Claire Weekes Book Novels & Stories

I snarl. Marco shrugs. “The author had to hold back. There’s a limit to how horrifying you can make a story.” We’re by the pool when he hands me another. This one isn’t crime. It’s a non-fictional book about getting over and accepting the death of your loved ones. I throw it at him, hard. It hits his chest. He doesn’t flinch, but his face twists in what I desperately hope is embarrassment. Claire dangles her legs over the water, staring at the still surface of the pool like she wants it to answer something. I remember what she said the night before: Zeke is too confusing. I haven’t figured him out yet. I don’t know what he’s hoping to do.

Author P.O.V. "Girl! I can't fucking believe they tried to have you fucking committed. It's time to teach them a lesson not to fuck with you anymore. It's about fucking time. I am flying into town on Monday morning and by Friday morning, when I fly back out, we will have officially fucked their world up. They will be too busy putting out fires in their own lives to fuck with you anymore." laughed Claire as she sat on her comfy sofa in her loft apartment sipping on a glass of wine and eating popcorn.

The Sequel: Wild Anemone is coming soon. Hello friends, I'm Mama Magie Ward. A farm mom and author who started writing as part of my stroke recovery. We walk together in the penumbra, a space of partial illumination between the shadow and the light. Mine are stories about and for those who face overcoming or succumbing.

Claire joined her with two mugs of hot cider. “I’m thinking of doing something wild,” Claire said, smiling into the steam. Emma raised an eyebrow. “Wilder than moving here and co-running a retreat center?” Claire laughed. “I want to apply to that art residency in Iceland. Remember the one we talked about last year?” Emma’s smile widened. “Yes. Do it. You’re ready.” Claire nodded. “I think I am.” They clinked mugs. Two days later, a package arrived in the mail. Emma opened it to find the first proof copy of her book: A Love That Lingers.

"Yes, it's dangerous, but at least he could sniff around to see if she is kept captive there." "I don't think they would keep her in any territory," Claire chipped in. Our gazes shifted toward her, and I cocked my head to the side. "Do you know of a place they would take her?" I asked. Claire nodded and got to her feet. She quickly left the living room. "Where are you going, Mother?" Levi called after her. "I will be right back," she called and disappeared in the hallway. Moments later Claire appeared with a thick book in her hands. The old outside cover was made from some kind of leather, and the pages looked yellow and brittle.

‎The week drifted by in a blur of sunrises and laughter, the kind of days that slipped through one’s fingers without notice. Before they knew it, another weekend had arrived—warm, bright, and promising. Cleo and Claire had planned for it since Tuesday: a long overdue shopping day, just the two of them. ‎

"What are you doing?" "Erh. Claire. I..how are you? What are you doing so late?" She stuttered. "I should be asking you why you're coming in so late ma'am. You left us alone. We were worried about you" I said. "The Library was locked, I had to wait a bit" she responded. "I am sorry if I kept you waiting," she said. She looked into her bag and brought out two books: Beyond Pardon by Bertha Clay and The Day of The Jackal by Frederick Forsyth. "These books would make my week, I had to wait to get them" she curved a quick smile.

He agreed immediately. *** On the second day, Claire found two red books titled "Chemistry in Everyday Products." The books were locked in a glass box. Claire realized they might be valuable. However, she could not resist her desire to read them. Claire looked at the old woman guarding the library, wanting to ask if she could read them for a moment. After seeing the old woman looking back, Claire lost her courage and turned back to her seat to continue working on her assignment. The next day, Claire found the glass box already open.

he said in a calm voice. "Klaire Owen. Klaire Owen, she took the notepad." "And where are you, Ava?" She could feel her eyes burn with tears as she told the man her address. If Klaire were to look at the book she could face jail time. Especially a book that contains information on a bunch of other people that have nothing to do with her. And who knows what she would do with the book if she reads what Casey said in their meeting. She could get angry and destroy it. Ava needed that book back.

Just a pressed blue flower nestled between the first pages. She didn’t need a signature. She already knew. She placed it gently on her bookshelf—beside her worn journals, the framed smiles of survivors, and the yellowing newspaper that once called her The Phoenix of West Africa. But this wasn’t a trophy shelf. It was a museum of becoming. A shrine to everything she had grown through. Later that week, during a lunch break filled with jollof and soft laughter, Clara leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re glowing,” she said. “Like a woman who just got proposed to by someone who listens to jazz and speaks in love languages.”