“I can’t quite believe this,” the specialist exclaims.
These are words I like to hear from my agent when she’s scanning my just-written manuscript.
But they are not words a doctor should express to a new patient after he has taken a biopsy of a gland that popped out of nowhere on an until-now rather nondescript index finger. Continue reading
The stranger pulled off the hood of his cloak to reveal curly black hair, a cleft on his chin, and a quizzical expression on his handsome face. “I think we have a lot to discuss, my friend. Are you willing?”
He held out his hand. Nora clasped it like a woman drowning, even though she hadn’t known she’d been sinking.
“Yes,” she replied. (Are You Willing?)
But immediately Nora pulled her hand away.
But Nora wasn’t sure she was willing to explore the answers about who, or what, she really was with this dark-haired stranger who gave her the shivers. Continue reading
When Nora was young she allowed others to know of her difference. But many years ago she learned to keep her night-time charms to herself. Now, at 36 years, no doctors or therapists, no detectives or boyfriends could tell her what was “wrong” with her.
Absolutely nothing was wrong with her, and she kept it that way by keeping her secret to herself. Yes, she needed to be a solitary woman, but as a college professor, an opera lover, a hiker and a traveler, she could get out and about without colleagues figuring out what she was up to after midnight. Continue reading
THEN
The longer Gertie watches her mother, the more confused she is. Gertie is 6 and never knew that her mom has tears.
“Why are you crying? Gertie asks.
“Your grandmother died today,” her mom answers.
Gertie closes her eyes. Nanny is right there beside them. When she opens her eyes again, a soft yellow light grows and surrounds her mom. Continue reading
Pixabay image by Brigitte Werner
“You’ve got to do it. Let me find one for you,” Savannah suggested.
Eve rolled her eyes. “I’ve already interviewed five potential bodyguards. They were all Neanderthals.”
Eve stood, all five feet of her in her billowy blue caftan, and faced her agent. She knew Savannah thought her eccentric; but hell, that’s what authors were supposed to be. Continue reading
