Friday Person in a Monday World by C.B. Clark

It's guest day, and we're happy to have C.B. Clark!

She was a Friday person in a Monday world. That’s how people described my mother. She always smiled, was always happy, always fascinated by other people. I was with her one time when she stopped a harried mother of three rambunctious toddlers on the sidewalk and told the woman that the color of her blouse brought out the blue in her eyes. When the woman realized mom was sincere, a smile broke over her face, and she walked away with a strut in her step, her day a bit brighter.

Mom always asked how you were doing, and she cared, really cared. Due to complications from severe osteoporosis and life-long diabetes, she was in constant pain, but you’d never know. She forced a smile and went out and talked to people and made them feel better. Her philosophy was that no one really wanted to hear about your aches and pains, so put on a happy face and get on with your life.

Years of attending functions with dignitaries for my father’s work honed her social skills and she was an excellent schmoozer. She met Queen Elizabeth, Prince Philip, Prince Charles, a variety of Hollywood celebrities, and even Colonel Sanders from KFC, when they visited our small town in the North, and she’d have them feeling comfortable in minutes.

Mom was my biggest supporter with my writing career. She was always eager to share news of my latest book release with anyone she met. I’ll miss her, that’s a given, but I’ll take her lessons to heart and try and follow her lead. With luck and practice, I too will become a Friday gal in a Monday world. Love you, Mom.

Book Blurb:

After five years of hell with an abusive husband, Natasha Hartford vows never to trust another man. Then she stumbles onto a murder scene and meets sexy, stubborn Homicide Detective Chase Brandon, a take-no-prisoners tough guy who’ll settle for nothing less than the truth. Sparks fly, but Chase’s suspicions and Natasha’s innate distrust block the way to happiness.

The detective struggles with his own troubled past and is determined to find the truth behind the shadows dimming Natasha's eyes. As more murders occur and a possible connection to her ex-husband appears, Chase fears her life is in danger.

Natasha and Chase race to find the killer before he strikes again. Their survival depends on their willingness to overcome their mistrust of one another. Will they overcome their fears and find love again? 

Excerpt:

The thick carpet muted the tapping of her high heels as she fled through the reception area and down the hall to the elevators. In spite of her cowardly retreat, she wanted to shout in triumph. She’d been terrified of angering the surly detective, but she’d dragged up her courage and told him what she thought. Blood buzzed through her veins, fueled by the adrenaline rush. Damn. It was good to have her old fire back.

She glanced down a short corridor on her left and stumbled to a stop. How had she missed the ropes of yellow police tape blocking the entry to one of the rooms? Her breath hitched in her throat. That must be where the grisly crime had occurred.

The shocking truth struck her like a blow—Jonas Waverley was dead. Murdered in cold blood. She staggered and grabbed onto the wall.

“Ms. Hartford, wait.”

She glanced back.

Detective Brandon strode along the corridor toward her, his long legs eating up the distance, a determined expression on his face.

Her earlier spurt of courage vanished, and she whirled and dashed toward the bank of elevators. Chest heaving, heart pounding, she hit the button for the elevator, jabbing it again and again.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, catching up. “I was hard on you, but I’m just doing my job. A man was murdered.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to examine every possible lead, question every person of interest.” 

She shuddered and stabbed the down button again. Person of interest? Her? She was a person of interest in a murder investigation?

“Can we go somewhere and talk?”

She shot him a look, making it clear what she thought of his suggestion.

He lifted one shoulder. “Maybe we could grab a coffee? I have a few more questions I’d like to ask.”

The elevator pinged, and the doors opened with a hiss, revealing a middle-aged man and an elderly woman who stared at them with vague interest.

Natasha stumbled toward the elevator.

Detective Brandon grabbed her arm, holding her back. “Ms. Hartford, wait.”

Warmth from his large tanned hand seeped through the thin material of her raincoat and raised goose bumps on her arm. “Let me go.” Her voice was shrill with rising hysteria. She tugged, but he held on, his grip tightening.

Buy Links:

The Wild Rose Press:

http://bit.ly/2I1XB36 

Amazon:

http://amzn.to/2nECqvx 

iTunes:

https://apple.co/2EgzGyy 

Nook:

http://bit.ly/2Bp9JKN 

Kobo:

http://bit.ly/2CYB1os 

GoogleBooks:

http://bit.ly/2FaLmi

Connect with C.B. Clark here:

Facebook: cbclarkauthor@facebook.com 
Twitter: https://twitter.com/cbclarkauthor 
Blog: https://cbclarkauthor.wordpress.com 
Goodreads Author Page: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15029617.C_B_Clark 
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/cbclarkauthor/ 

Three Weeks by Betsy Ashton

Our topic this month is love and hate. Love is easy, since this is Valentine's Day month. It is also the 11th anniversary of my mother's passing from lung cancer. I offer up a different look at love. It took me seven years and twenty-four minutes to write this poem, seven years to be able to put grief aside and write, twenty-four minutes to put the words down on paper. The poem came fully formed on a dawn walk. I changed one word.

Warning: you may want to grab your tissues.

This one's for you, Mini-Mommy. With love from YBDK.

THREE WEEKS

I thought we’d have more time.

She lived with us after it was too hard to live alone.

She had her chores, self-imposed.

She laughed, chattered, kept us happy.

She was a pain in the ass, sometimes.

I thought we’d have more time.

She said she didn’t feel right one afternoon.

No, she’d never felt exactly like that before.

Is it pneumonia?

No.

Is it bronchitis?

No. It’s different.

Do you want to go to the emergency room?

It’s icy out. I’ll see how I feel in the morning.

I thought we’d have more time.

It’s still icy but I think we need to go, she said.

Okay. I put the ready-bag in the car.

It’s pneumonia, they said.

Let’s get some x-rays.

Yes. It’s pneumonia. There’s fluid.

I thought we’d have more time.

The biopsy said different.

Dr. Elizabeth called it cancer.

Too far along. No real treatment.

Too tiny at 81 pounds.

Too old at 81.

How long, she asked.

Not long.

I thought we’d have more time.

One option, Dr. Elizabeth said.

Hospice.

She thought about it and decided.

Hospice. No heroics.

I thought we’d have more time.

We were together every day.

I read to her when she couldn’t hold a book.

Role reversal from childhood.

I listened to her stories, told so many times before.

I told her my dreams, my hopes.

She told me hers.

Wayposts to guide my way forward.

We shared more deeply than ever before.

I thought we’d have more time.

Days passed.

Stories, until she couldn’t speak.

Then hand squeezes.

Smiles in between lengthy naps.

I stored the moments to turn into memories.

Later.

I told her I loved her.

Hand squeeze.

I told her she’d done a good job.

Hand squeeze.

I thought we’d have more time.

I told her, her job was done.

Tight hand squeeze.

I told her she could go when she was ready.

Double hand squeeze.

She opened her eyes and looked at me.

One last smile, one look upward.

She was gone.

Three weeks from “it’s cancer” to death.

Mom,

            I

                 thought

                          we’d

                                 have

                                         more

                                                time.

###

Betsy Ashton is the author of Mad Max Unintended Consequences. This poem appears in Voices from Smith Mountain Lake, an anthology that came out in 2013. It was featured on Radio IQ, the local NPR station, as well as on national NPR for Mother's Day, 2012.

Mothers and Daughters

by Diane Burton

I love family stories. For example, books and movies that follow several generations. I especially enjoy watching/reading the interaction between mothers and daughters. The Disney movie Brave is a great example. Anyone who’s ever had a young teen daughter knows exactly the dynamics at work in this film. The eye rolling, the exasperated sighs, the backtalk. Mom losing her temper then having regrets. The two of them each wanting the other to understand. (Spoiler Alert. If you don’t want to know the end of the movie, don’t read the end of this post.)

Now I would never encourage a girl to give her mother a potion that changes her into a bear, but I’m sure my daughter wanted to. After seeing the movie, my son-in-law says he’ll make sure his wife and daughter watch the movie again in about six or seven years.

I didn’t go through that stage with my mother. Odd, I know. With six younger siblings, I knew how hard Mom worked just to keep the house clean, laundry done, and meals prepared. During my middle school/high school years, Mom also finished the inside of our house. Dad and his brothers built our house. Once the walls were up and floors down, Dad had other priorities—like working two jobs to make ends meet. So city-girl Mom taught herself how to lay tile—not the peel-and-stick kind, asphalt tile where you spread a black tarry substance to make them stick. She learned to mud the seams and nail holes, sand the drywall, and paint.

As the oldest, my job was to help Mom. Help with the laundry, scrub the kitchen floor every Friday, change diapers, and feed babies. Somewhere in my teen mind, I thought I had to take care of Mom. So smarting off to her wasn’t part of my behavior. Well, maybe I did once then felt so much regret I never did it again. Going through my daughter’s teen years while I was in peri-menopause was a disaster waiting to happen. Too bad I waited to get Xanax until my son hit sixteen.

In “Brave”, both Mom and Merida change. Merida has to teach Mom (in bear form) how to survive and Mom has to depend on her to changer her back. But as Mom becomes more bear, a frightened Merida works even harder to rescue her mother. I love the end where Mom is more carefree and she and Merida become friends.

Until Alzheimer’s stole Mom’s mind, she and I were friends. That’s the hope I have with my daughter and that she has with hers.

I blog here on the 8th and 30th of each month and Mondays on my own blogsite http://dianeburton.blogspot.com