Tag Archive | overcoming abuse

2/2/14 WEWRIWA

February. I love this month of my birth. Thanks to my dearly departed parents for giving me the creative talents and health to survive all the years of my sweet and sometimes, not so sweet, life.

This week is the last snippet from Reconstructing Charlie, a story written two years ago and continues to haunt me. Here’s an intro to the scene. Picture this, dear readers.

Dear old Dad lies deceased in the kitchen, struck down from a tire iron wielded by fifteen year old Charlie. Mom is busy packing an old suitcase with Charlie’s clothes. Where is she going with her terrible secret? Mom pulled a box out from a drawer in her small desk and opened it. Fancy stationery paper, the old fashioned kind with the scent of flowers. Taking a deep breath, Mom wrote in her perfect handwriting. Charlie always believed Mom had a lot of secrets. Now she got a peek at some just before she was leaving. Not fair and felt like her little sisters when they stamped their feet against the world. She didn’t want to leave. Mom said, “Don’t let her turn you away. She’s my older sister. She hated your father.” Charlie never saw her cry before and when tears fell, Mom brushed them away. Panic set in and Charlie said, “What if she’s not there?” Mom almost laughed. “She’ll be there.”

 

Excerpt in eight:

Wrapped in a towel, I watched Mom empty my clothes into her suitcase and I couldn’t move for a minute; he’s dead in the house and she packed my clothes for what? I went into action and pried up the board in the closet, removed my money, and secured it into a money belt I’d bought in a second hand shop.

Unfastening a gold locket on a long chain Mom wore around her neck, she said, “Hold up your hair, my girl” and we stood face to face, her hazel eyes looking into mine. I heard a tiny click when the clasp was in place around my neck then she kissed the locket and let it slide under my shirt.

“What’s in the locket, Mom?”

 “Two sisters, my dear Charlie, one wise, one foolish, yes, I have a sister, your aunt Eleanor, Mrs. Stuart Alfred 1125 Lake Shore Drive Chicago, it’s on this envelope, so listen hard; money and education are most important and one more thing, precious girl, don’t let boys catch your scent, keep clean because that’s something I forgot.”

She wrote a letter and slid it into an envelope and handed it to me, “Don’t lose this, Charlie, it’s your passport to a new life.”

“Charlie,” Mom looked in my eyes so deep as if she was taking a picture, “Don’t call, I’ll call you when I have something to say; now hurry, it’s not too late to catch the bus.”

Mom hugged me and I ran.             Reconstructing Charlie new eyes

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I’ve opened a new FB page and need LIKES, my friends. In appreciation of your support all year, I’m opening a promo op to you from any Tuesday to Friday where you can post a pic plus blurb and links. No comments or critique. This has nothing to do with WEWRIWA. It’s just my way of giving back to our community of writers.

https://facebook.com/authorCharmaineGordon

1/19/14 WEWRIWA

“Sunday, Sunday, so good to me.” Or is the song “Monday, Monday?” Oh yes. The Mommas and The Poppas with their incredible harmony.  Whatever the day, I’m happy to be here with you all to share our snippets of eight sentences and read creative comments to help us with our chosen work.

This week I continue with Reconstructing Charlie. She just killed her father in self defense protecting both her mom and herself. Step by step I  take you through what happens next.

excerpt in eight:

Mom’s thick auburn hair came loose from her bun and she looked so pretty bending over him, a finger pressed to his neck as if she was a cop. On tiptoes, she pulled the ceiling fan chain and her sleeve rolled back. I counted black and blue marks covering her arm and knew Mom had a lot more than I did. The breeze felt good: then she wiped my fingerprints off the tire iron and replaced them with hers.

I watched Mom change from quiet refined Liz Costigan to someone I didn’t know.          

She reached in his pants like a pickpocket and came up with a handful of dollars and coins. Handing me the money, Mom said, “I guess he drank the rest of his pay, sorry it’s not more but it’s all we have so let’s get you packed.”

I wondered where she was sending me and why.

for more snippets from talented authors:

http://www.wewriwa.comReconstructing Charlie new eyes

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I’ve opened a new FB page and need LIKES, my friends. In appreciation of your support all year, I’m opening a promo op to you from any Tuesday to Friday where you can post a pic plus blurb and links. No comments or critique. This has nothing to do with WEWRIWA. It’s just my way of giving back to our community of writers.

https://facebook.com/authorCharmaineGordon

1/12/14 WEWRIWA

Reconstructing Charlie new eyes

Welcome to another super Sunday with Weekend Writers Warriors. Another icy cold week in the northeast but who’s counting. It’s winter, folks. The days are growing longer minute by minute.

I”m starting from the beginning of Reconstructing Charlie since you all were taken with the prologue. Again thanks for your support. I welcome all comments and constructive ideas. That’s what we’re here for, kids.

I heard the television turned up loud before I opened the door and thought maybe this time instead of beating up on us, he’d watch the Minnesota Twins beat on yet another team. The front door banged open hard enough to rattle dishes in the cabinet and 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 and suddenly her pretty 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 and ugly drunk life. Cursing, he went after Mom but this time I was ready and wrestled it out of his filthy hands to hit him good. He lay torn up, eyes blank, didn’t move, blood everywhere on Mom’s clean kitchen floor. I stood there looking down at my father and thought how hard it was going to be for Mom to get the blood up and wondered how come he was the worst father in the world scaring all of us, hurting Mom and me. We were safe now because I’d done this terrible thing and I’m only fifteen and didn’t know how I could live with it.

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Reconstructing Charlie by Charmaine Gordon

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1/5/14 WEWRIWA

New beginnings or continuation of the wonders of yesteryear? Welcome to Weekend Warrior Writers. What a great name for us!

This week I’ll begin at the very beginning of Reconstructing Charlie, a story I dreamed of and lived to see it through ’til The End.

excerpt in 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.

for more snippets from talented writers:

http://wewriwa.comimage001

Reconstructing Charlie  by Charmaine Gordon

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