Author: Angela Largent

Angela Largent decided at the age of twelve that she wanted to be a writer, but then Adult Life had its way with her. She currently lives in Wichita, Kansas, with a squirrelly cat, a cranky cat, and a happy dog.

Insomnia

March 15, 2018 by Angela Largent Drama, Hot 0 Comments

The worst part about insomnia was all the wasted time. I could have been cleaning my apartment, or binge watching The Crown, or learning Spanish. Instead, I spent hours lying in bed with my eyes closed, unable to fall asleep but too tired to get up.

Once, years ago, I had tried taking a sleeping pill. I woke the next morning mostly naked and stretched out on the picnic table in the back yard. Our neighbor was out on his deck, drinking his morning coffee and staring at me.

My husband was not amused. He had learned to tolerate the blackout shades and earplugs, the pacing around the house in the middle of the night, and the screaming fits if I managed to fall asleep and, God forbid, he sneezed and woke me. He had even weathered the time I didn’t sleep for three days straight and started using a hammer to kill the giant spiders crawling up the walls. Public nudity was a step too far. He moved out shortly after that, and I wasn’t sorry to see him go.

A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Life Lessons

February 15, 2018 by Angela Largent Drama, Holidays, Hot, Romance, Thriller/Suspense 0 Comments

I made a horrible mistake last night. With the life I chose, I should have known that attempting to date was a bad idea. But I had gotten lonely and now Chad was the one who had to pay for it.

Gray light had begun to filter in through the blinds.  I couldn’t lie in bed and stare at the ceiling any longer.

In the living room, I found my roommate Cami sitting on the couch snuggled under a blanket, with a heart-shaped box of candy on her lap. She was wearing scrubs and her eyes looked like she hadn’t washed off yesterday’s makeup. She worked in medical records, so she wore scrubs every day. She also slept in them.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?” I asked.

The Divorcee

January 23, 2018 by Angela Largent Drama 15 Comments

“Mom? Do killer whales get chapped lips?”

I paused in the act of removing the broccoli from the microwave.

“I don’t know. Do you want to volunteer to put lip balm on one?”

Eugene giggled, and I kissed his forehead. He was a quiet kid, usually lost in his own little world. He didn’t have many friends, but he hardly seemed to notice. When he was younger, he used to stare at the sky with this look of fierce concentration, like he was trying to figure out the universe. I had his IQ tested because I thought maybe his genius intellect prevented him from relating to us dolts.

Nope. Average IQ. He’s just a weird little kid.

The Dinner Party

December 12, 2017 by Angela Largent 2017 Winter Writing Contest, Drama, Hot, Thriller/Suspense 0 Comments

It wasn’t my fault.

The little twit had stopped by to tell me that she was sleeping with my husband, as if I didn’t already know. We were in the kitchen, and I was smashing garlic with a butcher knife for easy peeling. The girl was telling me that she was sorry to hurt me but they were in love, so “the right thing to do” was to let him go. I turned toward her, knife still in hand, and the little drama queen gasped and jumped back. Between her ridiculously high heels and the water I had dripped on the floor while rinsing the parsley, she never stood a chance.

I had told Richard that polished concrete was an inappropriate surface for a kitchen floor, but he had insisted that this whole glass and concrete box of a house be cohesive. Taking into consideration his flooring choice and his mistress choice, it was arguably all his fault.

I watched, transfixed, as the pool of blood spread over the shiny floor. How was I going to explain this? And why did it have to happen today of all days?

The Wife

October 20, 2017 by Angela Largent 2017 Fall Writing Contest, Drama 0 Comments

I was making apple butter when I decided to kill my husband.

My sister-in-law has apple trees, and she drops several bushels on our doorstep every fall. One year early in our marriage, I let some of the apples rot. My husband, let’s call him Ed, had a fit. So, my yearly Fall Ritual became making vats of applesauce, then turning the applesauce into apple butter and canning it. At Christmas, I give it to everyone I can think of. I am known far and wide for my damn apple butter. The rest of the year I can’t so much as look at an apple.

Ed was upstairs napping and I was in the kitchen, peeling and chopping apples. I turned on the little television and found one of those true crime shows that I adore. The episode was about a woman who had been arguing with her husband and bludgeoned him with one of his golf clubs. She then broke the window in the back door, knocked over some stuff in the living room and called the police. When they arrived, she was sitting on the floor cradling her husband’s body, thus explaining the blood on herself. Her story was that she had heard a loud noise downstairs. When she went to investigate, she surprised an intruder, who ran out the back door.