Bookwoman Novels & Stories

But despite his stature, Beatrice was drawn to the wheelchair the boy pushed ahead of him, and the figure slumped in it. It was an elderly woman, easily as old as Maud and Agnes Clutterbuck, the town librarian. But this woman had succumbed to time, her frame buckled and bent as the chair housing her. Her fingers were like twisted and knotted sticks and a tartan blanket covered her legs, but not enough to hide the big Velcro slippers poking out from beneath the hem.

I had the urge to touch it, so I reached forward for it. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you," I jerked at the gruff voice and turned around. It was an old woman with grey asymmetric Bob hair and beautiful brown skin. She held a walking stick with a snake's head and red eyes. She wasn't green, blue, or decapitated like the others, she looked like a real woman. "That book might be titled 'NAMES', but it is not a good book. Those five letters stand for something, terrible things. Open that book and you won't love what you will see,"

No one, not even Carlos can make her forget who she really is. She opened her closet, got a white shirt and a jacket and black tattered jeans. After changing clothes, she put on her baseball cap and sprayed perfume. She left her place in a splash to meet the person she was talking with. ... "Baby!" A woman wearing thick make up and mini skirt hung her arms on Alex’s neck hurriedly when they met. She is wearing crop top which reveals her figure. "I miss you so much, baby." She kissed Alex's lips and hugged her again.

When the left hand of the man touched the thick book, the man noted that the book was also very heavy. He took one last strong pull at the wine and began reading what was written inside. It was of the woman's own handwriting as she portrayed and poured all her veiled feelings within the book. Although she lived a long life, the woman did not spend it in vain as she had worked very hard for the benefit of the people especially the children.

The apartment fell quiet. Rita stayed on the sofa for another minute, then pushed herself up. She opened the larger suitcase first and began unpacking. Clothes went into the closet. Toiletries lined the bathroom shelf. Books found a place on the low shelf near the window. She worked steadily, keeping her hands busy so her mind would stay quieter. One box remained. She set it on the coffee table and opened the lid. Inside sat several small glass containers filled with dried herbs and seeds. Beside them lay a worn notebook bound in faded leather.

Seventy-seven days. That was how long Marcus Harper had gone without saying a single word to his wife. No argument. No explanation. Just silence. And the worst part? Lila Harper still loved him. Because Marcus wasn't always cruel. He was the husband everyone wished they had—the flowers, expensive dates, gentle touches, and the way he looked at Lila like she was the only woman in the world. The perfect marriage! She was envied. But she knew what happened when the doors closed. For ten years, she kept forgiving Marcus, waiting for his silence to end and believing the loving man she knew was the real him. Until the seventy-seventh day. One bank statement changes every

The publisher's name was Yetunde. Adaeze discovered this when she clicked through to the profile that had sent the message, finding there a woman in her early forties with the particular quality of someone who had built something deliberately and inhabited it with the ease of long ownership. The publishing house was called Rootword Press — small, independent, Lagos-based, with a catalogue that Adaeze spent an evening reading through with the careful attention she brought to things she wanted to understand properly before forming an opinion about.

"Whatever she decides, at least it'll finally be her decision, not one made for her by someone more powerful." The bookshop, when they finally found it, sat on a quiet corner of a town that felt like it belonged to an entirely different decade, warm light spilling from its windows despite the late hour. A woman was visible through the glass, silver haired, moving slowly between shelves with the careful, deliberate motions of someone who'd built an entire peaceful life out of the wreckage of an earlier one. She looked up the moment the bell above the door announced their entrance, and something in her expression shifted instantly from polite welcome to sharp, immediate wariness.

book to a specific page I had marked and handed it to him. "Just read." I watched Lorenzo's reaction, which went from a frown to eyes wide in shock. "What?... is this a p**n book?" "It's not a p**n book," Andrea said in a reprimanding tone. "It's The Señorita!" I said in an admiring sigh followed by Andrea. "This book is about a romance between a Spanish cook and a lady of the aristocracy! A forbidden romance between a rich lady and a commoner! Ahhh..." I sighed. "The writer who wrote this book is anonymous, her pseudonym is Madame Louis. The cover, based on a recipe book, is discreet and is a hit with women!"

Curious and slightly wary, and entirely unaware that the woman standing ten feet away from her had once counted her fingers in a hospital room and memorised every one. "Mama," Luna said softly. She was looking at Isabella. I felt a sharp pain pierce my heart. Isabella held her closer and turned away without looking at me again, and Elias followed, and the man by the laptop pulled the drive and pocketed it, and within two minutes the warehouse was emptying of everyone except me and the still, silent figure in the wheelchair by the far wall. The door closed. I stood completely motionless until I heard the cars outside start and pull away.