Martha Reader Novels & Stories

Martha's forehead furrowed in confusion at the abrupt question. “Why is that even relevant?” She answered. “She obviously isn't, Nathan.” The raven haired beside him answered. I stepped forward with a threatening growl, how dare she interfere with mates. She widened her eyes and took a step back. “You're wasting my precious time,” Nathan said to Martha. “Aren't you happy to finally find me?” Martha asked at the edge of tears. “You're obviously not of Alpha blood. What's your name again?” He said. “Martha Klassen, why?”

With night terrors, insomnia, and many more issues. I pulled up to the market and came out. I was happy the moment I saw Martha. Martha is the resident old lady. Seventy-two years of age, and the woman who kept me in her house, in this pack for the first eight months. When I was scared, covered in scars. Martha is the only one who has a glimpse of an idea of my past. And she tells no one. If anybody can help Esmarie recover and teach her how to raise her children it’s Martha. Mother of none.

Or was I simply allowing my imagination to run wild? "No, you're overthinking it," I reassured myself, recognizing that I was reading too much into every word. Yet, I couldn't shake off the subtle vibrations of disinterest and withdrawal that I had sensed in Martha's energy. It haunted me, leaving me with a lingering sense of unease. I found solace in knowing that whatever Martha had been occupied with, she hadn't been purposely ignoring me. This realization brought me a sense of relief, allowing me to anticipate our next meeting.

“That girl… always in those dull dresses. She doesn’t even know how to carry herself as a Walker’s wife. She must really be a burden to him.” Deep down, however, she felt a cold satisfaction at not having received a single call that night. She stood up. “I’m going to turn in. Good night.” Martha rose from the armchair and walked toward the door with firm steps, leaving her husband alone. “Good night, dear,” he replied without looking up from the newspaper he was now reading, relieved to be able to finish his tea in silence

Tom said slowly, while searching for that relieved feeling he should be having right now. But to his greatest surprise, his emotions felt more like disappointment rather than relief. ‘Outrageous right?’ He asked himself even as he told himself not to think about it. ****** Knocking on the hardwood door while standing at the front of the small but well cultivated pink house, Martha waited anxiously for someone to come to the door. Soon, she heard footsteps and she released the breath she was holding. Hopefully, her coming would not be for naught. Opening the door halfway, the woman brought her head out the door to check who was out there, even as she called a greeting.

Harinth do something… set this place on fire… do something… anything! It’s better they all die here than this woman running her mouth. “Now I must say this,” Martha continues. “I have not come to lie but only to reveal the truth.” Cathylene heart races. She can't let Martha speak. She shouldn't. The door still remains tightly closed. Harinth has really abandoned him. She swallows back painfully, a new wave of determination hitting her “If Harinth doesn't do something, then I will…” In a flash, she dives.

She never used the right shade and her brows never matched. Her almost six feet tall, sagged body hovered over Nora's small malnourished one. Martha donned a brand new white satin blouse tucked in a brand new costly looking variegated loin cloth. On her feet were a pair of thick-soled white sandals, all of which proved she had just returned from her Christian women's fellowship meeting. "To fetch water," Nora replied with conspicuous fear. Martha was a walking exemplar of 'mood swing'. Three-quarters of it had been dedicated to Nora and the remainder, to her very own husband--Nora's dad.

Martha was nervous and grabbed the hem of her husband's clothes, at a loss for what to do. “What’s going on? They've been so busy these days, but the effect is getting worse!” Martha grumbled, unhappy with everyone's efficiency. “Powerful practitioners like them should produce good results in whatever they do, but more and more are appearing. If the location of this villa wasn’t good enough, we’d have been dead already!” Martha read a lot of news during this time and knew that many places had fallen.

she translated. “It’s mythological,” he said. “But so was electricity, once.” Martha stood alone outside the precinct, file folder clutched to her chest. She didn’t go back inside. She walked. Not to the station. Not to the diner. To the woods. To the one place her instincts dragged her when logic refused to catch up. Nolan Graves answered the knock with a frown that was already three days old. “You walked here?” he asked. She shoved the folder into his chest.

A maid stood there, face blank, and led her inside. The house was cold. Not temperature cold—decor cold. Everything was white and gray and black. No family photos. No clutter. No warmth. "Wait here." The maid pointed to a living room and disappeared. Martha sat on the edge of a chair that was probably worth more than her entire wardrobe. She clasped her hands in her lap and tried to breathe. Minutes passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. She was starting to think he wouldn't come when she heard footsteps.