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Read the second part of Lynda's serialized novella:

Boots

I’m standing here looking at her, fully aware that she hasn’t moved since landing too hard at the bottom of the stairs, but I still can’t accept that she’s dead.

Ophelia, the woman who took me in when no one else would. Loved me and cared for me, nursing me back to health both physically and emotionally despite warnings that I was too wild, would never change. At first, I did my best to prove them right, hiding from her, fighting her, even drawing blood more than a few times. Yet she didn’t give up, kept offering food and affection, until finally my saner, more rational nature came to life again.

In short, Ophelia saved me. And how did I repay her kindness and generosity? With death, apparently.

“It’s not your fault,” Fluffy says, the only one to come up the stairs to sit with me.

The rest of the cats close ranks around the body.

“Of course it’s his fault,” says Bernard, the giant Maine Coon and self-appointed leader of the colony. “He’s been told again and again to stay out from under her feet on the stairs.”

“I panicked,” I say in my defense. “The noise of the fight was bad enough, but when the stranger leapt out and started hissing and growling, I just froze.”

“Post dramatic stress syndrome,” one of the Calico twins offers.

“Yes, yes,” says the other, the two of them nodding like the bobble-heads Ophelia keeps on a shelf in her room.

The twins haven’t been here long and I’m still not sure of their names. Although from what I’ve seen Tweedle Dumb and Dumber would work nicely.

“I’d say it’s the Newcomer we ought to be looking at,” says Scruffy, taking the attention off me and pointing it squarely at the skinny guy in the back.

Scruffy may be hard on the eyes, but he’s always been a good friend. And once the other heads are turned, I send him a slow blink, letting him know I appreciate the effort.

“Now hold on,” Newcomer says, backing up a step, pressing himself against the front door. “The giant is the one who started the fight. I was only looking for a way out.”

Annie, the creaky Abyssinian gets to her feet. “If that was your goal,” she says, stretching her back slowly, carefully, “then all you had to do was wait until morning. That door behind you opens every day, giving us access to a cat door that lets us come and go as we please.”

The stranger shakes his head. “A cat door? Here?”

“You don’t have to use it,” Fluffy says. “There’s no requirement to go outside at all. But if getting away is what you want, Ophelia would never have stopped you.”

“She’s good people,” old Tom mutters and gets to his feet as well. “Was, good people.”

He’s been here a long time and never liked the fact that Ophelia let me sleep on the bed too. If any of them are going to turn on me, he’ll be the first.

“I know it’s none of my business,” Newcomer says. “But wasting time trying to blame someone for what happened isn’t going to solve our biggest problem. We need to figure out how long it could be until someone comes looking for the old . . . for Ophelia.”

Sneaky Manx, who no one trusts, finally speaks up. “Newcomer’s right,” she says in that silky voice of hers. “When was the last time a human being came to that door?”

“Fifteenth,” Fluffy says. “Her daughter and the cheques come on fifteenth.”

“When is that?” Newcomer asks.

“No idea,” she admits.

Newcomer takes a step forward. “What about newspapers, mail delivery, parcels?”

Bernard shakes his massive head. “She read her news online, got her mail from the big box down the street and liked shopping at the stores.”

“There must be someone,” Newcomer insists. “Friends, sorority sisters, Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Ophelia kept to herself,” Sneaky Manx purrs. “It’s something I liked about her.” She leans close to the body, sniffs her hair. “Won’t be long before she starts to turn.” She seems to smile as she straightens. “If no one comes soon, we may have to eat her.”

“I saw that once on TV,” one of the twins says.

“Only it was dogs,” the other adds.

“Polished off the meat in a matter of days,” they say together. “And gnawed on the bones for a week.”

They laugh and high-five and Bernard lurches to his feet. “No one is eating anyone! Do you hear me?”

“What about the birds?” Sneaky asks, licking a paw. “They should be fair game now.”

“Not as long as I draw breath,” Tom growls then turns to Bernard. “I say we set up a watch. Keep eyes on Ophelia and the birds in case someone gets a wrong-headed idea about who we are.”

“I agree.” Fluffy stands, her silky fur brushing my cheek, tickling my ears. “We should also set up a crew to get at the food. Cans are out, but we should be able to rip open the bags.”

“Take Annie with you and get started,” Bernard says. “Manx, you and the twins make sure the toilets are accessible for water. Scruffy you’re on litter box detail and Tom, you and I will head up security. We don’t know when fifteenth is, so for now we take care of Ophelia, the birds and ourselves. Maintaining order is paramount in situations like this. Now everyone get to work.”

He dismisses the troops with a flick of his tail. Tom takes first watch on Ophelia and Bernard heads up to the second floor to check on the birds.

“What about me and Newcomer?” I ask.

Tom looks from me to Newcomer and back to me. “You boys should find a place to hide,” he says at last. “Before I kill you both myself.”

What happens when an everyday Cinderella makes a play for the prince?

A moment of madness. That’s all muralist Sunny Anderson expected when she donned a glittering mask and a fabulous gown to crash the gala at Manhattan’s newest boutique hotel. Project manager Michael Wolfe has no idea that the beauty staring up at the mural on the ballroom ceiling is also the artist who painted it. He’s captivated and she’s willing, but when their moment of madness on the sofa in his suite comes to an abrupt end, his princess is off and running, leaving nothing behind but a pair of earrings. He’s determined to find her again, but all he has to do is look closer at the woman painting the mural in his office to see that the one he needs is standing right in front of him.

Enjoy an excerpt:

Sunny’s feet moved of their own accord and she stared straight ahead, horrified and thrilled at the same time. Wondering what she was playing at and not at all surprised when he fell into step beside her.

This was why she wasn’t ready to leave, she realized. She was enjoying herself too much. Enjoying the fact that as Sonja she could do anything or say anything. Be shocking and sexy, and make Michael Wolfe sit up and take notice.

She glanced over at him as they walked, feeling beauti­ful, powerful, but most of all desirable. Because if that wasn’t hunger she saw in those dark eyes, then she’d been out of circulation for far too long.

Which was a distinct possibility given that her last sexual encounter had been almost a year ago in the back of Vince Cerqua’s convertible when the top wasn’t the only thing that wouldn’t go up. She’d spent the drive home assuring him that it happened to men all the time; at least that was what she heard in the tearoom.

She felt her face warm, knowing instinctively that Michael’s top would never let him down. Not that she wanted to find out. Not really. Not now, at any rate.

“Where will you be going in the morning?” he asked.

“New Jersey.”

He drew his head back and she laughed. “There’s a theater group I’m rather fond of. After that, it’s anyone’s guess. I’m just a wanderer. Never in one place long enough to plant a garden as they say.”

“Is that what you’d like to do? Plant a garden?”

“Yes,” she said, slipping in a touch of Sunny, but staying true to Sonja. “Of course, with so many emerging artists, I’m not thinking about that right now.”

He stopped and took her hand. “What are you thinking about?”

Trouble. And sex. Mostly sex. For all the good it did her.

Truth to tell, Sunny wasn’t the kind to have a one-night stand. She was conservative in her thinking and cautious when it came to matters of the heart. She was the kind who delivered hampers at Christmas, painted faces at the community center on Halloween, and made sure her organ-donor card was signed. No question about it, she was Sunny the good: Balanced. Friendly. And utterly predictable.

But Sonja? Now there was a real vixen. A woman who traveled the world, took risks every day, and was never, ever predictable. It seemed a shame to make her leave the ball so early when she was only in town for one night. And Sunny had the rest of her life to spend being good.

Michael ran his thumb across hers and the pull was stron­ger than ever, bringing her back a step. After all, it wasn’t as though he was a total stranger, some masked man she picked up at the sushi bar. This was Michael Wolfe, Beast of Brighton, Terror of the Tradesmen. And she already knew he looked good without a shirt.

Maybe Hugh was right. Maybe a moment of madness was good for the soul.

The music changed again, the singer launching into a slow, sultry torch song that begged an answer to the question women had been asking for centuries: what is it with men and commitment?

Sunny had wrestled with that issue herself for years, convinced that the boy she’d loved too much would come back for her one day. Pale and contrite, wanting nothing more than to love her the way he should have all along. But commitment wasn’t on her mind at all when she twined her fingers with Michael’s and gave him Sonja’s best come-hither smile. “I’m thinking we should go to your place,” she said, and was sure she was floating as they headed for the door.

About the Author: Lynda Simmons is a writer by day, college instructor by night and a late sleeper on weekends. She grew up in Toronto reading Greek mythology, bringing home stray cats and making up stories about bodies in the basement. From an early age, her family knew she would either end up as a writer or the old lady with a hundred cats. As luck would have it, she married a man with allergies so writing it was.

With two daughters to raise, Lynda and her husband moved into a lovely two storey mortgage in Burlington, a small city on the water just outside Toronto. While the girls are grown and gone, Lynda and her husband are still there. And yes, there is a cat - a beautiful, if spoiled, Birman.

When she's not writing or teaching, Lynda gives serious thought to using the treadmill in her basement. Fortunately, she's found that if she waits long enough, something urgent will pop up and save her - like a phone call or an e-mail or a whistling kettle. Or even that cat just looking for a little more attention!

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Lynda-Simmons/e/B001KI3Z4O
http://www.lyndasimmons.com/
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/958842.Lynda_Simmons
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynda-Simmons-Author/149740745067442
https://twitter.com/LyndaMSimmons

Buy the book at Amazon.

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Enjoy the fourth installment of Lynda Simmons' flast fiction work she is sharing on her virtual book tour.

FOUR
The More Things Change
(With Dr. Martin)

“What time is it?” my favourite nurse asks, checking his watch against the clock on my dash.

“Eight fifty-two.” I give him a smile. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to be late.”

“Dream on,” he says, and flips up his hood, sets his backpack on his lap. “Can’t you drive any faster?”

“The wipers are barely keeping up with the snow as it is, so no, I can’t drive any faster.”

“Says the doctor with nothing to lose.”

Point for the nurse. As the physician for Willow Tree Long Term Care, no one is going to write me up for tardiness. Dylan, on the other hand, already has two late strikes against him. A third will not go down well with the Director and there is only so much I can do without drawing undue attention. While the other infractions are his own fault, this morning is on me because I forgot to set the alarm.

“You’re still angry with me aren’t you,” I say.

“Anger has nothing to do with it.” He turns away and stares out the side window. “But it would be great if you’d stop smiling for five minutes.”

I feel the grin stretch wider across my face. “I would if I could, but I can’t. Not when I had the best sleep in months. Without benefit of sleeping aids, I might add.“

Dylan glances over at me. “Are you going to fill me in on the joys of a good bowel movement next?“ I roll my eyes and he turns back to the window. “Good, because then I might realize how old you really are.”

“Heaven forbid,” I gasp, but he’s up another point.

I have reached the age where a good night’s sleep makes me feel more alive than sex. And we both know it won’t be much longer before my young marathon man finds someone who can keep up with him on more than the road. But for now he’s here, I slept like a log, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this refreshed, this light-hearted and – dare I say – happy. Surely it’s an omen of good things to come, of normal life returned, hallelujah. And all because Edna Halliday is gone.

Ding, dong the witch is dead.

The tune is in my head, the words on the tip of my tongue but I’m not foolish enough to open my mouth and let either escape. Dylan is sweet, but I’ve seen that old adage about loose lips sinking ships in action, and my personal ship needs to sail for a few years yet.

Lord knows, I tried to take Edna in stride, but how much abuse is one person supposed to absorb? It was a form of bullying, day in and day out, and I was the victim. But you can’t point a finger at an old woman with dementia and say she’s picking on you, now can you. So you suck it up and soldier on. Try to explain to families and colleagues that she’s substituted you for some figure in her past and pay no attention to anything she says. But every time she hollers, I know who you are, they look at you funny and you can see the wheels turning.

But all of that is over now. She’s gone, the snow has stopped and I will score my own points with Dylan tonight.

I pull into my parking spot and he throws open the door.

“See you later?” I ask as he climbs out.

He looks back at me and nods before trotting off to the door on the other side of the building.

Not a declaration of love, but a start. And the fact that he’ll be five minutes early can’t hurt.

Overhead, patches of blue are stretching out, reaching for each other, determined to overcome the cloud. I can’t help smiling again as I fetch my briefcase from the back. Clear sailing ahead, I can feel it.

At the main entrance, I key in the code and give the door a push. The lobby is hot, the air thick with the smells of bacon, eggs and disinfectant. I pause to undo my coat and stomp the snow from my feet when without warning it starts all over again.

“Who died and made you king,” someone hollers.

I freeze. What the hell?

“I know you.”

The words might have been Edna Halliday’s but that voice belongs to Grace.

“I know who you are!” she shouts.

A passing nurse pauses, a cleaning lady stares. I wave them back to work and slowly turn toward the lobby. Sure enough, Grace is seated in Edna’s spot, watching me.

“I know who you are,” she snarls.

Does she realize what she’s doing? Is this a moment of clarity, a show of solidarity with Edna?

Lucid moments can be like that. Opening a window that had seemed nailed shut just long enough to raise the hair on your arms.

“Who died,” she starts again and I lower my head, strike out along the hall, heading straight for my office. But the voice doesn’t grow fainter. If anything, it grows louder.

“I know you.”

I glance back. Grace is following me, moving as fast as she can and hollering louder, “I know you!”

I keep my eyes down, avoiding the curious glances from staff and families. Intent only on making it to my office, my desk, things that make sense. Once inside, I close the door and lock it. Jump when her fist hits the frame and reach for my phone. A nurse will come and get her. Perhaps Dylan. Hopefully Dylan.

My hand shakes as I punch in the numbers. I force myself to calm, to take a breath.

The line is answered after three rings. “This is Dr. Martin,” I say. “I need your help again.“

If this is your first time reading Lynda's flash fiction, please read the earlier episodes here: Lynda's Facebook page.

Sometimes all love needs is a road trip, a rubber chicken and a touch of magic

Vicky Ferguson loves her husband Reid, always has, always will. But with two kids to think about, it’s time for the free-wheeling, sports car loving pilot to put his feet on the ground and lay down some roots. Reid can’t imagine life without Vicky but neither can he see himself pushing a lawn mower or driving a mini-van. They’re on track to a divorce neither one wants until a last request from beloved Uncle Albert puts them on the road together one last time.

Enjoy an excerpt:

“Which brings us to the issue at hand,” the lawyer said and opened a file. “I have here the last will and testament of Albert Ferguson. Handwritten but perfectly legal.” He leaned down and picked up Albert’s old leather suitcase. It was the only thing the old man ever carried – the true master of travelling light. Lyle set the case on the desk, undid the straps and slid back the zipper. Reached inside and came up with a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, complete with bulbous pink nose, bushy eyebrows, and a formidable mustache.

Reid sat forward. “Not the glasses,” he said, a smile already tugging at his lips.

Lyle nodded solemnly and put them on, carefully adjusting the nose over his own before picking up the paper again. The lawyer’s delivery was perfectly straight, if a bit nasal. “I, Albert John Ferguson, being of sound mind and body— ”

Reid glanced over at Vicky. She was staring at the lawyer, eyes wide, lips pinched tightly together, holding back her laughter.

“Do hereby bequeath all my worldly goods to my favorite nephew and niece, Reid Allan Ferguson and Victoria Ann Ferguson, to be used as they see fit. This includes one hand buzzer, one whoopee cushion, one pair of Groucho glasses.” He reached into the suitcase again. “One rubber chicken –”

“I’ll take that.” Vicky’s face turned pink when the lawyer paused and looked at her over the nose of the glasses. “For the kids,” she added, and turned to Reid. “Unless you want it.”

“Not at all.” He pointed to the suitcase. “But I’ve got dibs on the fl y-in-the-ice-cube.”

“One fly-in-the-ice-cube,” Lyle continued, and set it in front of Reid. “One can of worms—”

“Snakes,” Reid cut in. “They’re snakes.”

The lawyer slid the can toward him and Reid popped the lid. Three long colorful snakes sprang from the tin and flew over the desk, squeaking as they bounced against the walls. “They were always his favorite.” Reid smiled at Vicky. “Do you mind if I take them?”

She held up the whoopee cushion. “Not as long as I can have this,” she said, and Reid understood why Albert had loved her, too.

“You can go through the rest on your own later,” Lyle said, taking off the glasses and setting them aside. “But in return for his worldly goods, Albert has a favor to ask.”

Reid raised his head. “A favor?”

“More of a decree really.” Lyle cleared his throat and resumed reading from the will. “In return for my worldly goods, Reid and Vicky must promise to take my remains to Seaport, Oregon. ”

The chicken’s head bobbed as she sat up straighter. “But I thought he’d already been buried.”

“Not quite.” Lyle lifted a plain white shoebox out of the suitcase and set it on the desk in front of them. “He’s been waiting for you.”

Reid stared at the box. “That’s Albert?”

“Ashes to ashes.” The lawyer picked up the box. “I know it’s not much to look at, but it’s practical, sturdy, and holds up to five pounds of loved one, no problem.” He looked from Reid to Vicky. “The point is Albert didn’t want a fancy urn because he wasn’t planning to spend much time in it anyway.”

Reid shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Lyle smiled. “Your Uncle Albert wants to fly one last time.”

About the Author:Lynda Simmons is a writer by day, college instructor by night and a late sleeper on weekends. She grew up in Toronto reading Greek mythology, bringing home stray cats and making up stories about bodies in the basement. From an early age, her family knew she would either end up as a writer or the old lady with a hundred cats. As luck would have it, she married a man with allergies so writing it was.

With two daughters to raise, Lynda and her husband moved into a lovely two storey mortgage in Burlington, a small city on the water just outside Toronto. While the girls are grown and gone, Lynda and her husband are still there. And yes, there is a cat - a beautiful, if spoiled, Birman.

When she's not writing or teaching, Lynda gives serious thought to using the treadmill in her basement. Fortunately, she's found that if she waits long enough, something urgent will pop up and save her - like a phone call or an e-mail or a whistling kettle. Or even that cat just looking for a little more attention!

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Lynda-Simmons/e/B001KI3Z4O

http://www.lyndasimmons.com/
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/958842.Lynda_Simmons
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynda-Simmons-Author/149740745067442
https://twitter.com/LyndaMSimmons

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