Bhagya Chandra
Jul 16, 2016 | Women's, 1st pages
The Darshan International Hotel buzzed with activity as the staff diligently prepared the venue for the day’s meeting. The project manager, Mr. Ayub Khan, scrutinized their progress, eyes flitting every now and then to the entrance, which Mrs. Thomas, the secretary to the managing director of Sharma Industries, was due to breeze through any minute.
The impeccable service, elegant interior décor, exceptional dining options, and immaculate external appearance made the Darshan International a preferred choice for Sharma Industries’ annual meetings. The hotel offered a balanced blend of ancient sophistication and modern convenience. Mrs. Thomas arrived early in order to inspect the arrangements. A lively and upbeat Anglo-Indian lady in her fifties with slightly graying hair, she’d been working with Varun Sharma, the managing director of Sharma Industries, since the beginning of the company and took great pride in organizing the annual event.
The spacious rectangular conference room could accommodate over a hundred and fifty people. The plush-backed chairs formed two columns on the carpeted floor, facing a purpose-built stage with a large white screen to one side. Mrs. Thomas projected the presentation on the screen to test for alignment and clarity, and, once satisfied, made sure the lighting and temperature in the room was ideal. She paused and looked around, pleased all was in order.
The food arrangements were a feast for the eye. Pastries, tea, coffee, and pitchers brimming with fruit juice awaited enticingly on tables lined up along the back wall. “Mr. Khan, please ensure the tea and coffee are continuously refilled and that the beverages are hot,” she said as they walked to the dining area. Mrs. Thomas quickly glanced through the menu and confirmed it with Mr. Khan. She inspected one last time, then with a warm glow of satisfaction walked back to the conference room to take charge of the presentation.
Teagan Kearney
Jun 9, 2016 | 1st pages, Women's
Chapter One
Life is unfathomable in its infinite variety. People come and go, loving, hating, making babies, laughing, crying their tears, caring and not caring as they live their lives till death arrives. On the whole, we view our own lives as the most important.
London, May 2007
Anna was indifferent to the clamorous sounds of the city, focusing on the click of her heels as she walked. She kept her head down and her attention fixed on the pavement, diverted on occasion as a pair of flamboyant shoes flashed passed. Even the smell of freshly ground coffee failed to tempt as it teased its way through the air chasing a flirting drift of newly baked bread. From time to time, she looked up to check her direction, trying at the same time to ignore the hurrying passers-by. She avoided looking at shop windows—she did not want to catch sight of herself.
Anna did stop once, when a window display caught her eye. She was mesmerized by the long swathes of pure white cloth, before noticing her reflection in an oversized gilt edged mirror in the centre. The black jacket and skirt she wore did her no favors. Her hair, bright auburn in her youth, now fading and tired, was scraped back in a bun, although several strands had escaped and fluttered around her face. Her pallor, the dark shadows under her eyes made her look wraithlike and ghostly. She wanted to retreat into her inner world, away from the noisy bustle of pedestrian and motor traffic.
Anna had postponed this trip after the sudden, shocking death of her son, Jeremy, in a car accident six months ago, until she surrendered to the fatalistic realization that each day would be no different from any other. Jeremy had loved spring. A shame it wasn't raining, because then no one would have noticed a tear or two, but the fresh spring day with chubby white clouds scudding across a blue sky and air that was apple crisp with promise, meant she needed to work harder at the pretence of normality.
The old fashioned bell tinkled as she opened the narrow door of the art restoration shop tucked away in a corner off Belmont Mews. Sighing with relief, she gratefully accepted the peaceful respite offered by the dark comforting interior. She had come here for a purpose. The world reconfigured itself back into an identifiable place where she could function.
Mr. Bentonly popped out from between the faded purple velvet curtains which separated the front of the shop from his workspace. He adjusted his glasses, his careworn face creasing into a smile when he saw his customer.‟Ah! Mrs. Seeger. How good to see you! I hope you and the family are well?”
A sliver of panic edged itself into her awareness. What should she say? The truth? She didn't need to hear the same respectfully polite phrases trotted out where they ran needle like along well-worn grooves rasping at her grief. People were sometimes uncomfortable when a truth they were unprepared for was laid out too bluntly. And whereas she and Greg had used this particular framing shop for many years, this was a business relationship.
“We're fine, thank you.” She hoped her clipped tone would discourage conversation.
“And the children? I expect they're grown up and flown the nest?” His mild politeness hurt.
“Oh yes, off doing their own thing.” She pushed down on the emotional wave swelling in her gut. For a second she was back in the church, standing at the end of the pew next to Jeremy's wreath covered coffin. She'd been so medicated she hardly managed to stand‒Greg's hand under her elbow held her upright‒and the one image impossible to eradicate of Jeremy's broken remains in the coffin. Her prayer, then and ever since, was that his guardian angel had taken away his pain and eased the last few minutes of his life. Please God, she begged, no more questions. “Does the frame do justice to the painting?”
Jessica Levine
May 27, 2016 | Women's, 1st pages
1
I was in the old Barnes & Noble on Eighteenth Street—the original, quirky haven, half on one side of the avenue and half on the other— looking at the remaindered poetry, when I noticed a man wearing two collared shirts, a red one on top of a white one, with the sleeves pushed up. I’d once known someone who dressed like that.
“Michael!” I cried out.
He looked up. He was unshaven and slouched as he’d always been, and a little heavier and grayer, but still handsome enough to stand out in a crowd. A tall man, with a large, important-looking head and an arresting gravity of expression. Just what you’d expect a struggling composer to look like.
“Julia!” he exclaimed.
We stared at each other across the remainders table for a long second. I knew Michael well. While a graduate student at Yale a decade before, he’d shared an apartment with my boyfriend, Ben.
“Wow,” I said, as he came over and gave me a hug.
“You look beautiful! I almost didn’t recognize you. I mean, you were always beautiful, but now, with the makeup and the shorter hair, you’re gorgeous.”
“You look good too,” I said. “But what’s that?” I dared to touch the long scar starting at the jawbone and running down the left side of his
Trish MacEnulty
May 27, 2016 | Women's, 1st pages
From the Journal of Nicole Parks
I promised Lolly that I would write the story of my time in prison. She said I should call it a memoir, so here it is. Some of it is from my journals, and some of it I remember though there is plenty I have forgotten, thank you very much. But what I can’t forget is Lolly Johanssen and what she taught us in her classes. Lolly inspired me to be a writer. Some people go to prison and end up finding God. Lolly helped me to find me.
I was in prison for possession of narcotics and for carrying a concealed weapon—an unregistered firearm at that. But what you need to know about me is that I am not, nor have I ever been, a dope fiend. I have never done any drugs, have never stuck any drug-type substance up my nose or in my arm, and have never even smoked a blunt. To tell you the truth, I pity addicts because their lives do not belong to them. They belong to the drug. I should know because even though I never touched drugs or smoked a nasty cigarette in my life, I had my own addiction: to a man. A smooth as melted chocolate, sweet-between-the-sheets man named Antwan. And that’s how I wound up in this place – this prison with its pink painted buildings up in the middle of Nowhere, North Florida. Sometimes we joke that it’s a grand palace, and we’re all a bunch of ladies in waiting, waiting, waiting.
In some ways prison is just like any place else; there’s a game to it. You can be all cool and rebellious and you can do every single day of your time and then some if they can figure out more charges to put on you. I have seen that happen to many a stupid-ass woman. They sneer at the C.O.s and refuse to do their work and get written up and locked down every day. They know they are the shit. I decided right away that wasn’t the way I wanted to play the game, and I got put into a different category. See, even those people who run the prison are willing to cut you a little bit of slack, well not exactly cut you slack.
Alexandra Swann and Joyce Swann
May 5, 2016 | Women's, 1st pages, Thriller
ONE
“What was the verdict?” called a voice to Jack Forbes as he slowly opened the glass doors of the once majestic residence that now housed the law offices of Pratt, Forbes and Magoff. Forbes was in no hurry to respond to that question. In fact, he had been hoping that his colleagues would not ask. Of course, jury trials are unpredictable at best, Jack reminded himself, and it is impossible to second guess the legal system. In spite of the outcome, he would get his check. His client’s fate was not a source of great concern to him; Jack had begged Sam Dyer to plead guilty to manslaughter, and he had stubbornly refused. As far as Jack was concerned, it was Dyer’s own fault that he was headed for prison.
“What was the verdict?” repeated the voice, and Megan Cleary walked out of her office to find out why there was no response to her question.
“Guilty,” Jack replied a little disgusted.
“Guilty!” Megan’s tone reflected her surprise. “How could you possibly have lost?”
“It wasn’t hard,” Jack muttered as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “The jury came back and announced, ‘We find Sam Dyer guilty of murder in the first degree.’”
“But he didn’t really do anything,” Megan took the coffee pot when Jack had finished.
“He killed a man; I call that doing something,” Jack retorted.
“He killed a thief who was breaking into his home. It was self-defense,” Megan countered.
“People are not supposed to go around shooting other people. They’re supposed to leave that to the police; that’s why our tax dollars furnish this city with a police department. I told him to plead guilty to manslaughter. He didn’t have a prior record. With parole he would probably have been out in a few months. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He thought he knew more than his lawyer. So tonight he’s sitting in jail waiting to be sentenced. You should have seen him as they led him away. He was screaming something about ‘a man’s right to protect his home and family.’”
“How long a sentence do you think he’ll get?” Megan turned to go back to her office.
“It’s hard to say,” Jack thought for a moment. “My guess is he’ll draw fifteen years.”
Megan shut the door of her office and surveyed the desk covered with papers—last week’s work still to be done on this Monday afternoon. It seemed that she was always running—and always running a little behind. She looked at the clock; the hour hand was nearing six, and she still had stacks of work to finish. No, those briefs could not wait; she would just have to stay late and finish them.
Deborah Cox
May 4, 2016 | Women's, 1st pages, Religious
1. The Wedding Night
1988
My new husband looked like a mound of biscuit dough. He had his mother’s hips. Unless you actually saw his private parts, you might not realize he was, in fact, a man. He waited for me under the hotel blanket as I tiptoed out of the small Vanderbilt bathroom in my chenille robe, reluctantly exposing my skin to conditioned air as I slipped it off. He smiled like a dimpled three-year-old about to eat pudding. It was dark except for glowing shafts that wound around the open bathroom door. I hurried into the stiff, clean sheets with him, a bit of moonlight misting in through a crack in the heavy sixth-floor drapes. The clock on the polished nightstand said 1:15 a.m. I missed my mother.
An hour ago, somebody else’s wedding party reveled in the lobby as we arrived at the hotel. The other bride still wore her finery, her updo falling in a sexy droop, and her friends laughed and glistened with perspiration in their cocktail dresses, like they’d been dancing for hours. They looked breezy and comedic, in the way of Eddie Bauer models. A hunky groom stood by this other bride, joking with tuxedoed friends. Her gaiety gagged me—I had no idea why. At this moment in the sheets with Ted, I thought of her. She was happier than me.
Just do it already.
Without prelude, my husband hoisted himself on top of me, facedown, balancing on his toes in plank position, ready to perform the deed for which we’d come to this fancy Nashville hotel. We observed this milestone in our human development as if following instructions from a textbook on how to create a Christian marriage—the chapter: “On Your Honeymoon.” I detected a faint breath of reluctance in him, the weight of his body pressed me into the fresh linens. I thought I might suffocate, my lack of oxygen causing hallucinations of “Eugenia,” who’d made this bed for us today and left her scraggly signature on a white envelope resting against the pillows. I saw her standing in a corner with her feather duster.
I saw myself leaping up from that bed, pulling the telephone into the bathroom with me to call my mother. At this moment, she slouched in a metal folding chair with a lapful of cranberry ribbons plucked from my wedding decor. You’re so fortunate to have a man who loves you.
Ted pounded against my tight young thighs while a screen full of inappropriate images played on the backs of my eyelids. I thought of all those Waltham boys I did not marry. Because they did not ask.
