Staci Troilo

Suspense, Passion... Fiction That Flutters The Heart

Tag: short story (page 2 of 2)

Laci and Del: Belabored Day

It’s the first Friday of the month. Time for another installment of short fiction. You can, at any time, find this work or any of the First Friday Fiction Features (#FFFF), by going to the My Work tab, clicking on Freebies, and selecting the story you wish to read.

Remember that 2014 is the year I’m trying serial work. This is part 9 of 12.

Laci and Del: Belabored Day

broken footLaci finished tossing the pasta salad together and looked out the patio door. Del was lounging on a deck chair, listening to classic rock and working on his tan. She sighed, but didn’t go to him.

Instead of spending Labor Day with family picnics, they’d decided to go away for the weekend and rented a place right on Lake Erie. She wasn’t sure what avoiding family was going to solve, other than delaying the inevitable. The subject of moving had come up at Del’s birthday, and he’d stormed off.

They hadn’t discussed it since.

The situation needed to be resolved. But what if she brought it up and he left again? She’d be stranded there. Not a bad place to be stranded, but still, it wasn’t something she wanted to experience.

She put the salad in the refrigerator and started mixing the fudge frosting for the chocolate chip brownies she’d baked. Double chocolate was good, so triple chocolate had to be better, right? Brownies never seemed complete to her unless they were frosted. She wasn’t sure how long she whipped the butter, but she stopped when she noticed the mixer getting hot. The butter was creamier than she’d ever seen and almost white. Setting the appliance aside, she dug around for a wooden spoon to finish mixing the frosting.

She needed to stop dwelling on the conversation-that-wasn’t and start paying attention to what she was doing. Before she did irreparable damage to their rental unit. Or herself.

Del came inside just as she completed icing the brownies. As usual, he swiped his finger through the finished product instead of through the remaining frosting in the bowl. “Mmm,” he said. “That’s good.”

Laci repaired the damage he’d done and swatted his hand away when he reached toward the pan again. “Oh no. One swipe per pan. If you want more, take it from the bowl.” She handed it to him and put the brownies under a cake dome.

“I won’t say no to the rest of the bowl. And where are the mixer beaters? I’ll lick them, too.”

She turned toward the sink so she didn’t have to meet his gaze. “I didn’t use the mixer for anything other than the butter. I don’t have beaters for you.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“You’re awfully demanding for a man who’s getting a treat.” She started washing dishes, pleased with her efforts at changing the subject. Even if she should just get it over with and talk to him about moving.

“This mixer’s hot.” He yanked the plug out of the wall. “Must be a problem with the outlet. Or the motor. Better not use this again while we’re here.”

“No problem. I’m done with everything. The rest is up to you.”

“Yeah, grilling steaks is so difficult.”

She smiled and took the bowl from him so she could finish cleaning up.

“So, we have all afternoon. What do you think? Swim? Rent a boat? Stay in?”

Laci glanced at him. He waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

“I don’t want to spend more money. Let’s just take our towels down to the beach and enjoy the view.”

He shrugged. “Your call.”

Laci walked into the bedroom to change into her swimsuit. She walked over to her luggage, a large hard suitcase her grandmother had given her. She claimed she’d never use the set again and didn’t want it to go to waste. Laci ran her finger over the initials by the handle. BCM—Brigid Cathleen Milligan. She smiled and grabbed the handle. When she lifted it, the handle pulled off and the luggage fell on her foot. “Ow!” The impact took her breath away.

Del came rushing in. “What happened? Are you okay?” He frowned when he saw the broken luggage. “You wouldn’t share my bag or use one of the new bags you bought me. And now look. You’re probably going to have a big bruise on your foot from your crappy luggage falling on you.”

“It’s not crappy. It’s antique. And it has sentimental value.” Her foot was killing her. The last thing she wanted to do was argue. Yes, she loved the luggage set because it had been her grandmother’s. But she had refused to use Del’s luggage, not because of sentiment, but because of the argument they’d had when she gave it to him. It was petty, sure, and now she was paying for it. She tried to walk away, but she couldn’t put any weight on her foot. She yelped and collapsed on the edge of the bed.

He sighed. “Let me see.” He stooped beside her and lifted her foot.

Del had hardly touched her foot when she winced and pulled it back. She had painted her toenails a lovely violet color, and her foot was starting to match the polish. The swelling was already making her flipflop too tight.

“It’s already bruising and swelling. This might be more than a minor injury. You may have broken it. Looks like we’re headed to the hospital.”

She blinked back tears when she put her foot down. “No. Don’t be silly. The ERs are always so crowded on holidays, and I’ll be walking off the pain in another minute.”

He stood and crossed his arms. “Really? Let’s see.”

“I said in a minute. Or two.”

“I could give you days and you won’t be walking on that. Let’s go.” He offered her his hand.

“Del, I really don’t think—”

He cut her off by picking her up. She squirmed and kicked her good foot, but to no avail.

“Better keep your legs down. You don’t want to smack the sore foot off a door or wall.” He carried her through the beach house, out the door, and down to the car.

She fumed and stared out the window.

They were at a hospital in about fifteen minutes, and Del dropped her off at the ER doors before going to park. She hadn’t made much progress getting inside when he caught up to her and half supported/half carried her to the registration desk. The nurse gave her a clipboard of forms to fill out, and Del took them to the last two seats together in the lobby.

“I told you it would be crowded.”

“And I told you that your foot needed to be checked.”

She sighed and filled out the forms. Del took them up to the desk for her. When he came back, he said, “She said it’s going to be a while. There are more serious cases ahead of you.”

“This isn’t the way I planned on spending our vacation.”

“If you’d just used my bag, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Pain, frustration, irritation… all warred in her until her frayed temper snapped. “Why on earth would you think I’d use your luggage? I bought you that set thinking it would be a nice gift, and you basically threw it back in my face.”

“I did not.”

“You did. You left without spending your birthday with me, and you didn’t take the luggage with you. It sat at my house for a week before I finally brought it to you.”

“I wasn’t rejecting the gift. I was angry at the message behind it.”

“What message? That I love you and wanted you to have it?” That was a lie. The message was that she wanted him to travel but not move away. She just hadn’t told him that yet.

“No. That you made up my mind for me and were sending me away. Without you. It’s basically breakup luggage.”

She jumped up and searing pain shot through her foot and up her leg. Gasping, she sat back down.

“Where did you think you were going to go?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not having this conversation with you. Not now. Not here in a hospital ER where everyone can listen to our business.” She glanced around. People in the waiting room, staff behind the window… they were all staring at her and Del.

“But it won’t be our business much longer, will it? Pretty soon, it’s just going to be me, alone again. No you. No couple.”

A nurse came over with a wheelchair. “Miss Marks? We’re ready for you now.”

“That was fast,” Del said. He helped Laci into the chair.

The nurse glanced around, then whispered so only the two of them could hear her. “Sometimes when there’s a disturbance out here, it’s just easier to change the order and take a patient early.” She started pushing Laci through the waiting area.

Del followed, and the nurse turned around to speak to him. “We’ve got it from here. Please have a seat. We’ll keep you updated.”


“Just listen to her, Del. I’m sure I won’t be too long.” He frowned, but sat back down. She knew she’d be hearing more about that later. But that argument beat the other one they were having.

When the nurse got Laci situated behind a curtain, she started asking a lot of questions. And not about her foot. Laci would have laughed, the whole thing was so ludicrous, but she was in too much pain. Instead, she assured the nurse that she wasn’t in an abusive relationship and Del was actually a wonderful man. And no, he didn’t hurt her. Her own stubbornness and clumsiness was to blame.

Once the nurse was satisfied that Laci was in no danger from Del, she asked the necessary medical questions and a doctor came to see her. A long trip to the x-ray department and back, and the doctor was telling her she was lucky. She had broken her foot, but only one bone, and it was a clean break. Given the way the accident happened, she could have had many rough breaks, with chips and fragments, that would have required surgery.

Yay. Lucky her.

After her foot was set and she had crutches, she was led back out to the lobby.

Del was pacing up and down the hall. He rushed to her when she came out. “They said they’d keep me posted, but they didn’t tell me a thing.”

She continued hobbling down the hall toward the door. “Well, obviously it’s broken. But it’s not bad. He said it was a clean break, so I don’t need surgery.”

They walked outside, and he stopped her at the curb. She looked up at him, and he placed both hands on her face and gave her a tender kiss. “I was worried.”

“I’ll be okay.”

He rested his forehead on hers, and she just breathed him in. This was her Del, this was her heart, her home. She couldn’t bear to lose him.

He pushed away. “Stay here. I’ll get the car.”

“I need to learn to use these. I’ll come with you.”

“I said stay!” Rather than starting yet another argument, she waited while he loped across the parking lot. He was back in no time and got out to help her.

Once they were on their way back to the beach house, she said, “You really don’t need to treat me so delicately. I’m okay.”

He sighed. “Are you okay enough to continue our discussion about the move?”

Her stomach clenched. “No. I’m not that okay yet.”

The tick in his jaw said more than any of his words would or could. “We’ll table it for now. But we’re talking soon. We can’t let this stuff fester between us. It’s already gone unsaid for too long.”

She looked out the window at the surf. Her foot ached, but not as much as her heart. She leaned her head on the window. She didn’t want things left unresolved, but she was frightened of the resolution. What if instead of staying, he chose his career over her?

Laci and Del: Birthday Wishes

It’s the first Friday of the month. Time for another installment of short fiction. You can, at any time, find this work or any of the First Friday Fiction Features (#FFFF), by going to the My Work tab, clicking on Freebies, and selecting the story you wish to read.

Remember that 2014 is the year I’m trying serial work. This is part 8 of 12.

Laci and Del: Birthday Wishes

three tiered chocolate cake with white frostingLaci’s stomach churned. This was so not a good idea.

After she and Del had talked out the misunderstanding that had broken them up for a year, they had each explained it to their families in the hopes of putting to rest the hard feelings that had developed. She wasn’t sure it had worked, particularly where his mother was concerned.

His birthday should be a day of celebration, not a day of détente.

She swirled the knife through the fluffy white frosting on three-tiered fudge cake she’d baked that morning. Just when she thought it looked perfect, Del ran his finger through the top.

“Mmm, that’s good.” Continue reading

Laci and Del: Fireworks

It’s the first Friday of the month. Time for another installment of short fiction. You can, at any time, find this work or any of the First Friday Fiction Features (#FFFF), by going to the My Work tab, clicking on Freebies, and selecting the story you wish to read.

Remember that 2014 is the year I’m trying serial work. This is part 7 of 12.

Laci and Del: Fireworks

Fourth of JulyAs Del pushed off the dock, Laci listened to the chirping crickets and croaking frogs, their cheerful melody a mockery when juxtaposed against her occasional sighs and Del’s sporadic mutterings. A bunch of them were spending the three-day weekend at Del’s cousin’s lake house, and so far, despite everyone’s determination to have a great Independence Day holiday, she felt the tension between her and Del as solid and tangible as if an actual wall had been erected between them.

A wall she could walk around or climb over.

The tension? She didn’t know how to overcome.

Continue reading

First Friday Fiction Feature – Memories

It’s the first Friday of the month. Time for another fiction installment. (Links for this and all Fiction Features can be found on the Freebies page.)

This short story is the result of my experimenting with all the senses, not just sight (as most of us default to). Hope you enjoy it.


pop - n - freshI know three things when I wake up. One, I’m not in my own bed. Two, I’m not in my own clothes. And three, I have been drugged. I can only come up with two explanations for my current situation. I am sick or injured and am in the hospital. Tragic, but acceptable. And given that I feel like crap, it is entirely possible. The second reason would be that I have been dosed and abused. That’s far less palatable an option, and isn’t going to go well for somebody, hopefully somebody other than me, once I get on my feet. Question is, who will it go badly for? No way am I opening my eyes and giving away my position until I have more information. If I have to get the drop on somebody, I want the upper hand. My dad taught me the basics of defense before he died. Stealth was lesson one.

I lie still in the strange bed, trying to take in my surroundings without anyone knowing I’m awake. Blankets cover me up to my shoulders, so I can safely move my fingers if I don’t make large movements. Sliding my fingers along the sheets, I try to analyze the quality of the linens. They aren’t the four hundred thread-count I like, but they are soft. Definitely aren’t the hard industrial thread-count I expect of an institution needing to bleach its sheets daily. My fingers touch something wet, and I instantly recoil my hand. Wetness doesn’t bode well.

Angling my head just to the left, I breathe long and slow through my nose… I don’t smell any antiseptic, disinfectant, or air freshener. Probably not a medical facility. I smell the subtle scent of a man’s cologne in the bed and realize these are definitely not hospital sheets. Uh-oh… cologne in the sheets? It’s a nice smell, musky… reminds me of something or someone, but I can’t place what or who. Fear creeps up my spine, an icefloe spreading through my body. Trying to get my wits about me, I take a second, deeper sniff and I get whiffs of whiskey, rum and gin. It kind of warms me. Weird. Unfortunately, at this point I can definitely rule out hospitals and medical facilities. I’m screwed.

No conversation going on around me. Hmm. That doesn’t mean I’m alone. Straining, I hear soft music coming from what must be another room, but I can’t quite make out what’s playing. Perhaps there are people in there. Or a single person. My best bet for escape is a single person. But how to tell?

At some point I’m going to have to open my eyes, at least a crack, and take a peek. But I’d rather not do that unless I’m alone. Of course, I won’t know for certain that I’m alone unless I look. I listen again for sounds in the room…

“How long are you going to lie there pretending you’re still out cold?”

Busted. When I open my eyes, my gaze is locked with the man’s who is sitting next to the bed. The large, burly man. A yard away.

I yank up the sheet as far as I can and scramble to sit. Ugh. My stomach lurches and my head reels at even that small movement, but I’m more concerned with the beast at my bedside than I am with my hangover. “Who are you? Where am I?”

He ignores me, but his face clouds. I don’t know why, but I feel sorry for yelling at him. Then I immediately shrug it off. Why should he feel bad, and why should I care if he does?

He asks me, “Can I get you anything? A drink? Toast?”

Even my hair hurts. I think I might be sick. Why isn’t he climbing all over me? Oh, right. He probably already did that. Saliva wells in my mouth and I try to swallow it past the lump in my throat. “What are you going to do to me?” I whisper.

He sighs and stands up. “Probably should start with juice and dry toast. I’ll be right back.” He leaves through the only door toward what I assume is the main part of his apartment. I’d have to go through him to get out, and I’m not doing that in a t-shirt and nothing else. At least, not yet. Not while I’m queasy and confused. I need my strength, then I’m so out of there, or I’ll die trying. I try to rub my temples, but just touching my head hurts it. My fingers probe my forehead gingerly. Man, he must have done quite a number on me. There’s a huge lump there. No wonder I’m addle-brained and nauseated. I’m probably concussed.

I look around the room. Of course there’s no phone. Why did people stop getting land lines? God, am I really in a t-shirt and nothing else? Dropping the covers, I look at myself. The soft cotton of a too large Pillsbury Doughboy tee is the only thing covering me. Despite the seriousness of my predicament, I laugh a little. I love Poppin’ Fresh. I vaguely remember laughing over a shirt just like that on a rack at the Galleria. Who was I there with? I can’t remember. I definitely have a concussion. When I see him approach, I pull the covers back up.

He comes back with toast and juice and puts the tray down on the bed. Sitting back on his chair, he says, “Eat. You must feel dreadful.”

“Like you care.”

He merely raises an eyebrow at me.

“What’d you put on the toast?”

“Nothing. Dry first. Maybe you can have something else, if you hold this down.”

“No, I mean… never mind.” If he drugged me last night, surely he isn’t beyond doing it again. I don’t touch the food.

He watches me for a minute, then he picks up the toast and bites it, and takes a sip of the juice. “See. Perfectly safe. You need to eat. Flush your system. You’ll feel better.”

I would likely feel better if I eat, but why the sudden change of heart? The toast looks really appealing, as only dry toast can to someone with a churning stomach. It was nice of him to cut it into small triangles. My mother used to do that. One small bite and my throat is rubbed raw. I wash the crumbs down with a sip of juice. The flavor explodes on my tongue. Liquid sunshine, yet cool and tart. Quenched, I nibble on more toast and study my captor, and he offers me a soft smile while I chew. He looks really familiar to me, but concentrating hurts my head. The familiarity is probably because he stalked and drugged me and dragged me to his place to have his way with me. But that smile… those eyes…

Am I already slipping into Stockholm Syndrome over a wedge of toast? Get a grip.

I point a toast triangle at him. “You still haven’t said what you’re going to do with me.”

“What makes you think I’m going to do anything with you?”

“Isn’t that how these things usually work? You abduct someone and then you either ransom them or kill them? Just so you know, I don’t have any family, so you picked the wrong girl if you’re looking for a large pay out. And I don’t plan on dying without putting up one hell of a fight.” Laying my cards on the table is either brave or stupid. It’s probably stupid, but I’m tired, sick and scared, and I just want to know where I stand.

“What is it, exactly, you think happened?” He leans forward and rests his arms on his knees. I should probably be concerned about him crowding in on my space, but it really doesn’t faze me at this point. What more can he do to me that he hasn’t already done, other than the obvious?

I put the toast down. Just that little bit of food has me raring to go. It’s high noon, and my trigger finger is itchy. “You drugged me, took me wherever we are, raped me who knows how many times and now I want to know what’s next.”

He runs his hand through his hair and then stands up and paces. A pillow falls off the chair and onto the floor with a soft thud. “God, Anna.”

“So you know my name.”

“Of course I do. Look, I’m trying to be patient here, but I can’t listen to much more of this. I can’t watch you look at me this way.”

“Then call the cops. I’ll look at them this way. I’ll talk to them like this.”

“Damn it, Anna.” He kicks the pillow across the room. “I’m going out to the living room. Finish your food, get dressed. Come out when you’re ready.”

“Dressed in what? You took my clothes.”

He yanks open the door of an armoire on his way out to the living room.

What am I supposed to do with that? Root through his things until I find sweats and a tee that fit? Or, God forbid, he’s a serial rapist and there are tons of women’s outfits in there.

The toast and the juice aren’t going to happen at this point. I creep over to the armoire and peer inside. It’s impossible, but I recognize two shelves of the clothes. I know them because they are mine. Did he steal everything I own? Is he planning on keeping me forever? Confused, I grab the first things I see and dress, then I step into the living room. It’s silent now, but for the clatter of him bustling around the kitchen.

This is my chance. I tiptoe toward the door when my gaze lands on a framed photo on a table. It’s the man, and he has his arms around a woman. He is smiling and looking down at her with an unmistakable look of love and adoration on his face.

That’s not so surprising. Even psychopaths can love. What shocks me is the woman smiling back at him with the same look of happiness and wonder.

She’s me.

I drop to the floor with the frame still in my hands.

The injury.

The clothes.

The familiarity.

The photo.

He didn’t abduct me. He cares for me. Apparently I care for him.

Something happened to me and I have all my memories but of him.

He came to the living room when he heard me hit the floor. “Anna? Are you okay?”

“I know you.” It wasn’t a question.


“I love you.”

His voice is hoarse, but he answers. “Yes.”

I shake my head. “I lost you. Just you.”

“It’s called selective amnesia. The doctor says that can happen, sometimes just as a fluke, sometimes as your brain’s way of protecting itself from bad memories. This is the most lucid you’ve been in two days. I just called Doc again. He’s on his way over.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

I struggle for his name to plead with him, but nothing comes to mind. I take his hand. “I can’t even remember your name.” He squeezes my hand back. His fingers are warm, strong in my hand. I don’t know him, but I like the feel of my hand in his. Need it right now. Crave it on a cellular level. Tears well in my eyes and I look up at him.

He sighs. “Tom. My name’s Tom.”

Nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. Not even a promise of one.“Tom, please. It’s my life. I need to know.”

“Doc said to let you come to it on your own. I shouldn’t have even given you my name.”

“Is that what you’d want if you were me? To have no memories of…” I waved the photo at him.

He kisses my forehead, careful not to hurt me. “Let’s go downstairs. Maybe that’ll jog your memory.”


“Because that’s where it happened.”

He pulls me to my feet and leads me down to a bar, not a new techno nightclub kind of place, but the comfortable kind of pub where you expect people to call your name when you enter. The smell of liquor grows stronger down here, but it smells sweet, not stale, and inviting. I walk up to a black leather stool and perch on it.

Tom smiles. “That’s your stool. You always sit there.”

“I do? How often do I come here?”

“Pretty much every night. I own the place. You usually come and keep me company.”

“So what happened on the night in question?”

“You tell me.”

I think, hard, but my mind just hums with the smell of whiskey and the memory of music long since gone. “All that’s coming to mind is jukebox music.”

“Well, we do play music every night.”

“Tell me.”

“Only when Doc says it’s okay.”

I pout, but that doesn’t work. Either I don’t pout well or he’s too worried about my recovery to risk it. “Can I have a drink?”


“No. Club soda. With lime.”

He pours it with a flourish, but doesn’t utter a peep. His brows are drawn.

I sip my drink. The bubbles tickle my nose, sting my throat. The lime is a burst of sour that awakens something in me. I’m getting flashes. A leather jacket. A glass of club soda. I can almost hear the music. “Is it really a jukebox, or a band, or do you just have a track you play?”

“Just a track.”

“Can I see the playlist?”

Tom hands me the list. There are about two hundred songs on it. “Are you kidding me?”

“We don’t want folks getting bored. Besides, you picked it out.”

I look through the list and finally say, “Can you play number one-thirty-two? Please Tommy?”

He raises an eyebrow. Under his breath I hear him say, “Tommy.” He doesn’t acknowledge the name, but I assume it means something to him. To me he says, “Sure.”

I see him fiddling with something, then the music starts. “Freebird” blasts through the speakers. Tom turns the volume down, but I don’t see him. I’m back in the bar with the man in the leather jacket.

He’s flirting with me, and Tom is pissed. I tell him not to worry, but he’s watching. Closely. I’m drinking my usual club soda, and leather jacket guy is making all his moves. I’m deflecting politely, then I start to feel fuzzy. Drunk. I lean on leather jacket guy and laugh. He puts his arm around me and starts to take me out of the bar. I don’t really want to go, but I’m going. I’m wasted. On club soda. Huh? Tom grabs me and then there’s chaos. A full-fledged bar fight ensues. I go down with a chair to the temple. I’m not sure who wielded it, but it doesn’t matter. I just want to sleep.

When I look up, the memory recedes and the present comes crashing back. The bar is silent and Doc, Tom’s buddy, has smelling salts under my nose. Tom has me cradled in his lap. I bat the salts away from my face. They’re taking the wonderful bar smell away from me. “Tommy,” I say and reach for his cheek.

“Anna.” He shifts me in his lap and bends down to kiss me. His lips meet mine in a hesitant whisper, but I pull him to me. He’s my Tommy. His musky cologne envelopes us as he wraps me in his embrace. His breath is warm and he tastes of coffee and something I recognize only as him. I hold him tighter and drown the doctor out.

There. There’s home. There’s the Poppin’ Fresh jersey we found on a discount rack, Tom’s apartment, our first date, the picture our friends took of us at the lake, dinners, movies, evenings spent on my bar stool. There are the EMTs and police, Doc at my bedside, and just this morning, Tom holding ice on my head and spilling some in the bed.

“Tommy.” It feels good to say it and know what I’m saying.

Doc says, “She needs a thorough exam. And the police are outside.”

They can do what they want. I’m fine. I’m Anna, and I’m with Tommy. The rest doesn’t matter.

The End

Inspiring Blogger

I’m grateful and humbled to announce that a blogger I follow has nominated me for the Very Inspiring Blog Award. P. C. Zick (P.C. Zick in the Writing Life) is an author I met through Facebook, and she lives near my old hometown. She shares similar interests as me, and I enjoy reading her thoughts and following her work. I’m inspired by her efforts.

Here are the requirements for this award:

  1. Display the award logo on your blog.
  2. Link back to the person who nominated you.
  3. State 7 things about yourself.
  4. Nominate 15 other bloggers for this award and link to them.
  5. Notify those bloggers of the nomination and the award’s requirements.

Seven things about myself

  1. I’ve never had a cavity.
  2. I can do a split.
  3. I am the only child in my family with brown hair and brown eyes (despite those being the dominant traits and being half Italian).
  4. I’ve seen lightning strike right in front of me three times.
  5. I’ve lived through a tornado passing through my town.
  6. I played four instruments in school, clarinet for the longest.
  7. I changed my major three times in college, but still managed to graduate in four years and with good enough grades to get a scholarship to grad school.

My nominations for the Very Inspiring Blog Award – I chose the following blogs for various reasons, but each because of how it touches me. Some help me in my profession, some simply touch my soul.

  1. Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen
  2. The Red Kimono
  3. Five Reflections (prefers not to accept awards, but I find the site inspiring, nonetheless)
  4. Janna Hill
  5. InkWell
  6. My Perfect Pitch
  7. Jan Morrill
  8. Bottomline English
  9. Velda Brotherton
  10. Joy Keeney
  11. Pamela Foster
  12. Truths by Ruth
  13. Italian American Writer’s Cafe
  14. Claire Croxton
  15. A Writer’s Universe


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