After I’d finished my first book, I never thought I’d write another. It was so hard! I wasn’t retired then, and I did all my writing in the wee hours of the morning before heading to work. Since retirement, however, I’ve written two more. What can I say? I love writing. I’ve always loved it! And now I’m talking about the actual physicality of it.
My love affair with cursive handwriting began in second grade when I was introduced to “The Palmer Method,” and was asked to create a page-full of what Sister Mary Richard called, “compact ovals.” (Google it; they’re really fun! Report back if you can’t find it and I’ll tell you about them!) I loved the scritchy-scratchy sound of that fat-pencil graphite sliding across my paper. I still like using pencils, but only if they’re long ones with a wicked sharp point and a plump pink eraser. No more dull ugly stubs for me! And who doesn’t like the sensuous feel of a sleek-barreled ink pen in their hand, and the sexy feel of it as it glides effortlessly across a sea of white. It just feels so natural to me. And I like it. In fact, I enjoy writing so much that, when inspiration eludes me for a story, I create lovely lists instead. Any kind of list will do. I like them all. I might try to list all the flowers in my garden, or perhaps all the precious fur babies I’ve owned who are waiting for me on the other side of the rainbow bridge, or the guys and gals I played softball with; or, the names of all those long-defunct softball teams – and yes, there have been many. More than once I’ve tried to list all fifty states from memory, and then, when that’s done and I’m still so inclined, I’ll try to list their capitols. I know! I know! It’s nutty. I don’t know anyone who admits to ever doing this. But that’s one of those things that makes me Denise – a bit quirky, a lot inquisitive, but always a writer! Let me know about those compact ovals. I promise you’ll find more than a grocery list waiting.
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Her father rose from his chair and removed his belt. Cassie trembled in fear. “No, Daddy, please! Please don’t whip me again! I want to go, Daddy! Please? I have to. It’s my destiny!” Cassie fell to her knees, sobbing.
“I said, spread out!” He said, the belt biting repeatedly into her flesh. Obediently, she lay face down on the floor and raised her arms above her head. “Ow, ow, ow! Oh please, Daddy, please don’t hit me again! I’ll do whatever you say! Please stop, Daddy!” Sobbing open- mouthed against the hardwood, she tasted tree wax on her tongue and prayed it had toxins that would kill her. “Skirt!” George commanded. Cassie dutifully lifted her skirt to expose the bare flesh on the back of her thighs. “Please, Daddy! I won’t! I promise! You can stop now, Daddy! I won’t do it again, I promise!” “You won’t do what?” George maintained focus as he spoke, his arm constantly in motion. “I won’t mention Hollywood again, Daddy. Oh, Daddy, please! Don’t hit me anymore. Ow!” Desperately seeking intervention, she pleaded with her mother. “Please make him stop, Mama. Please! Oh, God, help me!” "How many times am I going to have to do this?” George asked. “When are you going to learn you’re nothing special!” “I know it now, Daddy! You can stop now. I know I’m nothing special! Please stop now, Daddy! I can’t—I can’t breathe—I don’t—I don’t want to die, Mama. Please help me.” Cassie was still. “Betty, get her out of here, she’s fainted again.” “Cassie, wake up, honey. You need to go to your room now. Come on, I’ll help you. Now, Cassie!” Betty helped her daughter up the stairs, tended to the lacerations on her back and thighs. She gave her three aspirin and told her not to come back down again. “If you get hungry or need anything, just dial 1-1-9-1. It’ll make the phone ring, but don’t worry, your dad won’t answer.” “Mama, please. I don’t want the job now. If I can’t have the money I don’t want it anymore. The money’s all I wanted! Why would I work if I’m not going to get any money? Please, Mom, won’t you help me?” “Cassie, we are not going to discuss this! You will take the job and you won’t say another word about it, do you hear me?” “Okay, fine,” she said. “Will you leave the aspirin, please?” “I’ll leave two more but don’t take them for at least an hour. I’m sorry, Cassie. I can’t fight your father on this. Just please, honey, for heaven’s sake, quit talking about Hollywood!” “Fine, I said. Will you go now, please? I’d like to die in peace.” “Get some sleep, dear. You’ll feel better in the morning.” The proximity of the Martin’s apartment to Cassie’s home meant she could walk home from work. This, too, was an important factor in Cassie’s taking the job, because a car for Cassie was never a consideration and never would be. She’d be without wheels forever – or until she could buy her own car. But by all that was holy, she vowed, she’d be taking a Greyhound to Hollywood! The Martin’s apartment building abutted Newton Street Pharmacy, a dusty old eyesore trying hard to emulate a 50’s style ice cream parlor. A Wurlitzer juke box in the corner played last month’s hits, but no one seemed to mind hearing “He’s So Fine” by the Chiffons played repeatedly for three months. A few Formica-topped tables and a handful of Naugahyde booths accommodated the small clusters of teens and young adults who gathered there to unwind with friendly conversation, rock and roll music, and a grease-soaked menu. Sam Gordon was a charter member of the Newton Street “gang,” which included eight others, all of whom were former schoolmates except for Jeremy. Because they’d grown up together in the neighborhood, the older members had been patrons of Newton’s since grammar school, while the seventeen-year-old newcomer was just somebody’s cousin’s cousin who simply had time to kill. Despite the brassy-yellow hair that screamed “bottle job,” Jeremy was possessed of a certain charm that gained him the admiration of a host of boy-crazy girls, and the respect of most of the males in the Newton group. Because Sam had five dollars at stake on a bet he made with Jeremy, he was waiting at the corner for the Taylor girl to come out of the Martin’s apartment. Sam knew she was there, because he had an inside source by the name of Angel Westin who shared what she knew. She told Sam that Cassie’s parents kept her on a short leash, that boys didn’t ask her out because it was common knowledge she was a leg-locked virgin who wouldn’t spread ‘em for a bicycle. She didn’t put out or make out, they said, so, undergoing a third degree from her tough cop father was hardly worth the effort of getting a date that seemed unpromising at best. Because of her appearance, Cassie was certainly not unpopular, but by her own choice, she kept a low profile at school. When Cassie started toward home, Sam flipped away his cigarette and propped against the retaining wall to wait for her. Cassie was tempted to cross the street when she saw Sam standing in her path, but fearing she’d offend the boy, she stayed on course. As she approached, she tightened her sweater around her and clutched her books close to her chest, as if to make herself invisible. “Hello,” said Sam. “Hello,” said Cassie, then quickly lowered her eyes. She’d seen this guy before. He was usually hanging out at the drugstore with his friends, but sometimes he loitered on the sidewalk alone, smoking and looking around. And once, she’d seen him talking with a girl she recognized as an underclassman at her school. Most times though, he was laughing it up with his friends, which made Cassie wonder if they were making vulgar jokes about her, as she imagined all boys did. They all seemed to like talking trash about girls. If a girl wasn’t popular, they’d call her derogatory names, making fun of her physical features to compensate for their own inadequacies. They ogled the co-eds as they descended the stairs at dismissal, and then lied about what they’d seen under those new miniskirts the girls were wearing. Cassie figured this guy was no different from the rest; they all seemed to have one-track minds. But this one looked classier than his friends. Nicely dressed and clean-shaven, he seemed the least likely to have a criminal record. Still, it was risky to trust him. First and foremost, he was a male with dangerous apparatus. Second, her father had frightened her with stories about the punks that hang out on Newton Street. ENJOY THE TEASER? GRAB A COPY TODAY! https://www.amazon.com/Good-Liar-Denise-Camille-Frye-ebook/dp/B073X7KP1P/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1500579004&sr=1-5&keywords=the+good+liar AuthorHello. I'm Denise Frye, retired Executive Assistant, writer, actress, and now, a brand new blogger. |
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