Emily Taylor

Night Express: When a Rowdy Gang of Partygoers Takes Over London’s Last Trolleybus, Only to Discover the Chilling Price for Their Wild Ride—A Harrowing Midnight Journey with a Silent Conductor, a Desperate Plea for Escape, and an Unexpected Lesson Waiting at the End of the Line

Night Bus The doors of the night bus folded together with a clatter, letting a burst of warmth and murky

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Not Meant to Be… The Train Journey that Unveiled a Miracle: An Unexpected Tale of Survival on a Frosty River, Mysterious Rescuer in a Cloak, and the Village Gossip that Changed Everything

…The train has been travelling for a second day now. Passengers have already introduced themselves

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I Shouted Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” — She Turned, Waved Her Shovel in Greeting, and Called Back: “Doing My Best for You Lazybones.” — The Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Tears… Every Time I See That Footpath, My Heart Clenches Like Someone’s Grabbing It. It Was Me Who Took That Photo on January Second… I Was Just Passing By, Noticed Her Footprints in the Snow—And Stopped. I Snapped a Picture, Not Even Sure Why. Now, That Photo Is All I Have Left of Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s Just Like Always, All Together. Mum Was Up Early on the 31st, and I Woke to the Smell of Frying Burgers and Her Voice from the Kitchen: “Darling, Get Up! Come Help Me Finish the Salads, or Your Dad Will Eat All the Ingredients Again While We’re Not Looking!” I Came Downstairs Still in My Pyjamas, Hair a Mess. She Was at the Stove in Her Favourite Peach-Print Apron—the One I Gave Her Back in School—Smiling, Cheeks Rosy from the Oven. “Mum, At Least Let Me Have My Coffee First,” I Groaned. “Coffee After! First, Chop the Veg—Small, the Way I Like. Not Like Last Time—Those Huge Cubes!” We Chopped and Chatted About Everything. She Reminisced About Her Childhood New Years—No Fancy Salads, Just Herring in a Fur Coat and the Oranges Her Dad Sneaked Home from Work. Then Dad Came In With the Tree—Absolutely Huge, Nearly Touching the Ceiling. “Alright Ladies, Accept This Beauty!” He Boomed. “Dad, Did You Bring Down the Whole Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Just Shook Her Head with a Smile: “It’s Lovely, But Where Will We Put It? Last Year’s Was Smaller.” Still, She Helped Decorate. My Little Sister and I Hung the Lights While Mum Dug Out the Old Glass Ornaments, Including a Tiny Angel She Said She’d Bought for My First New Year’s. “Remember This One?” She Asked Quietly. “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. Really, I Didn’t, But She Glowed from My Nod. My Brother Arrived Later, Loud as Ever—Arms Full of Presents and Bubbly. “Mum, I’ve Got Proper Champagne This Year! None of Last Year’s Cheap Stuff.” “Just Don’t Drink It All at Once,” She Laughed, Hugging Him. At Midnight, We All Went Out to the Garden. Dad and My Brother Set Off Fireworks, My Sister Screamed in Delight, and Mum Hugged Me Tight. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful? We’ve Got Such a Good Life…” I Hugged Her Back. “The Best Life, Mum.” We Drank Bubbly Straight from the Bottle, Laughed When a Rocket Nearly Hit the Neighbour’s Shed. A Bit Tipsy, Mum Danced in Her Wellies to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, and Dad Swept Her Up in His Arms. We Laughed Until We Cried. On New Year’s Day We Laid About; Mum Cooked Again—Now Dumplings and Aspic. “Mum, Enough, We’re Bursting!” I Complained. “Nonsense, You’ll Finish It Off. It’s New Year’s, It Lasts a Week,” She Brushed Me Off. January Second, She Was Up Early as Always. I Heard the Door Bang, Saw Her in the Garden With the Shovel—Clearing the Path in Her Old Parka and Scarf. She Did It So Carefully: A Narrow, Neat Path from the Gate to the Porch, Sweeping Snow Just the Way She Liked. I Shouted: “Mum, Why So Early? You’ll Catch a Chill!” She Looked Back, Waved Her Shovel: “Or Would You Lot Rather Trudge Through Drifts TIll Spring? Put the Kettle On, Will You?” I Grinned and Headed to the Kitchen. She Came Back in Half an Hour, Cheeks Glowing, Eyes Bright. “All Done, It Looks Lovely, Doesn’t It?” “Lovely, Mum. Thank You.” That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Cheerful Voice. On the Morning of the Third, She Whispered: “Girls, I’m Getting a Sharp Pain in My Chest. Not Bad, Just Annoying.” I Panicked: “Mum, Let’s Call an Ambulance?” “Oh Stop, Love. Just Overdid It, That’s All. I’ll Lie Down A Bit, It’ll Pass.” She Lay on the Sofa, My Sister and I Sitting With Her. Dad Went for Medicine. She Still Joked: “Don’t Look So Gloomy—I’ll Outlive the Lot of You.” But Then Her Face Went Pale. She Clutched Her Chest. “Oh… I Don’t Feel Well…” We Called the Paramedics. I Held Her Hand. Whispered: “Mummy, Hold On, They’re Coming, It’ll Be Alright…” She Looked at Me and Murmured: “Sweetheart… I Love You All So Much… I Don’t Want to Say Goodbye.” The Ambulance Came Quick, But… Nothing Could Be Done. Massive Heart Attack. It Happened So Fast. I Sat on the Hall Floor, Wailing. Couldn’t Believe It. Yesterday She Was Dancing, Laughing—Today She Was Gone. Barely Steady, I Went Out to the Garden. Soft Snow. Her Footprints, So Small and Neat, Were Still There—from the Gate to the Porch and Back. I Stood and Stared for the Longest Time. Asked God How It Was Possible: Yesterday, She Walked Here, Left Her Prints—Now She Was Gone. The Tracks Were There, but She Wasn’t. Maybe She Really Did Step Out That Last Time Just to Leave Us a Clear Path—So We Could Walk On After Her. I Didn’t Clear the Tracks, and Asked Everyone Else Not To. Let them Stay Until the Snow Takes Them Naturally. That Was the Last Thing Mum Did for Us—Looking After Us Even When She Was Gone. A Week Later, Heavy Snow Fell. I Keep That Photo with Her Last Footprints. Every January Third, I Look at It—and Then at the Now-Empty Path by Our House. It Hurts So Much Knowing Her Last Steps Are Still Somewhere Under That Snow. Those Are the Steps I Still Try to Follow…

I shouted out of the window, Mum, what are you doing up so early? Youll catch your death! She turned

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A Marriage of Convenience: When Ambitious Irina’s Bold Plea Leads to an Unthinkable Proposal from Her Late Mother’s Widower, Changing Both Their Lives Forever

MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE Mr. Graham, could I have a word with you? In the doorway of the office appeared

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Two Sisters… Once Upon a Time There Were Two Sisters: The Older, Val, a Beautiful, Successful, and Wealthy Woman; the Younger, Zoe, a Broken-Down Drunk Whose 32-Year-Old Face Looked Ancient from Hard Living. Despite Countless Rehab Clinics, Folk Remedies, and a Cozy Flat Bought in Her Own Name to Protect Her Sister from Squandering Everything for Drink, Val Fails to Save Zoe—Until, Before Moving Abroad for Good, She Takes Her to Their Reclusive Aunt Olga in the Tiny English Village of Teapotton. There, Through Homemade Herbal Teas, Goat’s Milk from Martha the Goat, Loving Care, and Old-Fashioned Country Wisdom, Aunt Olga Nurses Zoe Back to Health, Teaching Her to Crochet Stunning Shawls That Transform Her Life. Three Years Later, Zoe Whisks Her Aunt Away to a Sunny Seaside Town, Where Together—With Goats, Flowers, and Newfound Purpose—They Discover That Sometimes Family, Simple Kindness, and a Second Chance Are All You Really Need… and the Most Remarkable Thing? Every Word of It Is True.

TWO SISTERS Once upon a time, there were two sisters. The elder, Hannah, was beautiful, successful, and wealthy.

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When Every Penny Pinched Becomes a Prison: The Day Valerie Told Ian She Was Done with a Life of Sacrifice for “Our Future” and Chose to Start Living Now

The kitchen felt stifling as I scrubbed the plates, lost in my thoughts, when Edward strode in and flicked

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My Son Has a Great Memory: The Hilariously Disastrous School Christmas Play Where My Five-Year-Old Went from Cucumber to Wonky Gingerbread Man, Three Cheery Surgeons Became Costume Designers, and the Whole Nursery Was in Stitches at His Crooked-Toothed, Wise-Old ‘Bun’—All Topped Off with a Salad-Green Hat and Fatherly Instructions the Night Before

My son has always had a remarkable memory. Even at nursery, he could recite every single line from the

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How Could She?! Didn’t Ask! Didn’t Consult! Honestly, Who Walks into Someone Else’s Flat and Acts Like She Owns the Place? No Respect! Goodness, What Did I Do to Deserve This? I Devoted My Life to Her, and This Is the Thanks I Get! She Doesn’t Even See Me as a Person! — Nina Wiped Away Her Tears — She Doesn’t Like the Way I Live! Maybe She Should Focus on Her Own Life! Sits Alone in Her Studio Flat Thinking She’s Grabbed Happiness by the Tail. No Decent Husband, No Proper Job — Just Some Remote Work. How Does She Even Live? Yet She Thinks She Can Teach Me a Thing or Two! I’ve Long Forgotten What She’s Only Just Beginning to Understand!

How could she?! Didnt even ask! Didnt consult me! The nerve, just turning up at someone elses flat and

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Looking for a Mistress – When Your Wife Decides It’s Time for You to Find a Lover: A Hilariously Chaotic Day of Spousal Training, Reluctant Makeovers, and Marital Mischief in Suburban England

IN SEARCH OF A MISTRESS Emily, what on earth are you doing? I could hardly believe my eyes as my wife

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We’ve Still Got Things to Do at Home… Granny Val opened the garden gate with difficulty, limped her way to the door, fumbled with the old rusty lock, entered her chilly, unused cottage, and sat down on a chair by the cold stove. The air inside smelled abandoned. She had only been gone three months, but the ceilings were already thick with cobwebs, the old chair creaked in protest, wind howled in the chimney—the house greeted her grumpily: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me with? How are we meant to survive the winter?! “I’m coming, my dear one, just let me rest a moment… I’ll get the fire going, we’ll warm up soon…” Only a year ago Granny Val bustled around her old home: whitewashing, touching up paint, fetching water. Her small, sprightly figure bowed before icons, worked at the stove, darted through the garden—planting, weeding, watering. The house thrived with her—floorboards cheerfully squeaked under her light steps, doors and windows flew open to a gentle touch, and the stove diligently baked delicious pies. They were happy together: Val and her old cottage. She buried her husband early, raised three children, educated them all and set them up out in the world. One son became a sea captain, one a colonel in the military—both live far away and rarely visit. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed on in the village as head agronomist, working from dawn till dusk; she visits on Sundays with a pie and a hug, then disappears again for the week. Val’s comfort is her granddaughter, sweet little Sarah. You could say Sarah was raised by her granny. And what a beauty Sarah turned out to be! Big grey eyes, waist-long hair the colour of ripe wheat, curly, thick and shining—a real glow to it. She puts it up in a ponytail and the lads in the village are left speechless. Lithe and graceful—how did a village girl get such poise, such prettiness? Val herself was charming in her youth, but side by side with Sarah—she’s the shepherdess, Sarah’s the princess… And she’s clever, too. Sarah finished an agricultural degree in the city, returned home to work as an economist. Married the local vet, and thanks to a young families’ government scheme, they landed themselves a brand new home. And what a home! Sturdy, solid, all red brick. By village standards—a manor, not a house. But Granny Val’s house has its orchard—everything grows and blooms. Sarah’s new place—only three lonely sprigs in the garden. Growing things never came naturally to Sarah, gentle as she is, sheltered by her grandmother from every draft and heavy chore. Then little William was born, and there was no time for gardens. Sarah kept urging her granny: Come live with us! The house is big and modern, and you won’t have to light the fire. Val was beginning to feel her age—she turned eighty, and it’s like her body waited for the milestone to give up. Her once lively legs carried her less and less. So she agreed at last—lived with Sarah for a couple of months. Then one day she heard: “Gran, you know I love you—but all you do is sit! You’ve been on your feet all your life! Look at me—I want to set up a home, but I need your help…” “I can’t, darling, my legs have given out… I’m old now…” “Hm… got old as soon as you moved in with me, did you?” Not quite what Sarah hoped for; soon Granny, not much use anymore, was sent home. From then, stung by disappointment, Val’s health declined. Her feet shuffled slower and slower—tired from a lifetime of rushing. Getting from her bed to the table became a struggle, and getting to church—impossible. Father Brian, the parish priest, came to visit his once-most-active helper. He sized up the scene with a caring eye. Val was writing letters for her sons—her usual monthly updates. The cottage was chilly despite the stove being lit; the floor icy cold. She wore an old woolly cardigan, faded headscarf, and worn-out slippers—hardly the neat, proud woman she used to be. Father Brian sighed: she needed help. Maybe Anna, from nearby, still young enough to lend a hand? He brought bread, gingerbread, and half a warm fish pie (a gift from his wife, Alexandra). Rolling up his sleeves, he cleaned the stove, brought in armfuls of firewood, lit the fire, filled up a large blackened teapot. “Dearie me! Oh! I mean, Father—could you help me with these envelope addresses? My handwriting is chicken scratch—they’ll never arrive that way!” He wrote out the addresses neatly, throwing a glance at her letters—big, shaky writing: “I’m doing very well, my dear son. I have all I could want, thank God!” Letter after letter, the tales of Val’s ‘good life’ were all blurred with salty splotches. Anna took over looking after Val, while Father Brian visited regularly, bringing Communion; on big holidays, Anna’s husband would give Val a lift to church on his motorbike. Life settled a little. Sarah didn’t visit, and a few years on—she fell gravely ill. For ages, she’d blamed her stomach aches on ulcers, but it turned out to be lung cancer. Within six months, Sarah was gone. Her husband nearly moved onto the grave—drinking away his misery, sometimes sleeping at the cemetery. Four-year-old Will was left dirty, hungry, unwanted. Tamara took him in, but her job kept her busy, so Will was soon destined for boarding school. The place was decent, with a strong headteacher, good food, and weekend visits allowed. Not a real home, but Tamara couldn’t see any other way. Then, one day, Val came roaring up in Anna’s old motorbike sidecar, driven by their burly neighbour Peter, sailor tattoos and all. Both looked like they meant business. “I’m taking Will in with me,” she said. “Mum, you can barely walk! How will you manage a little boy? He needs feeding, washing—” “As long as I’m alive, Will isn’t going to a home,” Val insisted. Tamara, surprised at her usually gentle mum’s resolve, fell quiet and packed Will’s things. Peter bundled old and young into the sidecar, delivered them home. Neighbours clicked their tongues: “Kind old dear, but losing her wits—she needs caring for herself, and now she’s taken on a child? He’s no puppy! Where does Tamara get off, letting this happen?” After Sunday service, Father Brian visited, half-expecting to find a hungry, neglected Will to have to rescue. Instead, the house was warm, the stove ablaze. Will, clean and happy, listened to “The Gingerbread Boy” from an ancient record player, and the ‘frail old lady’ was bustling around the kitchen—greasing trays, kneading dough, cracking eggs for a cheese cake, as sprightly as she’d been years ago. “Father dear! I’ve just started cheese buns—wait a bit, there’ll be a treat for Alexandra and young Fraser, too!” Father Brian came home, amazed, and told Alexandra what he’d seen. She thought a moment, then reached for a big blue notebook, found a page, and read: “Old Nora had lived her long life well. All her hopes and dreams had drifted by, now sleeping beneath a snowy grave. One bitter February night, she prayed for ages in front of the icons, then lay down and told the family: ‘Call the priest—I’m dying.’ Her face went as white as the snow outside. The family called the priest, Nora confessed and took Holy Communion. She lay there, not eating or drinking, for a whole day—only the faintest breath showed her soul hadn’t flown. Suddenly, the front door opened—a blast of frosty air, a baby’s cry. ‘Hush—it’s Granny dying in here!’ ‘Well, I can’t silence a newborn, she doesn’t know any better!’ It was Nora’s granddaughter, Maggie, home from the hospital with her red-faced new baby. That morning everyone else had left for work, leaving Nana and the new mum alone. Maggie had barely any milk yet, couldn’t settle her daughter, and the baby screamed, utterly disturbing Nora’s dying. Nora lifted her head, focused her clouded eyes, and with effort, sat up, swung her bare feet onto the icy floor, feeling for her slippers. When the rest of the family rushed home, fearing the worst, they found Nora not only alive but far healthier than usual—walking the room, soothing the contented baby, while her exhausted granddaughter snoozed on the settee.” Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband, and finished, “My great-gran, Vera, loved me so much, she just couldn’t let herself die yet. Like that old song says: ‘It’s far too early for us to leave—there’s still work to be done at home!’ She lived another ten years after that, helping my mum, your mother-in-law, raise me—her cherished great-granddaughter.” Father Brian smiled back at her.

Theres still important work left to do at home Gran Vera managed to unlatch the garden gate, shuffled