Martha Reader Novels & Stories

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.

she asked. If you're just getting to know Martha, you would never believe she reads at all, much less a four hundred and fifty page novel. Soon, Beth had got everything I needed. Martha checked her out and I carried my stuff out of the store. It was evening already. I had to rush if I was to catch the bus to Nathan's area. I rushed home, dropped the grocery bag on my couch, had a bath and rushed out again. Luckily, I was just in time for the bus. Twenty minutes later, I got down. Nathan's house was easily one of the most attention grabbing in the area.

I said quietly. "That's fair. But while you're thinking, remember something: Martha has had countless opportunities to be honest with you. To apologize. To take real accountability. Instead, she's threatening you and using her baby as a weapon. And that was exactly what she did that made the judge not take pity on her." He squeezed my hands. "That tells you everything you need to know about her character." I nodded, the letter sat on the coffee table like a live grenade. I remembered what I promised myself when I decided to come back home from Spain: I won’t let Martha’s strategies work on me and steal my joy.

Martha was there, of course, seated exactly where I’d left her, beside Rose’s crib, reading from a small Bible she’d found in the hospital’s prayer room. She looked up when I walked in, her face a mixture of fatigue and faint reproach. “How was breakfast?” “Good,” I muttered, setting my coffee on the table and glancing toward the crib. Rose was sleeping again, her tiny chest rising steadily. There was more color on her cheeks today. "You're not hungry?" “I'm okay with the fruits you brought,” Martha said, her tone softening. “Suit yourself,” I murmured, sipping my coffee. The liquid was too hot, scalding my tongue, but I welcomed the sting.

"You still have so much to live for, you can still change everything." Martha's gaze snapped back to his, her eyes flashing with anger. "What do I have to live for?" she spat. "My husband is dead, I killed him with my own hands, i killed grandfather Edward who accepted me into his home with a warm heart, Kian isn’t my real son, I can not bear a child. I have nothing left except for the money in the hidden room, and now I am dying how would I spend such a huge money." The doctor felt a tear roll down his cheek as he looked at Martha, her eyes empty and hollow. He saw the devastation and despair that had consumed her, and his heart broke for her.

What do I do now. Suddenly door got opened and I quickly wrapped myself in bedsheets. "Relax it's just me, Dear" Martha said as she came inside. I visibly relaxed when I saw her. Martha is cook of this house. She is a old woman, may be in her late 70s. She is very sweet and kind, i get grandma feeling from her. She has helped me alot and i am very grateful to her. When he left me alone after our first night, i wasn't in condition to stand straight on my feet. I had lost so much blood and it was hurting. I was crying continuously as I felt helpless and Alone.

I doubted that I could have done it. I lay in Sydney’s arms staring at that green glow on the ceiling until I began to wonder about the glow itself and realized it was coming from a tiny light on Martha’s laptop computer. I pressed the switch on the arm of her bed and raised the head high enough for me to read without awakening Sydney. Lifting the lid on the laptop, I found that it was on and that Martha had been working last on her novel. There were now one hundred seventy-three pages. I pulled the computer stand closer to me, shifted back to the beginning of the story, and began reading.