It's here!

It's here!  It's in print!  I am so excited.  

I can see why it takes a year or more to get a brook printed.  The amount of times I thought I was done, only to find that I left out words, had typos, or that the story just didn't end the way I wanted.  

For this one, I hired a copy editor to make sure that all my typos were fixed, or at least, she caught more than I could.  That took another couple of weeks.  

It is an amazing feeling to see your work in print.  For a short time, it will be available for FREE on Kindle Unlimited.  Please consider writing a review if you read it.  

Here's an excerpt from Meant to Be, Destined to Love

The post office where I work is in the middle of nowhere, Alabama, and when a letter arrived addressed to Theresa Markup at an abandoned farmhouse, it just begged to be opened.

I’ve never been one to break the rules, but sometimes you got to bend them. Like the time a letter came here for Gertie Malone. She had been dead for five years. As acting postmaster, I figured it was my duty to make sure it wasn’t important before I returned it.

Good thing I did, too, because that envelope had five hundred dollars cash tucked in a card that said, “Sorry this is late. Love, Earnest.”

We all heard the lectures from Gertie about never staying with a man who won’t pay you back. Gertie dispensed all kinds of un-asked for advice. We didn’t think anything of it, but apparently, she gained that knowledge from experience.

I jotted a note to Mr. Barns in California.

Dear Mr. Barns,

I’m sorry to say that Gertie’s been gone from this earth for about five years now. You know, Gertie used to tell us, “Never to date a man who doesn’t pay you back. Those aren’t men, those are snakes.” I suppose now, you are no longer a snake.

Gertie’s grand and great grandchildren still live here. I don’t think you intended on getting the money back since you sent cash in the mail. It could have been stolen by anyone. When they asked me where it came from, I told them, even though I knew you were a former snake, that it was from a long, lost friend who owed her.

It’s better late than never, so thank you.

Yours truly,

Gertie’s friend.

We never heard back from him. Maybe he fixed all the things he felt guilty about, then croaked. He had to be old since Gertie died at age ninety-two.

Mostly, deceased individuals received junk mail. I clip the coupons and special offers and put them in a bin on the counter.

But this letter from Teresa Markup was different. Who the hell was she anyway and why’d she say she lived at 1 Bison Street, Neelburg, AL? That was the old Murphy place. Nobody’s lived there since the Revolution, I think.

The return address showed SFC Gunnerson at an APO, AE address. That meant he could be anywhere in Europe, the Middle East, Africa, or wherever. I couldn’t disappoint this poor soldier, so I opened it to figure out what to do.

Dear Theresa,

I normally don’t answer these “Support our Troops” letters but since yours was the last in the box, and all the others had gone, I thought I’d do at least one. I apologize that I can’t answer some of your questions.

Like, I can’t say where I am, for security reasons you know. But I can say, there’s a lot of sun and sand here. Sometimes there are wind storms where the sand is whipped up like a hurricane and thrown over everything in its path.

But it’s not always dry here. One time, the rain came down so hard, the sand turned into rivers that flooded our area only to be bone dry in three days.

I also can’t say what I’m doing here. But eating bagged food and drinking from a water buffalo is the norm.

Do I have friends here? You asked that question of a soldier? We’re all buddies. We’re in this together, you know? Do I like them? Well, Scott’s got a bit of an attitude about being from New York and Davis, he thinks he’s God’s gift to women. But they are all doing their job and that’s all you can ask sometimes. They cover my back and I cover theirs. We’re a team, warts and all.

I’ll quickly answer some of your other questions since I don’t have much time. Where am I from? I’m from Denver, I’m 32 years old and I have dark hair and brown eyes.

Do I want to get out? I’ve been in since I was 18. Someday, if the right situation comes along, I might get out, but for now, it’s my life.

I probably won’t ever hear from you again, so I’ll sign off now. Have a great life, Theresa Markup.

Yours,

SFC Gunnerson

After I read it, twice, I slumped in my comfy office chair. It wasn’t really an “office” chair but a padded chair at a table behind the counter in a small post office.

I couldn’t help thinking about that poor soldier having to read mail from a stranger. Didn’t he have anyone writing to him? I couldn’t send it back saying “addressee does not exist.” No way I could do that. Nope, I had to write him back. I had to support the troops, right?

The clock told me that I had about an hour to go. I delivered all the mail earlier. All that I needed to do was sweep. But supporting the troops seemed more important.

I rummaged for some paper and the only thing I found had flowers all over it. I decided to draw army ants holding guns and crawling up and down the stems. I added tanks driving on the leaves. I didn’t want SFC Gunnerson to think I was a girly girl.

Dear SFC Gunnerson. (Do I have to keep calling you SFC or do you have a first name?)

I have to tell you that I ain’t Theresa. I don’t know who the hell she is, but the letter came to me, so I opened it. If you got a problem with that, then you can complain to the postmaster here. (A lot of good that would do ya since I’m the postmaster, ha ha. )

They call me Bobbie because I won’t let them call me anything else. And if you ever see me in person, I’ll tell you my real first name, but then I’d have to marry you so you’d keep it a secret.

Anyhow, the reason I opened the letter is because we don’t have any Theresa Markup here and the address is an abandoned house down the road. Why would someone go and write to you soldiers and not tell you who they are is baffling. I guess some of those “Support Our Troops” people get crazy and ask anyone to write a letter or maybe this Theresa was in witness protection. Who’s to say?

Except for my real first name, I’ll tell you all about me.

I grew up in Neelburg, Alabama and I’m number 75 in a total population of about 123. It might be 124 by the time you get this since my older sister, Debbie, is about to populate another inhabitant.

You might ask why a smart, funny girl like me is still living in this podunk town, and I might answer you that I just ain’t felt a need to leave. There’s a load of other reasons, but they’re all boring.

You said you were 32 in your letter. Are you married? Cause if you are, you sure will ruin a great fantasy that I’ve been having ever since I opened your letter.

But that’s okay if ya are. Let me know her address and I’ll send her some home-made marmalade (not made by me), and that will be the end of our correspondence.

But if ya aren’t…well

Forget it, I ain’t going there.

Anyhow, if I want this to go out today, I have to pack it up and send it on its way. The big city collection comes in about ten minutes. If you got time, tell me what’s exciting over there, besides army shit.

Take care, SFC Gunnerson and God Bless.

Yours,

Bobbie Bransford (And no, you can’t call me BB either.)

P.S. You can keep using that address, since I’m the one that delivers it, I’ll know who it’s for.

I had just finished licking the envelope when Doug, the mail collector from Huntsville, came through. “Hi, Bobbie.”