would be free. One. Two.
The sudden bang on the door made Lexie jump. She stood, her toes curling over the cool, rough, concrete, only inches from the edge of descent.
Gripping the chair next to her, she tried to concentrate. She raised her arms straight out from her sides like an airplane. The morning air, cool on her skin, wrapped around her in a soft caress. She visualized the jump, the slap of wind on her face and in her hair. She didn’t flinch from the thought of the agony of impact, which may come before the blessed numbness. After all, she was no stranger to pain.
Opening her eyes, she glanced down at her feet. Without a railing, the unguarded slab of stone made for easy access to the waiting street below. She straightened her toes, no longer supported by the balcony.
The banging on the door persisted, making it hard for her to think. She tried to ignore the interruption, but the caller’s persistence made blocking out the sound impossible. Behind the pounding she heard a voice—one she recognized.
“Lexie, open up. Let me in. What the hell are you doing out there? You’re going to get yourself killed. Lex?” Sienna continued to call through the door.
Lexie glanced from the inside of her apartment back to the street below. Traffic loomed, along with the occasional pedestrian. She cursed Sienna for interfering. Why did she show up now?
All she needed was one more step, but the insistent banging outside her door thumped in the background of her mind, jarring the still thoughts of death from where they perched. She would have to wait.

One woman's quest for tail-wagging joy starts with a shock at the vet's office #Comedy

What the Dog Ate
by Jackie Bouchard


The vet handed Maggie Baxter a plastic specimen bag containing a pair of size-tiny, lavender thong panties extracted from her dog; but they were not hers. Or rather, they were hers now since she’d just paid $734 to have Dr. Carter surgically remove them from Kona’s gut.

She’d come home late the previous night from a three-day conference. When she crawled into bed, Dave had muttered hello, but was snoring again within the minute.

Then, this morning, she’d awakened to the muted foghorn sounds of Kona heaving. As she’d hurried down the hall to the living room, knowing that was where the chocolate Lab would be, she wondered two things: how could Dave sleep through that horrid noise; and why, in a house ninety percent floored with hardwood and tile, did the dog always throw up on the carpet?

She’d made it in time and pushed the big brown dog out back. Standing stiff-legged on the lawn, he had heaved several more times but nothing came up. When she’d offered him breakfast and he wouldn’t even look at it, she’d known a vet visit would be on the day’s agenda.

The Queen Has Spoken - It's Time To Move on With Your Life #Literary #Romance

Bookended By Beauty Queens

by Victoria Marshal


“If Anne’s apartment hadn’t burned you wouldn’t have been calling her to see how she was doing, would you?”
“No, but this is different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, if grandma were staying with Jess or Shay I would call to see how she was doing.”
Val folded his fingers together. “Then you should feel good about that.”
Angie felt sick to her stomach. She dropped her spoon on the table and wiped her fingers on a paper napkin.
“Well, I did until you put it that way.”
Angie sank down in her seat and shredded the edge of the napkin.
“You’re the middle child right?” Val asked.
Angie nodded.
“Then you should be used to this by now. Let me guess, you’ve always been the responsible one. Everyone always came to you with their problems because you’re close in age to your older sister and your younger sister.”
Val had hit the nail on the head. Angie had been the confidant for both Jess and Shay growing up. Not that she enjoyed the role; they forced it on her.
“So why are your panties in such a bunch?” Val gave her an exaggerated pout. “Feeling sorry for yourself?”
“Yes, damn it!” Angie slapped her palms onto the tabletop. “I have the right to feel sorry for myself every once in awhile.”
“Agreed,” Val said. “You go ahead and have your pity-party.”
Angie felt suddenly deflated. She’d expected an argument, or a pep-talk of some kind.
“What?”
“Everyone gets twenty-four-hours to feel sorry for themselves.” Val glanced at the clock. “I’d say you have eighteen left, so wallow all you want. After that honey, go buy yourself a new dress, a new pair of shoes, or whatever you need to do to pick yourself back up. Then get on with your life.”

Maxine's frustration at trying to explain her obsessive compulsive disorder to the psychiatrist... #MysterySuspense #Comedy

A Life Lived Ridiculously

by Dr Annabelle R Charbit


He frowned and I cringed. I was nearest to the door. If I bolted now I would save us both the time and embarrassment. Instead, I took a deep breath and steadily described my all-consuming encounters with lampshades, bedclothes, books, and clutter. As I listened to the words pour from my mouth, I could have thumped myself in the face. Not because the words evoked emotions, rather I was disappointed by the extent to which the words trivialized the mental anguish associated with these decorating dilemmas. It was like suffering from a broken leg but only having the vocabulary to describe a scraped knee. Words just didn’t do justice to the pain. How do you tell a stranger that you don’t like the shape of your lampshade and at the same time expect them to understand that you are describing a pain that inhabits you fully, inserts itself between your cells like cement and wears your skin like a coat? I just sounded like I was whining.

From "Had Eve Come First and Jonah Been a Woman" by Nancy Werking Poling

I seldom looked up. Meet the eyes of a guard and you were likely to be dragged behind a building and raped, especially if you were young, as I was. So my eyes were to the ground when the disturbance broke out: a woman’s curse shattering the monotonous grunts of those of us lifting and pulling and pushing; the angry shouts of men. Furtively glancing out the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a gold-trimmed robe disappearing around a corner.


“Keep moving,” we were ordered.


Usually the corpses we stepped over belonged to our sisters who had fallen from exhaustion or malnourishment. This time we were shocked to see the dead body of a guard.    
      

In the days that followed whispers passed among us. Mosiah, step-daughter of the princess, had heaved a rock at a guard and killed him. She had fled the city, a regiment of soldiers in pursuit. “After all I’ve done for her,” the king was heard to say. “I should have known she’d turn out to be like the rest of them.” The rest of them referring to women like me, foreign women who had for generations lived in captivity.

From "Where Dreams are Born" by Joyce DeBacco

It's the middle of the night and a child's night terrors have awakened the household...

Jack pressed into the shadows, certain his housekeeper would be embarrassed to be caught in her nightgown. Despite living under the same roof, sharing meals, chores, and children, the woman remained a mystery to him. There seemed to be no artifice about her, no pretense; and yet she'd revealed virtually nothing about her life before coming into his.

Had she always lived in Fishtown? Did she have family there? She'd never mentioned anyone other than the redneck scum she'd been living with, and only then because he'd pressed her.

While the sensible part of Jack pondered these things, another part told him that none of it mattered. He'd witnessed her gentle ministrations―the soothing caress of his troubled firstborn, the loving smile for his hyperactive, middle child, and the soft, cooing words to his baby―and a tightness gripped his chest.

At the county home, if anyone bothered to respond to a child's cry in the night, it was the night attendant with a growled admonishment to stop acting like a baby. There'd been rules to govern every aspect of life, from mealtime to playtime to bedtime. Lights out, no talking, no roughhousing, and no more trips to the bathroom.
Jack winced. Damned if that didn't sound like his own barked commands a few days earlier.

From "His Wife's Diary (Love Bites)" by Tess Allen

Don’t they realize I can hear them? Yes, I’m sick, but I’m not dead yet. How could he be so heartless? I can hear them!

India Reinhart couldn’t stand to read anymore, at least not now. Her heart was aching and she wished she had never found the diary. Wished she had never gone to the yard sale in Mission Hills last Saturday and picked up that box of autographed books. Little did she know that it also contained the diary wrapped in a piece of burgundy silk buried underneath them, this diary that now was driving her to tears.

She threw the leather-bound book with its gilded edges across the room. It hit the wall with a thud and she cringed. She hadn’t meant to do that, but the way it was making her feel she didn’t know what else to do.
 Shaking, she grabbed her phone and dialed her best friend Jewel Capri’s number. Moments later Jewel answered groggily but India barely gave her a chance to say hello.

“I took your advice, Jewel. I started reading that darned thing and I really, really, really wish I hadn’t.”

She could hear Jewel catch her breath.