Book Sunday #OurAuthorGang

 Today's recommendation

Cozy small-town mystery

Mysterious things happen in small towns.

When Danielle finally quits her boring accountant job and opens an Antiques & Stuff store, her life changes for the better. But soon happy life starts to spin out of

control when the snobbish new owner of the Couture mansion brings a seemingly worthless painting into Danielle’s shop. The ownership of the painting is questionable, and the town’s future is threatened by the plans of the ruthless, rich owner who wants to build a leather factory on the estate, too close to town.

An unexpected visitor arrives, and he may possess the much-needed solution to everyone’s problems in this quaint little town.

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Read a chapter from the book

Danielle fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. In her jumbled dream, she was running in a dense forest and her shoes kept sticking in mud slowing her down. She tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. Someone or something was chasing her, and she knew she had to get away. Suddenly, a beautiful man appeared and embraced her. She felt the warmth of the sun on her face and all her fears disappeared. She held onto his strong arms and looked into his passionate eyes. He started talking in a soft voice and Danielle struggled to hear his words but couldn’t. He caressed her shoulder and when their lips met in a sensuous kiss, she felt a pleasant tingle deep inside her body.

A sudden crashing sound yanked her out of the sweet dream. ‘Bloody Hell’ she heard a man’s muffled voice. What the— someone’s in the store! Fear coursed through Danielle as she stood up and reached for the handgun she kept by the couch, just in case. She felt safer when she occasionally slept in the store after a long day.

Gun in hand, she tiptoed from the backroom and turned the light on. “I have a gun, and I’m a good shot,” she warned, cocking the gun, trying to sound confident.

“Don’t shoot!” The man yelled and Danielle saw him running toward the door. He yanked the door open and heard his footsteps as he was running down the street. A minute later she heard a car engine and then the car speeding away.

Danielle took a deep breath and put the gun on the counter. Her hands were shaking as she dialed the police. “A man broke into my store! He’s gone but I’m afraid he might come back!” she cried.

“The dispatcher instructed her in a calming voice, “Hide in a room where you can lock the door. I’m sending a patrol car right away.”

Danielle was afraid to stay alone and called Sarah. Her best friend didn’t need a long explanation. “I’ll be there in a minute, don’t hang up,” she said, in a sleepy voice and Danielle heard the jingle of keys and Sarah starting her car engine a few seconds later.

The police car arrived at the same time as Sarah’s car screeched to a halt in front of the store. She jumped out and ran into the store barefoot, still in her pajamas. “Are you okay?” she cried out running to Danielle and hugged her.

“I’m fine,” Danielle assured her and looking at the two officers entering the store with guns in hand, continued. “He ran out of the store when I put the lights on, and I heard him driving away.”

“Did you see his face?” the taller officer asked, putting his gun in the holster.

“No, he stood here in front of the counter,” Danielle recalled. “But he turned his back to me so fast that I couldn’t see his face. All I saw was his dark overcoat, and he had gray, neatly trimmed hair.”

“Please look around to see if anything is missing.”

Danielle scanned the shelves and looked at the register. “Nothing seems to be missing.”

“The lock is busted,” the officer observed. “We’ll park in front of the store for a while. I advise you to go home.”

“No, I want to stay here,” Danielle replied. “I’ll call the locksmith in the morning.”

“Then I’m staying with you.” Sarah decided.

“I have spare clothes in the backroom. Go, change.”

“Okay.” Sarah turned and walked by the counter suddenly becoming upset. “Put that gun away, Danielle! I hate guns.”

“I will, don’t worry.” Danielle smiled and put the gun on the shelf under the counter.

After the officers walked out to the patrol car, Danielle closed the door behind them and secured a sturdy chair under the doorknob to hold the door closed. She left the lights on and legs still shaky, walked to the backroom to make coffee.

“Who could it be and what did he want?” Sarah questioned, putting the sweater on she found in the closet.

Danielle spooned the coffee into the filter and filled the machine with water. “I have no idea. Nothing is worth a lot of money in the store.”

Sarah cocked her head and pulled her thick, curly hair into a ponytail with a scrunchie. “Maybe he thought he’d find cash, or perhaps he knew exactly what he wanted.”

“He didn’t seem like a bum or addict who would steal anything to get his next fix. He looked well-groomed and wore Italian loafers. I recognized it because the lawyer down the street wears those kinds of shoes and he makes sure everyone knows that they’re Italian leather.”

“Yeah, he’s a pompous fool.” Sarah giggled and then her voice changed to a serious tone. “But if this man wasn’t just an average burglar who steals anything, he could get his hands on and wanted something specific, why didn’t he just come to the store and buy it?”

“I have no idea. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I was really scared. Thank you for coming over so fast, even in your PJs,” Danielle hugged Sarah.

“Of course, what are besties for?” Sarah patted Danielle’s back.

“I’m too wired to sleep, but you need rest. You’re working today, right? It’s 2 a.m. so you can still sleep for a few hours.”

“Nope, I’m off today, and I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re safe.”

Danielle held up the coffee pot. “Do you want some?”

“No, it always gives me heartburn in the middle of the night. Why don’t you lie down to sleep a little? I’ll stay up.”

Danielle filled her cup. “I’m too wired to sleep. I’m going to paint for a while.”

“Okay, then I’ll rest my eyes on that comfy couch.” Sarah yawned.

Danielle walked to her painting corner and after taking the cover off the half-done painting, she changed her mind. I’m going to clean the portrait of the Musketeer. Let’s see what’s hiding under that new coat of paint.

***

Danielle heard a knock on the window and looked up startled. She saw Mr. Jones straining to peek into the store through the window. Sitting on her stool in front of the easel with a brush in hand, she glanced at the clock. Oh, my! Is it nine o’clock already? She stood up and hurried to the front door. Pulling the chair from under the doorknob, she opened the door.

“Thank God you’re okay!” Mr. Jones pushed through the half-open door and hugged her. “I just heard from the butcher. Do you know who it was? Did they take anything? Did they try to hurt you? Why were you in the store so late?” his questions came as he was trying to catch his breath.

“I’m fine,” Danielle assured the worried mailman, smiling. “I haven’t the faintest idea who it was and what he wanted. He ran away when I yelled out and cocked my gun.”

“Oh, good! You should’ve shot him in the leg. He deserved it.”

“I don’t think he’s from around here,” Danielle speculated. “Only the lawyer down the street wears that brand of expensive loafers.”

“You don’t think…”

“No, he has brown hair and the burglar had silvery gray hair.”

“Now wait a minute!” the mailman grabbed Danielle’s arm in his excitement. “I might have seen that man at the Couture mansion. Mrs. Van Bramer’s secretary said he’s an art expert.”

“What’s going on?” Danielle heard Sarah’s sleepy voice behind her. “Oh, good morning Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones just told me he saw the man who broke into the store,” Danielle explained to her best friend.

The mailman yanked his carrier bag higher on his shoulder. “I’ll stop at the police station and report this.” He started walking away but turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. The bakery is open. Lucy’s niece had a baby boy. I got you fresh croissants.” He smiled and handed a paper bag to Danielle.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones! It was very nice of you,” Danielle called after the mailman as he hurried away down the sidewalk, and then turned to Sarah. “You’re not going to believe what I’ve found! Come, let me show you.” She reached for Sarah’s hand and led her to the corner in the store.

“Phew, it smells like turpentine over here.” Sarah crinkled her nose.

“I’ve been working on taking off the new layer of paint and now the signature of the artist is visible. He was a much sought-after painter in 17^th century France.”

“Let’s search it,” Sarah perked up. “Maybe this painting is worth a lot of money!”

“I’ll boot up the computer, but first, I’m going to call the locksmith. While the computer is warming up, we’ll eat the croissants Mr. Jones brought.” Danielle decided and covered the painting.

“Your ancient computer takes forever. You have to get a new one.”

“I know.” Danielle sighed. “I never had the money for it, but after the surge of customers, now I do.”

The locksmith said he’ll stop by before lunch and by the time the women finished breakfast, the ancient computer was ready for search. Danielle Googled the name of the artist and her jaw dropped when she clicked on the first website which popped up on her screen.

Sarah peeked over Danielle’s shoulder. “What? No way!” she shrieked and read the headline out loud. “The portrait of a noblewoman of the famous 17^th century artist was sold to a well know American art collector for ten million dollars.”

Danielle, not believing her eyes, backspaced and clicked on the next link. It was the auction website where the price of the painting was confirmed. She kept searching and found fifteen more paintings from the same artist that had been sold for similar amounts in the past ten years. “I have to tell Mrs. Van Bramer about this. She gave me the painting not knowing the possible value of it.”

“Wait a minute!” Sarah exclaimed. “What if that so-called expert knew the value of the painting and lied to Mrs. Van Bramer? I think he broke into the store. And what if she wants the painting back after she finds out how much it’s worth?”

“I’ll give it back to her, of course. She bought the house and found the painting in the hidden room; it belongs to her.”

“Nah-uh!” Sarah announced. “That’s not right. It belongs to the Couture family. I bet the old lady didn’t tell her relatives about the hidden room.”

“Or, maybe she didn’t even know about it. But you’re right; it had to be a member of the family who hid the painting in the secret room. It belongs to them. I’m going to finish cleaning the signature part to be sure, and then I’ll call Mrs. Van Bramer.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sarah decided. “I’m gonna go home to change but I’ll come back around one o’clock to bring you lunch.”

CONTINUE READING

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Poetry Day at #OurAuthorGang

 A poem by David W. Thompson

We’ll Remember

 

You left us way too early.

No time would be enough.

Still, time heals all, or so I’m told

But if the years do dull the pain

What then of the memories?

Will past joys, too, slip from sight?

 

Will my mind’s eye distort your visage

‘Til only faded photos remain?

Will your voices not whisper in the wind?

Soothing my fears, answering my prayers?

Will the taste of a freshly picked tomato

Not recall the loving labor of your hands?

 

For I’d bear this grief with a smile,

Pray the lash cut even deeper,

To never forget your names

To not know a day without you…

 

I saw your dreams forgotten.

While making our dreams come true

You did so forever smiling

Could it be that they were the same?

 

But my grief makes me selfish

For I knew you oh so long.

Others have missed you deeply

And now your pain is gone.

 

I know you’ll always be watching

To guide, to comfort, to cheer.

I know you’ll not be lonely

With so many in your arms.

 

But know this heart is empty.

Until I am too reborn.

 

And we won’t forget

Love you, Mom and Dad.

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Fate and Nostalgia #OurAuthorGang

 The Mysterious Knick-Knack

Mystery has always been a part of my life, and many of those mysterious events have found their way into my paranormal novels. Today, I want to take you back to a pivotal moment from my childhood—a moment that hinted at the incredible and unexpected journey my life would take. Join me as I share this story with you—one that shaped the path I never saw coming. Enjoy!

A Tale of Fate and Nostalgia

It was 1961, and at the ripe age of eight, I had already earned a reputation as a shopaholic. I adored my trips to the local dime store—just a stone's throw from home—where my mother and I would explore aisles brimming with everything from candy to curious little treasures. For me, it was nothing short of a treasure hunt.

One day, my mother sent me and a few friends to the market to pick up a few dinner items. Now, I know what you’re thinking—why would a parent let an eight-year-old wander off to a store alone? But in our small town, everyone knew everyone else, and back then, it was a different time. It wasn’t unusual for kids to run errands without an adult.

I don’t remember exactly what prompted me to veer off the path that day, but something—some inexplicable pull—led me into the Ben Franklin dime store. As I roamed the familiar aisles, my eyes landed on something that would spark a mystery spanning decades: a tiny ceramic figurine of a brown lady. She stood about two and a half inches tall, dressed in a brown polka-dotted dress, with a tiny pot in hand, featuring a hole for a candle. She was placed on a lower glass shelf among other knick-knacks, and for some reason, I felt an undeniable connection to her.

I don’t recall exactly how I ended up buying her, but I paid $9.00—a hefty sum for the time. When I returned home, my mother was less than thrilled about my impulse purchase. She was especially upset by the price. After all, $9.00 seemed like an outrageous amount for such a small item. She suspected the store had made an error or that it belonged to a set, so we made our way back to the store to get some answers.

The manager examined the little figurine carefully, rolling it between his fingers, and inspecting every inch of it. After looking through the store’s inventory, he was baffled. He couldn’t understand how it ended up on the shelf. His skeptical gaze made it clear he thought I might have brought it in myself.

Despite the mystery, my mother decided we’d keep the little brown lady as a memento of that unusual shopping trip. I placed her on my bedroom dresser, still puzzled as to why I had been so drawn to her.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that this tiny knick-knack would hold the key to a journey that would unfold forty years later.

***

Fast forward to 2008, a year that brought unimaginable sorrow. Within just three months, I lost both of my parents to cancer. As if that wasn’t enough, my husband and I both lost our jobs, and it felt like we had fallen into a dark abyss.

But fate had other plans. In the spring of the following year, my husband received a job offer in the Cayman Islands. He accepted, and just like that, we were off to Grand Cayman—a fresh start that lasted nine years.

Our first week there was blissful. We explored the stunning beaches, visited local tourist spots, and reveled in the beauty of the island. But when my husband started work the following week, I found myself with some free time. I ventured into Georgetown, the island’s main town, to check out the shops.

One shop in particular caught my eye. It was filled with vibrant Caymanian and Jamaican gifts and collectibles—souvenirs from the island’s Jamaican community. As I wandered the aisles, something familiar caught my attention: a collection of small, colorful dolls. They resembled my little brown lady from all those years ago.

I asked the shop clerk about them, and she explained they were called Jamaican Colonial Dolls. I couldn’t help but smile and share the story of my little ceramic treasure. He nodded knowingly and said, “Guess you were meant to be here.”

At that moment, it dawned on me—this was no coincidence. That small, mysterious knick-knack I’d bought so long ago had led me to this island for a deeper understanding of the strange and beautiful connections life sometimes offers.

Sometimes, the smallest things are the most profound, and we can never truly know their impact on our lives.

Lorraine Carey

https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

Lorraine Carey is a reading specialist and an Award-Winning Author. She was living in California until fate whisked her off to Grand Cayman. She currently lives in Florida. Her love for paranormal stories began at a young age, and is no stranger to the paranormal, having encountered unexplainable events that are woven into her stories.

The Song of #OurAuthorGang

 What is #OurAuthorGang?

#OurAuthorGang is a diverse group of writers from around the world, united by their love of literature and support for each other's creative endeavors, and each member brings their unique style and voice to the group.

#OurAuthorGang is not just a name or hashtag - it represents a community built on mutual respect, creativity, and passion for storytelling. The members may come from different backgrounds and cultures, but they are connected by their shared love for literature and their determination to make an impact through their writing.

This diverse group showcases the power of collaboration and the potential it has to elevate individuals and create something truly special.

Click to watch the video and listen to our song

Enjoy our stories:

https://asmallgangofauthors.blogspot.com/p/gallery.html

The song and video created by:

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Video Day 4 at #OurAuthorGang

 Lorraine reads an excerpt

From a sci-fi story published 

in the What If? #1 Anthology

Lorraine Carey https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

https://books2read.com/u/b5wDEA

Enjoy a video and song from a YA novella

English with new cover https://books2read.com/The-Potion-by-Erika-M-Szabo

Spanish https://books2read.com/La-Pocion-por-Erika-M-Szabo

Flash Fiction Challenge 4 at #OurAuthorGang

 Challenge accepted by guest author Sara Sartagne

Flash fiction is a concise form of prose storytelling consisting of self-contained stories that may also be referred to as sudden fiction, short-short stories, micro-fiction, or micro-stories. This particular genre is highly regarded by renowned English writers for its ability to convey profound insights and timeless human emotions within a few short paragraphs.

Sara's challenge was to write a flash fiction story of less than 500 words, based on this picture:

The photo album

The photo album sat on a shelf, and I could draw my finger through the dust that had settled on it. I drew it carefully towards me, away from the old postcards, received three years ago, out of date coupons for money off milk and baked beans, and a bit of string tied in a careful bow. She would have used that string in the garden, I thought, and blowing gently to remove most of the grime, I settled at the kitchen table and opened the stiff pages.

She stared out at me, fresh-faced, her smile as bright as sunlight, her shining eyes crinkling at the edges. She peeked over the bouquet of freesias, Lilly of the Valley and eucalyptus and dared the future. I could still hear her giggle as she only just kept her feet climbing out of the car, nearly putting her stiletto heel through her veil.    

I leafed through the pages, recognising friends, relatives that had been ancient then, let alone now, on a sunny August day that I could still recall as almost too hot for comfort. And there was I, ten pounds lighter, skin less lined, hair a different colour, wearing a preposterous hat (had I worn it for a dare?). I leaned close to her, laughing at the sheer joy of the day with her. I recall we hated the vicar’s ponderous voice and patronising sermon, a church wedding only to pacify her mother-in-law to-be, and how the chicken had been over cooked at the wedding breakfast.

I sat back, remembering. The church bells echoed through the chatter and the laughter, and later the overpowering, throat-catching smell of lilies (another mother-in-law to-be demand). The endless expanse of green lawns, sweltering in the midsummer heat and the gentle clinking of champagne glasses as everyone relaxed at the posh hall.

She slipped your excruciating heels off under the top table and wriggled her toes throughout the meal, discarding them altogether when the dancing started. Even so, she was a little taller than her husband, but stared adoringly into his eyes. The song was by Coldplay, saccharine but absolutely right for the occasion.

Her going away outfit included trainers, to the horror of her (now) mother-in-law, but no-one else cared or noticed, such was the blaze of love in her face. Such happiness, it was hard to look at the pictures too long.

I reach the last page and on it was a headshot of her, smiling into the camera, her eyes soft with elation and hope. But in this last photo, the tear on her cheek surprised me.

Until I realised it was mine. 

Sara Sartagne

https://sarasartagne.com

Sara Sartagne writes women’s fiction featuring brave women, often weaving love stories through the narrative. Her English Garden Romance series reflects her passion for gardening. The novellas are downloadable from her website. The Duality books combine contemporary and historical plots into award-winning standalone dual timelines. She lives in East Yorkshire, moving from London to a HUGE garden in 2019.

Campfire Stories 8 at #OurAuthorGang

 Amaya's Baby by Erika M Szabo

Maria was deeply concerned about her best friend. She had never seen Kati so withdrawn since the first spirit had visited her during their high school days. The memory of Kati's vibrant personality seemed like a distant echo. "We need to pull her out of this slump," Maria said to her husband, Mike, her voice tinged with urgency.

"What can we do?” Mike asked, jamming his clothes into a duffle bag, his brows furrowed with worry. “Has she told you what's troubling her?"

"No, she shuts down every time I try to ask," Maria replied with a sigh, frustration evident in her tone. “Fold those T-shirts, Mike! Don’t just shove them into the bag.”

“Okay, miss perfection! Who will see us in the woods to complain about my wrinkled clothes?” Mike laughed, and staring into nothingness for a second, he mused. "I know she hates camping, but suddenly, I’m getting this strong urge to take her with us… so strange."

"It’s strange indeed,” Maria said, glancing at her husband. “But I think that's a great idea," Maria agreed, her spirits lifting at the thought. "Perhaps the crisp, fresh air and an escape from the bustling chaos of the city will be just what she needs. I’ll call her."

Kati, reluctantly, but agreed to spend the weekend with the couple at their campsite by the lake in the mountains. They arrived late Friday afternoon and after parking their trailer, Mike took the firewood out of the trunk and made a campfire. The women prepared sausages and potatoes to bake, and they prepared salad and dessert.

After dinner, they settled by the crackling fire, its warm glow casting flickering shadows around them. The soothing symphony of the forest enveloped their senses: the whispering rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, the distant call of a night owl echoing through the trees, and the soft chirping of crickets harmonizing with the crackle of burning wood. The night air was cool, carrying the earthy scent of the forest floor, and the stars above twinkled like scattered diamonds in the velvet sky.

“It’s so peaceful here,” Kati sighed. “I know you’ve been worried about me, and I love you for that,” she turned to Maria. “I wanted to tell you but… okay I’ll tell you what’s been bothering me.”

Maria silently hugged her friend.

“I’ve been searching for Amaya’s little girl,” Kati sobbed. “And I can’t find her.”

“Is… is she?” Maria asked softly.

“Yes, both of them are dead. The first time I saw Amaya's ghost happened two weeks ago. She showed me a once magnificent house reduced to a charred skeleton by a fire lit by her husband. I could feel the weight of the tragedy that had befallen her. She had been searching for her baby, their once peaceful home now a chaotic memory, but she thinks she’s been doomed to wander this earth without ever finding her child.”

“That’s terrible!” Mike whispered, but Maria silenced her husband with a stern look.

Kati continued, “She could still see the fury in her husband's eyes as he accused her of infidelity, his rage building until he snapped and ended her life and that of their 3-month-old baby girl. Amaya had been unable to protect her innocent baby from her husband's wrath, and now she’s left with the agony. She longs to hold her child, to feel the warmth of her tiny body in her arms. But it was all in vain, she can’t find her baby.” Kati cried.

“There, there,” Maria patted Kati’s shoulder. “Did you see Amaya’s ghost again?”

“Yes, I see her every day. She’s feeling a surge of anger and despair and lets out a mournful wail. It’s heartbreaking to see Amaya's translucent form floating through the charred remains, her eyes glimmering with grief and determination. The memory of acrid smoke and the feeling of the searing heat that had consumed her flesh is still vivid in her thoughts, but she is a ghost now, and the pain no longer affects her in the same way. But her soul is in agony. She told me she had heard whispers from other spirits that the baby's spirit lingers and moves from place to place, crying for her mother. With renewed hope, Amaya searches, calling out for her child in a voice that only the dead could hear. But as the hours turned into days, Amaya's hope began to dwindle. She could feel herself losing her grip on this world, the pull to the afterlife growing stronger with each passing day. But she refuses to leave without her baby.”

“Is there any way you could help her?” Maria cried out.

Kati grabbed Maria’s hand, staring at the lake shore her eyes wide. “Oh, they’re over there!” she whispered. “Amaya is holding her baby girl in her arms.” Kati sighed, tears flowing down her face. “Amaya is smiling and showing me how her little girl urged Mike to invite me on this trip. She wanted me to know she’s at peace now. Oh, it’s so beautiful! They’re floating toward the brilliant light.”

Maria and Mike turned their heads, but they only saw the full moon’s shimmering reflection on the water. 

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Book Sunday #OurAuthorGang

 Today we recommend a trilogy

for adult readers

ON AMAZON

Intelligent, well-spoken and beautiful, Helen Pawson has lived a privileged life. Her parents have made sure she wants for nothing. She’s attended the best private schools and has learned to appreciate the finer things in life. In her mind, she has everything she needs at her fingertips.

Her father’s unexpected illness soon turns Helen’s world topsy-turvy. To make matters worse, she experiences a betrayal that will last a lifetime.  Determined to overcome the mental illness she fights she dives head-first into a decision that will change her life forever.

The trials and tribulations of marriage leave her wanting more. From the life she leads.  Displeased and tired of her husband’s dark secrets, Helen sets out on a voyage of self-discovery. One that leads her straight into the arms of dashing Simon.

Startled by the fact that she enjoys carnal pleasures in more ways than one, Helen agrees to Simon’s subtle demands. In doing so, he opens her eyes to the dark and gritty world of being a call girl. A world she begins to crave.

The secrets of Helen’s past follow her at every turn. If she’s to succeed in making something of herself, she’ll need to confront each of her ghosts. Will she be able to set all wrongs to right before it’s too late? Or will her new hunger for more end up swallowing her in the process?

Read a chapter

“They’ve all been tried and tested at some of our other dinner parties.” I told Anthony. “Do you think the menu’s alright then? I don’t want to try anything new in case I make a mess of things.”

“This menu will be fine, trust me. They’ll love it.” He replied confidently.

I’m not so bloody sure about that!

The dreaded evening arrived. Anthony went out to welcome them as their car pulled into the drive. I peered out of the kitchen window hoping I wouldn’t be seen by them. Always brought up to believe that it is good manners when you get invited out to dinner to take a gift along; a bottle of wine, flowers or even some chocolates, I wasn’t sure what to expect from them. I noticed they were both empty-handed. I walked over to the door to greet them as they entered the kitchen and held out my hand,

“Eileen! John! How lovely to see you again.”

“Hello.” She grunted, poker-faced as usual as she glanced at my proffered hand and pushed straight past. John put his hand out, fleetingly shook mine and swiftly pulled it back out of my grasp. Hell fire, did he think he was going to bloody catch something from me if he held on too long? I looked over at Anthony to see if he noticed their reactions towards me…he had. He shrugged his shoulders at me and asked them both if they wanted a glass of wine. Eileen said she’d have a glass but quickly followed with,

“Your father won’t want one, he’s driving.”

Like he had a choice in the matter!

“Would you like a tour of the house, Eileen?” I offered politely.

“I’ll show myself around, or Anthony can give me a tour. You get back to heating the ready meal.” She walked off leaving me totally flabbergasted. I heard her footsteps on the stairs seconds later. Again I looked at Anthony for support and mouthed the words at him ‘get back to heating the ready meal up?’ He mouthed back,

‘Shhh!’ and shook his head. I gave him one of my looks and stomped back to the kitchen. So he was going to let his mother get away with everything. Maybe he would, but I was definitely not going to!

They took their seats in the dining room half an hour later and I served up the starter before sitting down myself. Eileen stared at her plate a few seconds too long, looked over at Anthony and asked,

“What on earth is this?” I just couldn’t resist,

“Why don’t you ask me, Eileen? Anthony doesn’t really remember, and it was me who did the cooking.” She didn’t even acknowledge me or cast a look in my direction.

“They are called Glamorgan sausages (pointing at them), and that is red onion chutney” I said (pointing again), and indicating next the few lettuce leaves and cherry tomatoes, “and that’s a bit of salad on the side.”

I could feel Anthony’s eyes burning into the side of my face and I didn’t give a damn!

“Is it cheese?” She asked.

“Yes. Caerphilly.”

She pushed the plate away, remarking, “Cheese gives me a headache.”

“Forgive me, Eileen.” I said in my sickliest of voices, “I never realised.” I caught a disapproving look in her direction from her husband. The main course also met with disapproval,

“I do think lamb is so terribly fatty. We hardly ever eat it.”

I chose to ignore the comment, carried on eating, and listened to her continued, scathing remarks to Anthony about the décor in our bedroom, our choice of leather suite in the lounge and how we rushed in to marriage far too soon. She pushed her food around the plate as she talked and I noticed the determination on her face. The bloody woman had no desire to eat anything that I cooked and furthermore, she was hell bent on insulting me at every given opportunity.

I could see that John was starting to feel very uncomfortable with her behaviour and perhaps feeling a little sorry for me. He ate everything on his plate and complimented me on the menu, despite the glower he got from his wife. He was interested in, and asked me intelligent questions about my work and badminton, which he apparently had been pretty good at in his younger days. The guy was actually good company and pleasant to talk to. I was pretty adept at being able to hold a conversation with one person and pick up on things being discussed in a second conversation and sure enough, Eileen carried on spewing out her cynicism.

As I served up dessert and placed Eileen’s in front of her I couldn’t stop my sarcasm surfacing,

“Eileen, if the dessert is not to your liking I can get you some ice-cream from the freezer - something that I’ve not prepared.”

It was a waste of time, the woman was so thick-skinned. I was by now, avoiding all eye contact with Anthony and John couldn’t fail to see the warning looks from Eileen while I had been in the kitchen as he became very quiet again. I ate my cheesecake and decided I had enough tension for one night. Pushing my chair back and standing up, I announced,

“Do excuse me folks, I have a headache and I’m going to bed. It has been nice to see you again, John.”

“Too much wine darling?” Anthony asked me sarcastically.

“No! It must be the cheese in the Glamorgan sausages. Good night!” and feigning calmness and serenity I walked out and left them.

I heard their car pull out of the drive fifteen minutes later, which was rapidly followed by Anthony’s footsteps thundering up the stairs. He shoved the bedroom door wide open, hitting the chest of drawers behind it and pointed at me accusingly,

“YOU” he shouted loudly “have embarrassed me tonight, Helen. How dare you treat my mother in that manner?”

I’d already calmed down and was ready for the onslaught I knew was coming.

“So it’s just fine then…the way she has been trying to belittle me all evening? You did not find anything wrong with the things that she said to insult your wife, Anthony? That is acceptable is it…for her to speak to me the way that she did? Does my father talk down to you? Does he insult you at every given opportunity? He never would do that though, he has better manners, and at least he likes you. But if he didn’t, I would still defend you, Anthony. That is what a husband and wife should do after all, support each other. She hates me! I think your dad likes me but he has to do her bidding. I feel sorry for him.”

I struck a chord. The truth hurt! He was beyond furious. Unable to defend his mother further he screamed,

“F*** YOU, HELEN!” and with that, he slammed the bedroom door and was gone. For the first time since we married, I woke up alone the next morning. Anthony slept in one of the guest bedrooms for the night.

Eva Bielby

https://www.evabielby.co.uk

Eva Bielby was born in North Yorkshire in the Northeast of England. She has spent over thirty years of her working life as a company accountant. Eva has a keen interest in spiritualism/mediumship and has attended several workshops to develop her skills further. During her quieter moments, Eva enjoys a cryptic crossword, sudoku, and gardening.

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Poetry Day 3 at #OurAuthorGang

 A poem by Eva Bielby

LONG AWAITED!

It happened weeks too early.

Something was wrong.

I knew it when the pains started.

Hours later, after all the pain…

no baby in my arms.

Three weeks dead in my womb I was told.

How had I not realised?

Utter devastation.

The questions; did I want to see my baby girl?

Did I want to hold her? A funeral?

I couldn’t think straight.

No! No! And no!

If I didn’t see, if I didn’t cuddle…

I couldn’t hurt,

or so I told myself.

 

A year later.

Thirty-seven weeks with child.

The pains started early,

but she had been moving.

I’d felt her move,

she would be okay.

But tragedy struck once more

My new hope was gone.

Too tiny and weak to fight.

The course of labour, a hard one.

Heartbroken, bewilderment.

Why me? Why my babies?

The questions again.

No! No! And yet again….No!!!

I can’t hurt if I keep saying no,

I kept reminding myself

It’ll hurt too much. Say no…keep saying no!

 

Years later, the regret.

Did it stop the hurt? I keep saying no.

I try, and fail, to picture faces that I never saw.

Images I’ve tried to conjure,

but they remain elusive.

Those tiny features,

the ones I chose not to see,

they won’t come to me.

Hard as I try, those visions just pass me by.

The one and only hug from a mummy

they would never know.

Deprived of that one touch, that tender moment.

But the intangible bond remains.

The love that never left me,

the tears I’ve shed alone

and the yearning goes on.

The hurt never diminished.

Maybe they will wait for me…

and my despair will be such pride

when I see my beautiful angels

and finally fold my wings around them.

A mother’s hug.

Long awaited….

© Eva Bielby 2017

I dedicate this poem to my two baby girls, born stillborn, in 1979 and 1980. They were never christened, but I will always refer to them as Paula and Lynsey. I was told that they were perfectly formed and the reason they died was because they weren’t getting the essential nourishment from the placenta. I bitterly regret choosing not to hold them and see their tiny faces, but I think at that time, the decision was the best one for me. I did go on to have a healthy son and daughter.

Eva Bielby

https://www.evabielby.co.uk

Eva Bielby was born in North Yorkshire in the Northeast of England. She has spent over thirty years of her working life as a company accountant. Eva has a keen interest in spiritualism/mediumship and has attended several workshops to develop her skills further. During her quieter moments, Eva enjoys a cryptic crossword, sudoku, and gardening.

Life in the Countryside #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by Erika M Szabo

Mary and Michael enjoyed a peaceful life in their cozy countryside home. The spacious backyard and few acres land flourished. Their two large German Shepherds, Tucker and Hazel, took their job seriously, vigilantly overseeing the chickens, geese, and ducks that wandered freely in the expansive backyard. Michael had been raising and training the two dogs since they were puppies, teaching them to patrol the property to ensure safety and protect their animals from predators, whether they walked on four legs or two.

Their neighbors were like-minded people, appreciating the uncomplicated and serene lifestyle their environment provided. No one was bothered by the early morning chatter of roosters or the lively songs of birds. The bleating of lambs and goats contributed to the natural symphony that welcomed them each day.

Mary sat on the porch, enjoying her morning coffee and the serene beauty around her, feeling thankful for the life they had created together. It was a stark contrast to the city's hustle and bustle, but it was their own slice of paradise, and they wouldn't trade it for anything. Michael soon joined her, carrying a plate of freshly baked scones. While enjoying their breakfast, they talked about what they would do for the day. They chose to spend the morning working in the vegetable garden and then enjoy a peaceful afternoon reading and unwinding under the shade of their prized walnut tree.

As the day progressed, Mary and Michael's tranquil life was unexpectedly interrupted by some unsettling news. Their neighbor, George, drove into their yard on his way to town and asked, "Have you noticed anything missing from your property recently?"

"No, why are you asking?"

"Well, five of my chickens vanished from the coop this morning, and Charlie said two of his were gone yesterday."

"It might be a stray fox or coyote. They're common predators around here," Mike suggested.

"I doubt it. I talked to Joe down the road, and he mentioned two of his ducks went missing without a trace the day before yesterday. I'm heading to town to discuss it with others. You coming?"

"Absolutely!" Mike replied enthusiastically, kicking off his gardening boots and stepping into his sneakers.

They drove into town and heard similar stories from other neighbors they met at the Pub.

“It can’t be a coyote or a fox. There weren’t any feathers or bloodstains around the henhouse,” one man said.

Another farmer added, “It’s like the birds just disappeared into thin air.”

A stocky man exclaimed, "One of my piglets disappeared three days ago, and I haven't heard a peep. Even my dogs were quiet all night, and those monsters usually wake me up a few times a night because a leaf falls off the tree or an owl hoots nearby."

George, while scratching his stubble, concluded, “Now that you mention it… My dogs were strangely quiet all night. It’s definitely a two-legged thief, and the dogs might even know who it is. We need to keep watch!”

Everyone was anxious and uneasy about these strange events, as nothing like this had ever happened in their peaceful community before.

When Michael got home, he sat on the porch with Mary telling her about what he learned in town. Just then, the mailman pulled into the yard with his small white car, and getting out, he walked up the steps and handed a stack of envelopes and newspaper to Michael. “Beautiful day,” he smiled.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Mary asked.

“Thank you, but I have to go. Lots of mail to deliver,” the mailman turned and started walking down the steps. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

As he drove down the driveway, Hazel and Tucker followed the car. They usually followed every visitor’s car or truck until they reached the road and turned, but this time they stopped halfway. They stood looking down at something and Hazel let out a short bark. “Wonder what they’ve found,” Michael said and walked toward the dogs.

The dogs standing over a piece of raw meat drooled but didn’t touch it. They were trained to start eating only when they heard the German word, essen (eat).

Michael picked up the meat and took it up to the porch where Mary sat, waiting to find out what the dogs found. “I bet this meat is spiked with something to make the dogs sleep,” Michael mused. “The neighbors said their dogs never barked the night their livestock went missing.”

“That dirty weasel!” Mary shouted. “So, he’s the thief!”  

“This is no proof, we have to catch him in the act. I'm going to stay awake tonight," Michael resolved.

“I’ll stay up with you,” Mary said, quickly forming a plan. “We’ll sit on the porch hidden by the rhododendron bushes. Tonight is the full moon, we’ll see if anyone comes to the property.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Michael smiled. “Let’s do it.”

That evening, Mary and Michael settled on their porch, Tucker and Hazel lying at their feet. To fend off the cool night air, they wrapped themselves in blankets, sipping hot tea from a thermos and nibbling on snacks. Meanwhile, the dogs remained vigilant, their sharp senses attuned to any potential threats in the air.

They sat quietly, their eyes scanning their surroundings. The idea of an intruder sneaking into their tranquil neighborhood and robbing their neighbors was disturbing. Hours slipped away without any hint of suspicious behavior. The only noises were the natural ones—crickets chirping, owls hooting, and leaves rustling every so often. Suddenly, Hazel perked up, sniffing the air and giving a gentle snort. Tucker rose, his fur bristling. Mike placed his hands on the dogs' heads to keep them quiet as they detected faint footsteps.

Michael kept a firm grip on the dogs, determined not to let them bark and reveal their hiding spot. The sound of footsteps intensified, and soon they saw the shadowy outline of a man pausing beneath the walnut tree. Mary and Michael exchanged anxious looks as the figure stepped into the moonlight, moving toward the fenced area where the henhouse and pigpen were located. "Hazel, Tucker, pay attention!" Michael whispered to the dogs, capturing their focus.

The dogs stood attentively in front of Michael, their eyes locked onto him as he softly commanded, "Track. Tackle. Hold. Go!" The dogs stealthily moved through the shadows of the flowerbeds toward the fence, where the man was struggling with the gate's lock. Just as he managed to unlock the gate and step through, Tucker sprang forward with incredible speed and brought him to the ground face down.

The man yelled in terror and attempted to crawl away, but Tucker pinned him down, growling, while Hazel bared her razor-sharp teeth just inches from his face. Paralyzed by fear, the man didn't dare move. Michael and Mary quickly approached with a flashlight, and when they illuminated the man's face.

"Well, would you look at that!" Michael remarked. “Mailman in the daytime and a chicken thief at night.”

"Wait, please, let me explain!" the man pleaded.

"There's no need for an explanation right now. We've caught you in the act," Michael stated firmly.

“But wait!” the mailman begged. “Paul, who owns a restaurant on Main Street, made me do it. You see, I lost a lot of money playing cards and borrowed from him, and he said I could pay him back in livestock. I had no choice.”

"So, Paul thought he could serve us our own livestock for dinner, huh?" Mary huffed. "I'm calling the police," she said, pulling her phone from her pocket.

Michael put his hand on Mary’s arm. "Hold on, don't call them just yet. We'll contact them in the morning, along with the neighbors. Everyone needs to know, and Paul has to pay for his crime too."

"But..." Mary glanced at her husband, concern etched in her expression. Michael winked at her before giving orders to the dogs. "Tucker, Hazel, behalten, uhr (keep, watch)!" he commanded while Mary turned her head to hide her smile. 

Hazel sank onto her stomach inches from the man’s face, eyes locked on the thief, while Tucker stretched across the man's back, growling whenever he attempted to move.

"Let's go inside," Michael said, wrapping Mary in a hug. "He's not going anywhere, and we can have a nice breakfast."

"I have a nice piece of liver in the fridge. I'll cook it for the dogs," Mary whispered, glancing back.

"They deserve it," Michael smiled as he watched Hazel swish her tale and a long drop of drool landed on the man's face. He was too scared to wipe it off.

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

The Canterville Ghost at #OurAuthorGang

 A timeless tale by Oscar Wilde

Picture credit: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde

Oscar Wilde tried his hand at various literary activities: he wrote a play, published a book of poems, lectured in the United States and Canada on "The English Renaissance" in art and interior decoration, and then returned to London where he lectured on his American travels and wrote reviews for various periodicals. Known for his biting wit, flamboyant dress and glittering conversational skill, Wilde became one of the best-known personalities of his day.

"The Canterville Ghost" is a humorous short story by Oscar Wilde. It was the first of Wilde's stories to be published, appearing in two parts in The Court and Society Review, 23 February and 2 March 1887. The story is about an American family who moved to a castle haunted by the ghost of a dead English nobleman, who killed his wife and was then walled in and starved to death by his wife's brothers. It has been adapted for the stage and screen several times.

Listen to the audiobook read by David Barnes

Watch the movie

With Patrick Stewart, Neve Campbell, Joan Sims, Donald Sinden, Cherie Lunghi, Edward Wiley, Leslie Phillips

Video Day 3 at #OurAuthorGang

 Lorraine chats with authors and reads stories

Erika's chat with author Lorraine Carey

Erika M Szabo https://authorerikamszabo.com

Lorraine Carey https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

Lorraine is reading a story excerpt

From the What If? #4 Anthology