Welcome to another Sunday. Hot, hot, too hot. I’m happy to be a part of this community of writers and today I’m sharing one of my favorite books, Reconstructing Charlie, a story that came to me in a dream about a young fifteen year old who decides to remain a virgin until the right man comes along after learning a lesson from her mother. It begins with a prologue, not part of my eight.
Prologue: In 1996 I killed my father. Dear old Dad was great with a belt. A belt of whiskey. A belt from around his waist unbuckled when you least expected it and later I knew when it was coming and some of us escaped. Not me, not Mom. Never Mom. I’m the oldest. I didn’t want the little ones to see the okay dad turn into a monster on payday.
And now the excerpt in eight:
I heard the television turned up loud before I opened the door so maybe this time instead of beating up on us, he’d watch the Minnesota Twins beat the hell out of the Boston Red Sox and rant over every play, curse the umpires, yell that the Hubert H. Humphrey Stadium wasn’t good enough. 1996 wasn’t a great year so far for the Twins.
The front door banged open hard enough to rattle dishes in the cabinet. Mom’s treasure—a painted porcelain egg—rolled to the edge, teetered for a second and fell end over end to the hardwood floor. The small egg cracked with the force of a bomb; Mom stared at broken pieces from a life she had long ago as her face turned white, every freckle showing, and my fists clenched.
He staggered around waving a tire iron in the air; muscled from working a jackhammer for the
city all his sorry life and ugly drunk. Cursing, he went after Mom but this time I was ready
and I wrestled it out of his filthy hands and hit him good. He lay torn up, didn’t move, blood
everywhere on Mom’s clean kitchen.