Me No Pause, Me Play by Author Manoj Kumar Sharma

 

This story revolves around Woman and Womanhood through lenses of Social Kaleidoscope.

The essence of this story is overcoming the intricacy and complicacy of Womanhood through innovative measures with calculated risks.
Though since ages wise men never ever denied the unique importance of Women in their lives, but, at the same time couldn’t restrain from autocratic patriarchy and disguised misogyny.
Even Nature’s unworded Laws cruelly dumped Women after manipulating them to the fullest.
How long Woman will have to continue bearing the ongoing sufferings?
Nobody knows, even Woman herself…
But, there are exceptions as well sometimes…
One key protagonist takes the Woman sufferings as challenge, and, not only resolves the physical health and mental agony, but, unexpectedly raises the bar to the next level of inspirational excellences…

After all its own belief system, which can create anything anywhere anytime…

Let incommunicado with our Ethos & Egos… 

Let the status quo of our Women should not PAUSE…

Let our Women PLAY ever and ever and ever and ever… for ever…

Book Links:
Goodreads * Amazon.in * Amazon.com

Book Trailer:

About the Author:

MIRRRO fame self-styled author Manoj Kumar Sharma has brought his next Novel from a different genre altogether ‘Woman Fiction’.

Delighted by the Best Seller status of MIRRRO in specific multiple timelines, Awards from renowned Literature Houses, moral boosting reviews by book lovers, and, guiding critics, the Author do feel more responsibility for continual inclusive excellences to next levels.

Feel blessed as ‘MIRRRO’ been adjudged for prestigious Awards from renowned Literary Houses…..

1. Best Debut Author Award 2020 from ‘ICMDR’

2. Best Debut Novel Award 2020 among Top 100 Debut Novels from ‘CRITICSPACE’.

3. Best Fiction (Thriller) Award 2020 from ‘The Indian Awaz Foundation’

4. Best Thriller Book of the Year 2020 by ‘Literary Mirror’ 

5. Best Fiction Book of the Year 2020 by ‘AIY AGHAAZ’

6. Best Writer Award 2020 by ‘Yashassvi Awards’

The Story “Me No Pause Me Play” born out of day-to-day life in our society, where every now and then our Women are made to feel the pinch of Nature’s Laws and of Society’s hypocritical Patriarchy and Misogyny. 

We talk a lot and even do a lot for Gender equality, Woman Liberation, Woman Empowerment…but, the practical realities are far far away from the truth and still painful. 

Author is right now working on the sequel of MIRRRO and parallely working on few more Books of varied genres on various known issues of our day-to-day lives…but, in ways beyond innovativeness… 

As an overview the Author believes that Writing is a Soulful Act, blessed by Maa Sarasvatiji & Muse... not by the Author.

Author on the Web:

Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram 

Giveaway:

1 Paperback Copy of Me No Pause, Me Play by Manoj Kumar Sharma (for Indian Residents)

1 Kindle Copy of Me No Pause, Me Play by Manoj Kumar Sharma (for International Residents)

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HER ALIBI by Author Mary L. Schmidt

 

Her Alibi

By

Mary L. Schmidt

 

 

Book Link only .99 cents! 

Prologue

Visions of her Cherokee grandmother, Cordie, flashed through Mary’s mind as her mother, Marguerite, informed her that her stepfather shot himself and was in the hospital. Oh no!

 

No! This can’t be! Not after the joking around at my home last night. NO!!!! Did she use me last night? She’d never use her scapegoat child. No, she couldn’t! Even Marguerite wouldn’t sink that low! Or would she? Marguerite had always been abusive and vile to most people, and especially to her children and husbands, but would she shoot Harold?

 

Yet, here I was, and I had to tell the police that, yes, my mother was at my home all evening and into the night. How despicable that my mother connived her way into using me as her alibi.

 

 

Her Alibi - Excerpt

The saga of being her alibi started late in the evening one cold winter day in 1982. For three years, my mother never once came to visit the place where I lived with my first husband, who was abusive, but that’s for a different book.

 

My doorbell rang, and I ran to see who it was. I saw Mother’s face through the peephole.

 

“It’s a little late already. What’s up?” I inquired.

 

Mother smiled, which she seldom did. I was surprised to find her in such a good mood. I almost didn’t believe my eyes! My mother stopping by – but why? Something was up for sure.

 

“Can’t I visit my daughter?” Mother asked.

I nodded, but a cloud of doubt hung in my mind. I opened the door to allow her in, but I was still dumbfounded. Why would Mother visit me now?

 

After she was there for a while, the doubts left and we sat down and shared coffee and leftover bread from breakfast, the conversation flowing between us almost naturally.

 

It was one of those rare moments when Mother spoke to me, and I, the daughter who always craved her love, basked in what I believed was a reconciliation of sorts. Yet it was a devious plan on her part.

 

“Something’s bothering me,” Mother said.

 

I paused. Something’s always bothering you, I wanted to say. But feeling that the barrier was broken somehow by the evening’s conversation, I asked, “What’s bothering you?”

 

“Harold.” Mother stopped laughing. She was telling me a funny incident earlier, and when she shifted the topic to her husband, her facial expres­sion immediately changed.

 

“What about him?” I questioned.

 

The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes deepened as she smirked. When she spoke, I thought I caught a hint of concern in her voice. I wasn’t sure though.

 

“Do you think people are really capable of suicide?” she asked.

 

I looked at her, surprised. “There’s news about suicides every day,” I said. In my head, I found it hard to understand them, though. Life was so wonderful. Why would anybody want to take his or her life if tomorrow holds a promise of something better that could come along? “Why? How’s Harold?”

 

Mother shook her head. Her expression brightened once again. “I think he wants to take his life.”

 

“That’s preposterous!” I burst out. I didn’t know if my outburst was because I couldn’t believe Harold would take his life, or because Mother didn’t show any compassion. She made life hell for him, but suicide?? Thus, I chose my words carefully as I had no idea where she was headed with this conversation. “Why? He doesn’t strike me as the type.”

 

Mother had been so hard on me that I found it hard to believe she would worry over someone so deeply. Besides, she seemed very buoyant that night.

 

“Do you know what his problem is?”

 

“I don’t know. But he seems really depressed.” Then she laughed loudly. “Enough about that; this time is for us.” She pointed her finger to herself and then to me. “Let’s forget about Harold and go back to other more meaningful discussions.”

 

I frowned, but for the first time, I felt a step closer to her, even though this situation didn’t feel right. I had to be careful with my words as I didn’t want her to punch or kick me, which hadn’t happened since I moved out of her home.

 

In my heart and soul, I knew I couldn’t build a bridge with my mother without love, so no fence mended. She was a total stranger to me, laughing and telling stupid jokes without a care in the world. Harold was forgotten when she finally left after four hours, and I locked my front door.

 

The next morning, I awoke to such horrible news. Mother had “found” Harold with a gunshot wound in his upper abdomen outside their house, and in the blue Ford truck.

 

My earlier trips to hospitals when I was young came back to me. The feeling of fear, of whether there would still be tomorrow, taunted me. My heart clenched thinking about poor Harold.

 

I was afraid of Mother, so I never had the courage to visit Harold in the hospital. My conversation with my mother came to mind, and I remembered her telling me that Harold was depressed.

 

Police officers came in to talk to Harold. They wanted to talk to him alone, but my mother rarely left his side, playing the devoted wife. When Harold was alone, he was silent, probably out of fear, and refused to talk with the police. Why didn’t the police pick up on that?

 

When asked where Mother was the night before finding Harold with a gunshot wound in his stomach, and sitting in the cold of night, inside a pickup truck outside their house. Well, my mother told all the police officers that she had been with me!!!

 

It was true, but it horrified me because I felt used. I was her alibi–she did use me. Now what do I do[KM1] ? My mother had me stuck tight, and she knew it! I hated being stuck!!!

 

Will Harold live? Will my mother be charged for this crime? Am I safe? Such a cold, devious, and evil Mother she was!  

 

 

 

BIO:

Mary L. Schmidt writes under her given name and a pen name, S. Jackson. She lives in the USA with her husband, Michael, and love to visit their son, Gene, and two grandchildren, Austin, and Emma.

 

Blog: whenangelsfly.net 

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