Reading Evening Post Novels & Stories

On our wedding anniversary last month, he gave me a diamond necklace. He gave her a Porsche. The caption said it was his reward for all her hard work. What chilled me to the bone was the revelation of their marriage certificate being the real one. I yanked the drawer out and dug up my marriage certificate. It was signed and sealed by the official. We even took a photo after that to immortalize the beginning of our happy marriage. Suddenly, I recalled the graduation party. That day, everyone was excited about their future. Ramona and I had a drinking contest. Since I was a lightweight drinker, I passed out soon after a few drinks.

The commentators voice drifts out of the TV as the news starts “Good evening, viewers. We are back to deliver the evening news at 8:00 PM. Please stay with us. On the agenda for today: *Crime rate rise and how to tackle it. *Johnson’s stocks crash woefully in the market and continue to drop without any sign of recovery We all look at Desmond apologetically, and I squeeze his rock hard thighs a bit, offering some comfort. He responds, still bereft

The sunroom fell completely quiet again. Evelyn slowly reached out her right hand. Her fingers brushed against the surface of the top newspaper. It was the Financial Times. She didn't bother unfolding it. She slid it off the stack and set it aside on the empty chair beside her. Beneath it lay the local morning daily—a paper known for covering corporate society news, court cases, and high-profile family affairs. Evelyn’s eyes scanned the front page briefly, moving past headlines about winter shipping tariffs and local council elections. She turned the page over with a soft rustle of paper.

"Come on. I’m starving. Let’s get some pancakes." I followed her into the diner. The bell above the door jingled. The smell of grease and burnt coffee hit me like a blessing. We sat in a booth. The red vinyl was cracked. "So," Elodie said, opening her menu. "What’s the first story you’re going to edit tonight?" I looked at the newspaper on the table. The headline caught my eye. LOCAL MAN CLAIMS DOGS ARE TALKING TO HIM. I smiled. I picked up a pen from the table.

Posters featuring Hawthorne Enterprises glimmered in shop windows. Restaurants hung welcome banners. Newsstands displayed magazines speculating about the investors’ arrival. Some even had photographs of Grayson Hawthorne himself. Tall. Sharp. Powerful. I looked away quickly. By the time closing hours arrived, my head was spinning. ***** (Night) When I stepped outside, the cool evening air brushed against my skin. The city lights shimmered along the streets as I made my way home, Isabella left before me she said she had somewhere to go.

He chucked at her. “Do you know what this is, I wouldn’t let it slips off my fingers and I have to do something about it, you were the one who came to me at first and told me about the Wesley wedding, you know I’m a reporter and I most certainly do my job.” Eve groaned inwardly, she took the phone from her ears shortly and placed them back on his ear again. “You would take the post down immediately.” “I’m not doing any of that.” He hung up on her. Fanny yelled with her veins prodding out of her neck.

Raven regarded the office building from the bus stop across the road. Night had set in, and the streets were busy in the pleasant weather. Friday night, ten pm, everyone had finished dinner and were out for a night of drinking and dancing in their sexiest best wear. Except him, he thought ruefully. And, presumably, Vixen.

(Ruby) I stood outside the restaurant, my arms folded across my chest, feeling the cool evening air brush against my skin. The lights from the streetlamps flickered gently, casting long shadows on the pavement. It was late, and the city seemed quieter than usual, the bustle of the evening winding down. Everyone had already left, the party winding to an end with laughter and promises to keep in touch. Lydia, Mama, and the kids had all gone, and I’d stayed behind to make sure everything was wrapped up.

~Katia~ Sam walked in at five forty-seven. I knew from her face before she said a word. I had been in the middle of reviewing the final Grand Prix logistics—paddock access, sponsor placements, and the security sweep schedule for tomorrow morning—and I looked up and read her expression and put the tablet down. "Show me," I said. She turned her phone toward me. The New York Ledger. Investigative column. Front page digital edition, posted at five fourteen PM.

Her mother nodded and began unpacking the bags. Outside the window the December light was going, that early evening collapse of grey into darker grey that happened in the cold months, the city outside switching from its afternoon register to its evening one. She could hear it in the quality of the street noise, the change in traffic rhythm, the particular sound of a day finishing and another one beginning its approach. She opened her laptop and checked the publications. Both evening editions had run the press release in full. One had added a headline that made her sit back slightly.