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    Out of the Shadows
    Out of the Shadows
    Out of the Shadows
    Ebook88 pages1 hour

    Out of the Shadows

    By mohana rajakumar, Christine Nolfi, Francis Guenette and

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This collection features strong female chracters in short stories written by multiple award winning female authors.

    These are stories about love, marriage, courage, and sadness. Enjoy this variety and learning more about each of the writers. At the end of each story is information for newsletter sign up so you'll get the latest news about upcoming projects.

    What Is The Collective Noun for Crazy Old Ladies?
    (A Beacon Hill Chronicles Short Story)
    By Kathleen Valentine

    Pork Chops and Promiscuity
    By Jane Turley
     
    A Slight Invasion
    By Rosalind Minett


    The Second Pair of Slippers
    By Elizabeth Ducie
     
    Love Sick
    By Lisa Payne
     
    Out of the Mouths of Babes
    By Debbie Young
     
    Night Hour
    By Christine Nolfi
     
    A Special Christmas
    By Francis Guenette
     
    Exposure
    By Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar
     

    LanguageEnglish
    Publishermohana rajakumar
    Release dateJun 17, 2016
    ISBN9781533792112
    Out of the Shadows
    Author

    mohana rajakumar

    Mohana is a writer and scholar of gender, race, and writing. Her work has appeared in academic journals and books. She is the award-winning novelist of Love Comes Later and An Unlikely Goddess, among others. As the host of the Expat Dilemmas podcast, she peppers each show with reflections from a decade of living abroad. She teaches courses on literature, argumentative and creative writing. You can read more her website: www.mohadoha.com.

    Read more from Mohana Rajakumar

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      Book preview

      Out of the Shadows - mohana rajakumar

      Out of the Shadows

      We hope you enjoy this short story collection by women writers of strong fictional characters. If you have a moment, please leave a review. This helps us find other reader. Enjoy the adventures told within.

      Copyright 2016. All rights revert to the original authors. The stories in this collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

      What Is The Collective Noun for Crazy Old Ladies?

      (A Beacon Hill Chronicles Short Story)

      By Kathleen Valentine

      Pork Chops and Promiscuity

      By Jane Turley

      A Slight Invasion

      By Rosalind Minett

      The Second Pair of Slippers

      By Elizabeth Ducie

      Love Sick

      By Lisa Payne

      Out of the Mouths of Babes

      By Debbie Young

      Night Hour

      By Christine Nolfi

      A Special Christmas

      By Francis Guenette

      Exposure

      By Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar

      What Is The Collective Noun for Crazy Old Ladies?

      (A Beacon Hill Chronicles Short Story)

      by Kathleen Valentine

      I was coming out of the gym in South Boston when my cell phone rang. The display read Madame DeFarge's Knitting Basket, which surprised me because I didn't think Calista DeFarge had my cell number.

      Vivienne Lang, I said.

      Baldy, is that you?

      It was Calista all right. Not only did I recognize her familiar husky voice, but she's the only person I know who calls me Baldy. I'm not actually bald, I just keep my hair very short for convenience's sake. I work out a lot. And I fight. Long hair gets in the way.

      Yeah. Are you okay? You don't sound like yourself? To be honest, it's hard to know what Calista might sound like from day to day. She is well over eighty and has been teaching knitting and selling yarn from her shop on Bowdoin Street for half a century, which is a good thing for me. Among Calista's clientele are some of Beacon Hill's oldest—and most gossipy—residents. Without her keen ear for gossip, I never would have discovered how a body came to be buried in the back yard of the Thorndike townhouse on Mount Vernon Street, or who murdered its old housekeeper.

      Could you stop by my shop when you have a few minutes? She paused and I got the impression she wasn't quite sure of herself, which is not at all like Calista. There's something that's … well, it's kind of on my mind.

      Of course. Do you want me to come right over?

      No. I'm probably worrying for nothing. She hesitated then said, Next time you're in the neighborhood, stop in. Okay?

      Sure. I tucked my phone back in my jeans pocket. Since I live in the North End, look after my grandfather in the Theater District, and work out in Southie, I'm all over Boston most days. The only time I'm on Beacon Hill is when I have to check on GrammyLou's townhouse. My childhood friend, Mattie Thorndike Michaud, inherited the five-story townhouse from her grandmother, whom we both called GrammyLou. Since Mattie and her husband live on Cape Cod, I have a set of keys in case of emergency. Frankly, I can't wait for the house to sell. It has caused one catastrophe after another since GrammyLou died. It's been the scene of kidnapping, imprisonment, torture, murder, and a couple of ghosts. I hope someone buys it soon.

      It's too bad, really. When Mattie and I were children we spent hundreds of hours at GrammyLou's. Both of us were raised by grandparents—Mattie because her parents were killed in a car wreck when she was five, me because my mother had me when she was sixteen. My mother took off with a new boyfriend shortly after I was born; I never knew my father. When we were teenagers, Mattie's life and mine went in different directions. It's what happened during those years that made me vow to never be vulnerable again. When I was old enough, I moved to Paris to study Savate, a form of kick-boxing. Then I studied Muay Thai in Malaysia. It wasn't until I came back to Boston and joined the gym I belong to now that I learned the fine art of good old American street fighting. Calista keeps telling me I need balance. She wants to teach me to knit. So far I've managed to avoid that.

      Madame DeFarge's Knitting Basket is below street-level across from the State House with its gold dome. Over the entrance to the shop is a painting of a frightful looking woman with wild gray hair, knitting furiously as she watches some poor soul being led to the guillotine. I knew Calista for quite some time before she told me that she had posed for her shop's sign. When I stopped in the afternoon following her call I found her, as usual, knitting away with a group of women. Her long gray hair was pulled back with a bright bandana and her glasses perched on the end of her remarkable nose.

      Baldy, she said looking at me over the top of her glasses. I didn't expect you so soon.

      I didn't want to make you wait. It's a beautiful spring day and I'm going to go look in on Papa. What's going on?

      Calista put down her knitting, removed her glasses, letting them dangle from a chain made

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