Storytime Quarterly Blog Hop

April 24, 2024

Storytime Quarterly Blog Hop: Midlife Ghostwalker

Sneak peek: My series cover for Midlife Ghostwalker

Life doesn’t have to be a series of blunders, and even if it is, there is no reason you cannot turn the blunders to your advantage.

~Katje Storm

Never trust a man who says he wants to work out an agreement for your divorce over dinner, especially when he is the one doing the cooking.

I’m Katje Storm and I’m temporarily dead. Or so, my cheating soon-to-be ex-husband told me, before he murdered me.

I’m not sure how long I strolled through this dead garden of withered flowers, chipped oscillating grayish stones, and eerie morphing cherub faces, reading each headstone, searching for some arcane key CLUE, Shamus said he needed.

He brought me to this place while I was dying explaining the whole time why he did it and what he wanted. He’d shown me two unrecognizable symbols that I was to look for during my search.

I found Nada. HE told me he was doing this to activate my Ghostwalker powers, whatever those are, and that I would THANK him later.

HE said. I wouldn’t stay dead. That I had some kind of magical destiny. I had the power to resurrect myself. Was he insane or was I?

He better be right about the temporary!

If he’s wrong–HE’s screwed. Because I’m gonna be his worst nightmare. That’s not all. HE said he was a necromancer, and IF, worse comes to worst, he could bring me back from the dead.

WHAT?

That is not exactly how that works. I read urban fantasy. I watch television, it’s sad to say, a lot of television… ah, “The Walking Dead.” Who wants to be a rotting zombie eating human brains to stay alive?

Maybe necromancy explains his control issues in our marriage; you know, neat freak, bossy, obsessing over my clothes. He always has to have the last word. I can’t be dead at forty. I still have years and years ahead of me.

I’ve thought about death a lot in my lifetime, not that I was given much choice. I have seen ghosts for as long as I can remember. I used to think everyone saw them.

Unfortunately, I found out the hard way normal people don’t see ghosts. I was a cute little kid which worked to my advantage being an orphan. I lived in several foster homes over the years. Some kids never got picked.

I learned not to mention the seeing ghost part. Because, that got you sent back to the orphanage quick, or worse, temporally institutionalized.

Yeah. That happened once.

Mostly, I tried not to think about ghosts. I’d tuned them out or ignored them. Sometimes ignoring was easier said than done. Funny thing. I had not seen one ghost since I landed in the nether purgatory or whatever form of ghost nightmare this was.

That’s weird, don’t you think?

Some of the headstones in the cemetery dated back before the civil war. There were a few really large, very creepy mausoleums. Rotted vines twined around them, locking them in a cage of dead weeds, with half-mast black roses hanging their little heads here and there.

The crypts had many symbols carved into the stone that I knew due to my career and intellectual pursuits, and some I didn’t.

I recognized the protection runes and manifesting sigils, which was strange, even weird in a cemetery. I mean… What do the dead manifest?

Sudden sensation tingled over me, as if someone had just poured ice water over my head. Talk about the creepy-crawly feels. Up to this point I had no sensations at all.

“Oh look boys, it’s a brand new specter.” That gravelly male voice sounded as if his vocal cords had been shredded.

I forced myself to turn around. My jaw dropped.

Death is as strange as life.

Three deformed skeletal bodies stood before me, two with hair, one without, slinging Mardi Gras beads, wearing colorful-raggedy pirate garb, skeleton one a pirates hat, skeleton two a cowboy hat. The third… A leprechaun hat?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. The SANE part of my brain said scream, but the absurd won out. It’s better to laugh than cry, right?

It’s a stress reaction. “Who are you? Larry, Curly, and Mo?”

I think the slap-stick humor just pissed them off. The short, bald, roundish nightmare… I’ll call him Curly? …lunged, mouth gaping wider and wider, like a black hole, widening past human limitations.

I’m not stupid. I ran. And, then I tripped. Tall funky-hair and bouffant closed in. I think that one was Larry. A bony hand clamped onto me. I kicked. Little good that did me.

I looked up to see three yawning, toothless black masses descending on me.

Fear is a powerful motivator to tap into your dormant po-tent-iality. Especially when your innate flight factor failed to work.

I screamed.

The silence was deafening within the black void that consumed me, and then I realized, ghosts don’t sweat their fear; or I didn’t, I vibrated it; between fear and horror, I felt the power surge through me. I found it.

Absurd power.

The undulating overwhelmed me, I fought it, followed by a soul-deep thrum-rhythm, and steady whooshing sound lulling my senses, filling every atom and molecule that death had not drained.

I literally felt my hair and toenails start to grow. Micro-shoots of sensations. Fire and ice burned through my system waking every cell and igniting each atom.

I was consumed by the internal firestorm, yet I knew the intense burn was part of my soul, not my flesh, even if I did not fully understand it.

***

Cool air brushed my skin sending a chill across my body. I felt every hair, even the really faint ones on my chin. You know the ones you can’t really see without a microscope but they grow really long. I call them my cat whiskers.

I swear someone must have gorilla glued my eyelids shut.

Sounds morphed and stretched like a distant foghorn. The underwater sensation persisted, until my ears uncorked with a pop, and then everything painfully amplified.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” The last voice I really wanted to hear, Shamus Doyle.

That’s right. My cheating soon-to-be ex-husband. I groaned, rolling into a sitting position. My body ached in ways that had nothing to do with being forty years old.

The ass-wipe had put a paralytic in my food, and then methodically explained what he needed me to do. And when he finished, he overdosed me with morphine. HE said he didn’t want my first death to be painful.

Wasn’t that so kind of him?

He cheated on me. Caught him in our bed, in our house, but still…

Perhaps I just wanted to believe there was still something between us. I thought he loved me, or at least cared deeply. For goodness sake, we still did date night, until I walked out the door.

But murder? That was a whole nother-level of betrayal. The depth of his deceptions shattered me. I swallowed to force down the knot that had risen into my throat.

My dry mouth tasted salty.

The smell of fresh cut grass, roses, and dying carnations made my stomach wobble. A hint of honeysuckle laced the air. The monochrome landscape of death, now glaring with color and life, left me feeling kind of disconnected.

The graveyard was not dead, but alive.

The decaying vines that crawled all over the mausoleums were vibrant ivy greens mixed with white, yellow, and red climbing roses. There were spots of blue bonnet, Indian paint brushes, and dandelions, typical of Texas, covering the ground.

The best part? Life was beginning not ending. The menacing cherub looking faces of stone had regained their full angelic expressions.

I couldn’t have been dead that long. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of disconnect, like I wasn’t quite all the way back, or something was—not wrong, just off.

I scanned the area. All appeared totally normal for a graveyard.

Shamus stood over me with his blond-haired movie star looks and dancing brown eyes, that belied the manipulator and cheater inhabiting his black heart. No signs of regret on that handsome lying face. I wanted to slap the smug smile right off his face but gravity was still wrestling with my sluggish body.

“See.” He practically sang. “You’re back. You should trust me. No harm, no foul, just like I said.”

If you enjoyed this sneak peek at my up coming Midlife series–Join my Subscription Fiction (Early Access) and keep reading while I revise, expand, and finish book one. You can check it out here. https://reamstories.com/junetakey

FOLLOW ME ON REAM and read the short outline for free. Just hit the purple button to Follow Me.
https://reamstories.com/junetakey

APRIL STORYTIME QUARTERLY BLOG HOP, JANUARY, APRIL, JULY, OCTOBER!

Automatic Transcript–Part 6by Kathrina Gerlach
Working With Stan by Bill Bush
Possession by Barbara Lund
R=Lessons by T. R. Neff
The Perfect Gift by Gina Fabio
The One That Got Away by James Husum
Sneak Peek: Midlife Ghostwalker by Juneta Key <—YOU ARE HERE

October 24, 2023

Storytime: The Boon by Juneta Key

I had some tech issues and did not get the story finished that I planned to share today, so sharing an older one you may or may not have seen before. It is my free story when you sign up for my newsletter.

You can get, Early Access to the expansion and rewrite of Midlife Ghostwalker: Katje Storm here. FOLLOW ME on Ream, and get free access to the short form serialized outline to Midlife Ghostwalker.

Death stalked me.

It had been a year since Ava, my twin, had died and I had taken up the quest to find The Boon a fabled artifact that granted a return to life without consequence.

The Boon had been Ava’s passion. She died to recover the ancient scroll that told the story along with a map with the warning that whosoever possessed the artifact drew Death to them.

Eleven months and thousands and thousands of miles had led me to this moment but not without incident.

I had escaped Death three times not because I faced him, but in my grief and anger, I became reckless in relentless pursuit of my mission.

The scroll said the artifact was buried with an Egyptian oracle of Anubis in a place long forgotten.

I slipped out of base camp once all had settled for the night and made the final track by myself. I guarded the scrolls changing my hiding place often never sharing them. Ava’s passion consumed me grief fueling my determination.

The wild trail twisted and turned until I arrived at the mountainside. I spent an hour hacking at overgrowth to uncover the crack, angled in such a way, to make it almost invisible to the naked eye.

Just inside the entrance a few feet, I encountered a sandstone stairway leading almost straight down. I gripped my light tighter.

Down, down and down.

I looked up. I could no longer see any hint of light above me. I kept going. I had to take several breaks, pressing against the wall to fight the feeling that if I leaned forward too far, I would continue to fall forever.

I arrived at the bottom chamber. A sarcophagus sat in its center in a circle of light. Not what I expected. I dropped my backpack.

Two hours later, I had managed to move the lid enough to peer inside. A single object lay within. I stretch, managing to pick it up.

A deep voice spoke behind me, the expanding vibration shaking me to the core. “Do not touch that.”

My breath stuttered as I gripped my chest and vision wavered. A dark silhouette stood just on the edge of the light.

“You scared me to death. I didn’t hear you come down.” He stepped forward. I could see his frown and the concern that laced his face. Eyes so deep and full of emotion for a moment I felt the pain as if my heart had shattered forever.

“It is not your time.”

This he said as we both looked down at my still lifeless body holding a heart-shaped stone box next to the crypt.

According to the scrolls, the gods ripped Death’s heart from his body placing the immortal organ in a special container in compassion for the task they had given him, so he would be better able to bear the sorrow of the world.

I knelt by my body. I still could not reconcile that I lived, and Ava had died. “So, it was Ava’s time?”

“No Jazz, it was your time. Ava made the choice.”

Grief gripped me. I found the artifact. In spirit, I touch the metal heart. “I choose Ava.” Silence.

“Nooooo.” I sat up holding the artifact. “I chose Ava.”

I screamed for death until I was hoarse, but The Boon was already spent. I lived.

Storytime Quarterly Blog Hop: October

Snakemouth by T.R. Neff

Ritual by Gina Fabio

Truth Speaker by Barbara Lund

A Furry Problem by Vanessa Wells

The Final Verdict by Bill Bush

The Boon by Juneta Key <–YOU ARE HERE!

April 26, 2023

The Gynnos Seeker Project by Juneta Storytime Quarterly Blog Hop

NovaCore sat like a small city in the middle of the dense jungle just 20 klicks from where Akira DeNaga, leader of The Hand, landed his Stealth fighter just outside NovaCore’s detection zone. He activated the camouflage shields as he exited, watching the ship blend into the jungle canopy.

The tranquility of the jungle moon of Pandaria could be deceptive, and yet almost magical. Moonbugs danced in the darkest areas of the jungle, tiny flashes of light in the night.

Akira had one goal. Destroy the Gynnos Seeker Project.

There were dozens of building clusters covering over 25 leagues of ground. The science labs hovered on large daises among the clouds, above jutting buildings that punch the sky. The ground buildings extended 30 feet underground, connecting to the ancient catacomb mazes that ran even deeper throughout the inner planet.

The Hand spies within NovaCore had provided a detailed map of the planet and the building that house the Seeker Project, plus the Pandaria sentries patrol shifts and routes. Automation controlled the science centers and sky labs during sleep cycles. The security detail focused on ground patrol while sentry droids patrolled the sky.

***

At the main building, Akira placed a communication control device on the outside communications array. He entered the code that had disabled security alerts and allowed entry into the building. The inner lift took him to the roof, bypassing all other levels.

One sentry operated the security post on the roof. Akira pulled on his gas mask, counting to mark time. On the last count, the door opened. He sprayed the sentry, knocking him out before he could stand and react.

Stepping out and moving around the guard post, he flipped the lever that released the sky-hopper. Once he docked with the Sky-Lab above the building, he crossed the sky bridge through arched doors to the control panel, punching in the entry code, GJH289KV834.

The force field dropped. Moving down the hallway to the next door, he repeated the process through three more doors using different codes.

The lab was home to thousands of storage cubes and data panels, and other life forms detained within containment housing cubes.

Akira accessed the database inputting the project ID number, SEEKER-420DALF. Library cubes and panels shuffled and shifted, bringing to the forefront project SEEKER. Instead of biotech data, or bioweapons, or sophisticated bio intelligence, he found living animals.

He read the data file.

Gynnos Mountain Wolves. Genome experimentation. Gene Splice on the bonded pair. Genetically altered for hunting and finding the Gynnos race, specifically the ones that carried the marker of the royal lineage.

Male rejected alterations over six full lunar rotations. Male did not survive. Female survived because of the mutated gene and elevated antibodies that appeared with the onset of the gestation period. Three pups, all born healthy. Project successful.

The female wolf growled, pulling his attention away from the data file. A movement to his right was the only warning he got. An MEC9 robotic sentry appeared, extending an arm and firing at him.

Akira dove to the ground, pinned down between the housing cube and the database. The sentry had grazed his arm with that shot. He checked the wound. It hurt worse than the sun scorch, but he’d survive it.

The MEC9 fired again, hitting the cube control panel, releasing the door mechanism. One adult wolf and three pups jumped out. They watched the robotic sentry instead of him.

He took a deep breath and prepared to stand and fire. The female wolf jumped over the database, ripping the sentries’ firing arm off. Akira fired at its sensor panel, completely disabling the MEC9 unit.

Turning to the database, he entered the code that would wipe all the information about the Seeker Project from the system. Looking at the wolves, knowing the mission requirements, he gripped his blaster and then re-holstered it.

***

When he retold the story later to the rest of The Hand on their ship, the Hidden Glove, he ended the adventure tale by saying, “I arrived a destroyer and left a savior.”

One of the wolf pups scratched his boot. He picked it up. Mama and the other two wolf-pups were asleep on the palette in the corner of his quarters.

Escaping Pandaria Moon was tricky, but without the wolves, possibly impossible. They were way more intelligent than the average mountain wolf. There had been a genuine connection, a silent communication, between him and them.

Finishing his report log, he input mission complete. He left out the part where he released the wolves before destroying the project.

The real savior of the day? Smiling, he thought, wore a furry suit.

Storytime Quarterly Blog Hop
Jan, April, July, and Oct.

Welcome to Storytime Quarterly Blog Hop!
Below are the participant links, so you can cycle through and read all the flash fiction stories if you so choose. All stories are around 500 to 1000 word speculative fiction—flash fiction stories. The story I am sharing today is from my Space Opera world Starlight Galaxy series. It is an origin story about the wolf-pup that befriends Bella that you meet in the bigger story. Read with joy, as Holly Lisle likes to say.

Royal Assassin by Vanessa Finaughty

The Big Bad Wolf and the Easter Hare by Katharina Gerlach

Earthquake Aftermath by Bill Bush

The Gynnos Seeker Project by Juneta Key <–YOU ARE HERE

Cursed by Barbara Lund

A Different Kind of Raise by Amy Keeley

Night At The Museum by Vanessa Wells

Flowers For Angela by Curtis Phills

Ninea by Chris Makowski

Archive by Gina Fabio

April 26, 2023

Ninea by Chris Makowski Storytime Blog Hop

NINEA

by Chris Makowski

Ninea dropped a coin into the phone and called. The bus had run late, so she missed the connection. She’d be there tomorrow. She put her bag on the bench and lay down.

“Can’t stay here, Miss. We’re closing up. The sun’s going down.”

“But I missed my bus?”

“Sorry, Miss, the next bus is after sunrise. Gotta close up. You can’t stay here.”

He locked up and all but ran down the alley. She heard the whine of an engine and smelled exhaust. There was a bench out front. Sweat discolored her dress.

The light above went out. Everywhere she looked, the lights were out. Businesses were closed, and not a soul walked the streets.

Except in one direction – a radio was playing, and there were lights from houses.

“Gotta be something this way.” At least her bag had rollers.

The street was potholes and broken asphalt, and the sidewalk was cracked and spat itself up here and there. Windows were open and inside people were listening to the radio about how they were responsible, they were ruining things, and if it weren’t for them, everything would be better.

A dog’s head came up in a yard; instinctively, she turned away and kept walking, right into the darkness.

“Barking dog ain’t safe,” she told herself. “Gotta find somewhere safe. Then get back for the bus.”

It got quiet. A slight breeze ran through her legs, and the moon played hide-and-seek with banks of clouds.

Her stomach rumbled.

Dark, dark, dark – a porch light was on. The house was old, a shotgun shack with one light inside, perched in the middle of all these trees. On the porch, an old man in old overalls and a pair of old boots rocked back and forth, each rock a squeak or a sigh.

Fireflies floated all over the lawn.

Everywhere else was dark.

The rocking stopped.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” He said.

She pointed down the road. “My aunt’s just down that way.”

He didn’t look. “That’s a graveyard, so she’s not likely much help now.” He stood up and stretched. “Hungry?”

“No,” but her stomach growled again.

“Ain’t much, but it’s dinner and it’s food. Or you can stay out here. Likely not safe out here… but it’s your choice.”

The sound of the radio carried from far behind her, a speech, cheering, louder and louder. The hairs on her neck stood up as she glanced back into the darkness. The dog barked.

He was holding the door open when she turned back, stepping carefully over the toadstools on the walkway up to the house.

It was basic fare – potatoes in white gravy, fried chicken, collard greens, rolls and butter, and sweet tea. He laid a second plate and let her choose, and when she chose he nodded and filled her glass. He ate as much as she did, set the bones in a pile, and asked no questions she’d have to lie to answer.

Not even her name.

One cough and he wiped his face. She blinked. All the food was gone, they’d eaten it down to the dregs.

Her stomach felt full.

“Can I wash up?”

He pointed at the sink, got up, stretched again, and went into the other room. So, she washed and dried; he only had four spoons, four forks, four knives, and four plates.

The wind blew again, cold and harsh, rattling the window. Outside was darkness, even the moon had fled.

The middle room had a box fireplace lit and burning so it was warm but not hot. A cotton sheet, a blanket, and a pillow sat on the couch.

A grandfather clock, the wood lovingly polished and each figure a craftsman’s delight, shared the room with her.

“Plumbing is in there. Sink, washcloths, soap, so not that hard.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the only other door. Then he closed his door, a yellow light spilling underneath until she heard a click and it went out. Fold the sheet in half the long way, put the blanket over and the pillow at the top.

There was a creak from the other room. Then silence.

No music.

No radio.

The clock chimed.

She woke up with the sunrise in her eyes.

“Morning.” He came out of the kitchen. “Sausage in a biscuit, if you hurry you might make your bus.”

Thanking him, she accepted her breakfast in a napkin and took off down the road. Halfway there, she heard the radio again and saw the dog sleeping on the ground.

She hadn’t mentioned the bus. She hadn’t talked at all about traveling. She hadn’t talked about much at all.

The dog looked up and then lay back down. The radio was still talking about them and how awful them was and how them caused all the trouble. The sidewalk was still a cracked and broken mess.

The phone was still there. She sat on the bench. The man came and jingled his keys and opened the bus station.

The bus arrived, and she got on.

Ninea dropped a coin into the phone and called. The bus had run late, so she missed the connection. She’d be there tomorrow. She put her bag on the bench and lay down.

About Chris Makowski

Chris was born in the Pacific Northwest and lived briefly in Hawaii before being reared in New England. After traveling up and down and back and forth from coast to coast, he was dragged kicking and screaming in the bonds of matrimony to the State of Texas and has been mostly residing there ever since with his wife and son.

Royal Assassin by Vanessa Finaughty

The Big Bad Wolf and the Easter Hare by Katharina Gerlach

Earthquake Aftermath by Bill Bush

The Gynnos Seeker Project by Juneta Key

Cursed by Barbara Lund

A Different Kind of Raise by Amy Keeley

Night At The Museum by Vanessa Wells

Flowers For Angela by Curtis Phills

Ninea by Chris Makowski <–YOU ARE HERE

Archive by Gina Fabio

April 26, 2023

Flower For Angela by Curtis Phills Storytime Blog Hop

FLOWERS FOR ANGELA

By Curtis Phills

Three dots bounced on the bottom of Terry’s cell phone screen. Angela was reading his message. That was good. It meant she hadn’t blocked him. He re-read his message to her:

I don’t know why that girl told you I was going to marry her. I swear I only spoke to her once for less than a minute. I don’t even know her name

The dots disappeared. She’d left him on read. Again. This was completely unfair. He’d done nothing wrong. Ever since her cousin’s wedding, women had been saying things like that to Angela about him.

The phone buzzed. A message from Angela!

Shes not the only girl whose told me that

Terry furrowed his brow and leaned back against the driver’s headrest. Why was this happening? He’d never cheated on Angela. He never would.

Another buzz. Angela wrote:

Shes the fourth girl this week

Terry shook his head. That made no sense. He brought up the screen keyboard to reply but stopped. Texting wasn’t getting anywhere. He had to speak to her in person. She’d know he was telling the truth when she heard his voice. He grabbed the bouquet of flowers from the passenger’s seat and hopped out of the car.

Angela’s medical center was busy so Terry waited in line to speak to the receptionist. One person gave him a weird look about the flowers but most were excited to see who they were for.

When he reached the front of the line, the receptionist asked him, without looking up, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.” Terry held the flowers up. “But I–”

“We’re full for the day.” The receptionist adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. “If you have an emergency, call 9-1-1. Otherwise, use our app to make an appointment.”

“I brought these for Angela.”
The receptionist looked up, her eyes narrow and her jaw stern until she made eye contact with Terry. “Awww. That is so sweet.” She grabbed the flowers. “Take a seat and I’ll put these in some water.”

Terry found a seat at the back of reception and wrung his hands. Hopefully, Angela would like the flowers half as much as her receptionist. She loved the way carnations smelled.

The line to check-in grew. An elderly man with a cane joined the line, followed by two gray haired women–one helping the other. Next a woman with two toddlers running around her legs pushed a stroller to the end of the line.
Terry stood to make room for her. “You can have my seat.”

“We’ll be fine.” She picked one toddler up and glanced at Terry. When their eyes met, her cheeks flushed red. She put her kid down and wiped at the baby food stain on her shirt. “Just so you know, their dad is out of the picture and the kids are always in bed by 8, maybe 8:30 at the latest.”
Terry furrowed his brows in confusion. Why would she tell him that?

“So I still have plenty of time in my life for a boyfriend.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “The right boyfriend.”

“Hey!” The receptionist had returned to the front desk and pointed at the mom. Her shawl was gone and she wore a thin white shirt with spaghetti straps instead of her uniform top. “That’s assault! Get your grubby hand off him!”

“It’s fine.” Terry held his hands up to show there was no problem.

The receptionist’s bare shoulders rose and fell with every angry breath. “Stay away from him.”

The mom glared back. “He deserves a real woman.”

“Oh wow, are those the flowers?” Terry said in an attempt to make peace while he approached the front desk. “They look beautiful in that vase.”

The receptionist looked at him and melted into a smile. She hugged the vase. “Too bad Dr. Angela won’t appreciate their beauty.”

Terry sighed as another receptionist sat down. “I can take who’s next.”

The elderly man coughed and used his cane to shuffle toward the new receptionist. She nodded at Terry, their eyes briefly connecting, then put her hand up to stop the old man. To Terry, she said, “You’re so thoughtful to bring those for Dr. Angela.”

Terry shrugged. If only Angela thought that.

The new receptionist put her hand on her chest and cooed. “I’ll bring them to her right now.”
“No,” the first receptionist said. Her lips were redder than before and her eyeliner sharper. “She doesn’t deserve them. They’re staying here with me.”

“He doesn’t want to be with you.” The second receptionist snatched the vase and ran to the back.

The first receptionist ran after her. Terry shook his head, his mouth open. Why was this happening? The first time he’d noticed women acting strange around him was after he caught the bouquet at Angela’s cousin’s wedding. She’d asked him to stand in the line for her.

He went to return to his seat, but the mom slowly licked her upper lip and winked at him. He decided to go in the back and find Angela himself.

It wasn’t hard. He followed the sounds of the receptionists screaming.

“You don’t deserve him!”

“You’re lucky to have a man bring you beautiful flowers.”

“Angela.” Terry stood in the door to her office. “Can we please talk?”
Angela sighed while she stood. “We’re through Terry.” She looked in his general direction, her brown eyes red from crying. “I’ve had enough of your lies. Now you’re seeing my receptionists? How long has that been going on?”

“I’m not.” Terry stared deeply into her eyes. He remembered getting down on one knee after catching the bouquet. Of course, Angela didn’t see. Before he could propose, her cousins tackled him, knocking him to the ground and scratching his eyes with the flowers. “Please, let’s talk about this.”

“You’re not going to make a fool of me anymore.” Angela grabbed her white cane and tapped a path past the receptionists, past Terry, and out of the office.