Older Woman Novels & Stories

They studied me like an object they intended to break down. “Young lady, how did you meet this jerk? After the death of our daughter, his world came crashing and he chose to leave everything behind.” The elderly lady said, I couldn't stop glaring at her because she was looking so pretty. Her hair was white but very pretty and her eyes were tiny just like the way her skin glowed. The surprising part was how such an old lady had such a great dressing sense. Her skin was matching with the red gown she was putting on. As well as her black heels, I was still staring before he pinched me hard.

Instinctively, she raised her hand to grab it. “Don’t touch it,” a voice hissed behind her, cold and sharp. “Or you will die.” She froze. Her hand dropped instantly as she spun around in terror. Standing a few steps behind her was an old woman. Her long hair was completely gray, hanging loosely down her back, and even her eyelashes were pale with age. She wore a dusty black gown that brushed the floor, and in her hand was a crooked wooden staff she leaned on for support. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, filled with something ancient and dangerous.

They look clean, like they’ve been used recently and cleaned afterwards. Behind the bar is a tiny old lady, maybe four-four, and wiry, her cerulean eyes staring at him curiously. Her long white hair is in a plait down her back, a short nose, and thin lips completed the face, along with a myriad of wrinkles that told of her age. They walk over and she smiles at them,

"Bring her in." The woman who walked into the study five minutes later was older. Sixty, perhaps more. Small in frame with grey threading through her hair and hands that had worked hard all their life. She moved with a slight slowness in her left leg but held herself straight, her chin level, her eyes direct. Rebecca looked at her.

And beneath it, on a bench, sat a very old woman wrapped in a patched brown shawl, her face a map of lines, her hands folded on a stick. “That is Old Tove,” whispered Isolde. “Our oldest keeper. She is ninety one. She has not left her cottage since spring.” The old woman raised her face to the wagon. Her eyes were pale and bright as a bird’s. “You are late,” she said, in a thin cracked voice that carried clearly. “I have been waiting forty years for somebody to ask what the Marrow was carrying.”

Flames licked around her, her clothes, her skin, her hair, but they only rolled around her and danced out of her way. She stepped out of the fire and everyone started clapping and cheering. She was the oldest woman I have ever seen, her back was bent over by age and she walked with a stoop and a wobbly looking walking stick, her hair was so grey, it was cotton wool white and her face was rough and wrinkled up. She walked with a limp and it took her a while to get to where we were standing. She reached us and it looked like everyone had held in their breaths to see what she was going to do about me.

The last thing she needed was someone using her as a shoulder to cry on. Someone settled in beside her. An old woman. Seventy maybe. Her scrawny face spoke of untold hardship than age. She smelled like Durian, the fruit that smelt like gym socks. Her hair, grey with age, was grubby and greasy. Clarissa forced down the bile that had found itself to her throat as she took in the sight which was the old lady.

“Were they white? Colored?” “They were all white,” the old woman said. “One of the men was younger than the other, and the boy was small, about four or five years old.” “You’re a good observer, and you also have a good memory,” Mark said. “Anything else you remember?” The old woman made a gesture of annoyance, it seemed that the words of that detective rather than praise, offended her. “I’m an old woman, detective, but I don’t have Alzheimer’s yet. One of the advantages of reading a lot and solving crossword puzzles is that you exercise the brain, preventing it from getting numb. That’s why I remember many things.”

I protested, gritting my teeth. “Cooking isn’t exertion. I do love it so,” the older woman replied, her hazel eyes that were so like mine sparkling with pleasure. Her hair was silver now, short and wavy. She lay on the sofa in an old gown and housecoat, her feet in socks. Nights were still chilly, even though it was April. “Want to eat in here on trays?” I offered. “That would be lovely. We can watch the news.” I grimaced. “Not the news,” I groaned. “Something pleasant!”

Old lady was still crazy. ***