Writer, wife and mom of 3.
She writes fiction and the occasional articles on whatever she find interesting at the moment.
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The Cliff: Chapter One
He settled on the edge of the cliff as waves struck and curled over the rocks below, creating a fierce rhythm. It vibrated his soul, shaking out places of misery and bringing healing. This was his place. Lorna’s too, the voice in his head informed him. Disgust twisted his face. "No," he said, shaking his head, "not anymore."
The Cliff: Chapter Two
Lorna paced the floor of her small, cozy apartment, stunned, she’d had to leave a voicemail. The phone rested like a brick in her hand. Her heart squeezed tight, and her stomach twisted with knots. She had known he wouldn’t answer. Why would he? He didn’t owe her his time. She wiped the warm, damp from her cool cheek. It was the right thing, walking away to save him. She was a hero, or so she told herself when the pain became unbearable.
The Cliff: Chapter Three
A loud knock startled Lorna awake. “Hm… wonder who’s here.” Grabbing a robe from the bathroom door, she wrapped tight and cracked the front door. The hallway appeared empty. Confused, she went to shut it when something caught her eye. A leather-bound book sat on the floor. Curious, she picked the book up. “Wonder who left this. Why didn’t they wait and hand it to me?” She ran a hand over the family name, Reaves, impressed in the soft black leather. The book vibrated. “What the—”. Startled, the book slipped and hit the floor with a thud. Cautious, she used a foot to scoot the book into the apartment and slammed the door.
An Uncomfortable Ride
The cool air blasted into the Town and Country minivan. It was a couple of years old now, but I loved my purchase. It fit my family of five, had all the fancy stuff, and made me a few extra bucks when a customer needed a larger Uber. Most of my customers enjoyed what I offered in comfort and space. I seldom had complaints. Except for tonight.
The Day The World Turned Red
The calendar above her purple desk held bold red X’s, leading the countdown to the purple and yellow stars surrounding the 17th day of June. It was finally here. For months, she’d been excited for this day. Today she turned thirteen and was finally a teenager.
She opened the bright white door of room 111. Brown lattice hung behind the two queen-size beds striped in blood orange, pine green, and white. Claws from the feet of the end tables dug into the golden-brown shag carpet. A dark wooden liquor cabinet displayed a decanter of liquor and crystal glasses. A lone white chair sat in the corner. Sunlight sparkled through an oval window in the patio door. She gasped. “Why Harry, it’s a lovely place. I don’t know what you were going on about. I think they fixed this place up beautifully.”
The mirror behind him, spotted and hazy, held the room of half empty tables, a few regulars, and deep shadows. Smoke danced through the dimly lit room. The bartender wiped down the bar, covered in nicks and dips. He poured drinks as he moved up the bar. An old Wurlitzer 1700 jukebox, blue and red shone like a prize at the center of the room. The record player swirled, picking up the next record. Paula Abdul shared her woes of an encounter with a cold-hearted snake. A small TV hung in the corner, spelling out the news.
His cell phone buzzed on the hotel nightstand. A picture of his wife smiled back at him on the screen. A sigh escaped his lips as he turned it over. The buzzing stopped. He ran his hands through his scruffy dark hair. A woman breathed deeply beside him. She shifted, grabbed the wrinkled white sheet, pulled it over bare skin, and then stilled. Layers of black curls fell from her shoulder. He stood, zipped up his pants, tossed a couple crinkled hundreds on the bed, and walked out the door.