Missy LaRae's Blog: Missy LaRae , page 4
May 4, 2012
A sweet lesson on patience.
A NYC Taxi driver wrote:
I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. 'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard
box filled with photos and glassware.
'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her.. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.'
'Oh, you're such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive
through downtown?'
'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly..
'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice..'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired.Let's go now'.
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse.
'Nothing,' I said
'You have to make a living,' she answered.
'There are other passengers,' I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.She held onto me tightly.
'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.'
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut.It was the sound of the closing of a life..
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day,I could hardly talk.What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
What can this small lesson on patience, kindness, and compassion teach us? It can offer us a glimpse into the heart of the lonely, and make us pause to think about how we treat each other, and how we can make every interaction one that honors the human existence. I've got an elderly grandmother that I love more than life, and I think about her all the time. Just knowing what she's been through in her life, and how strong she's been is something I'll take with me forever. I try as hard as I can to treat every person I come into contact with as though they're important to me, whether we're strangers or the best of friends.
I urge everyone to consider slowing down their daily lives and just pausing to offer a smile, a warm hug, or a gracious shoulder to lean on to someone in need. You never know when your kindness will be rewarded. Sometimes Karma isn't a bitch, she's a rather lovely lady.
I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. 'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard
box filled with photos and glassware.
'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her.. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.'
'Oh, you're such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive
through downtown?'
'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly..
'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice..'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired.Let's go now'.
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse.
'Nothing,' I said
'You have to make a living,' she answered.
'There are other passengers,' I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.She held onto me tightly.
'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.'
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut.It was the sound of the closing of a life..
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day,I could hardly talk.What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
What can this small lesson on patience, kindness, and compassion teach us? It can offer us a glimpse into the heart of the lonely, and make us pause to think about how we treat each other, and how we can make every interaction one that honors the human existence. I've got an elderly grandmother that I love more than life, and I think about her all the time. Just knowing what she's been through in her life, and how strong she's been is something I'll take with me forever. I try as hard as I can to treat every person I come into contact with as though they're important to me, whether we're strangers or the best of friends.
I urge everyone to consider slowing down their daily lives and just pausing to offer a smile, a warm hug, or a gracious shoulder to lean on to someone in need. You never know when your kindness will be rewarded. Sometimes Karma isn't a bitch, she's a rather lovely lady.
May 3, 2012
Books - No Reviews
I have books. I've probably added to GR about 15% of the books I actually have. Not to mention the ones I've read and don't have. I can't even remember all those.
I have a LOT of books with no reviews because with some of them it's been YEARS since I've read them, and I can't remember in detail enough what happened to write an accurate review.
I love Goodreads, and this has given me the opportunity to re-read every book I own to give it a review. That's awesome. I can do that.
I have so many books, and I can't part with ANY of them. I'd rather give away high heels (and man I love high heels) than give away my books. They go where I go.
So thank you Goodreads for giving me an excellent reason to re-read my library :-)
I have a LOT of books with no reviews because with some of them it's been YEARS since I've read them, and I can't remember in detail enough what happened to write an accurate review.
I love Goodreads, and this has given me the opportunity to re-read every book I own to give it a review. That's awesome. I can do that.
I have so many books, and I can't part with ANY of them. I'd rather give away high heels (and man I love high heels) than give away my books. They go where I go.
So thank you Goodreads for giving me an excellent reason to re-read my library :-)
April 27, 2012
Self published author = no love?
I've been on Goodreads a total of maybe six weeks. In that six weeks I've gravitated towards "friends" who are either reviewers or authors with whom I share the same book interests, or they have the same kind of attitude that I do. The "I seriously don't care what you have to say go suck your thumb" attitude.
However, one thing that Goodreads is awesome for is connecting authors with reviewers. I've looked at SO MANY book blogs by reviewers and been REALLY excited to have that person read and review my book when I get to the part that says:
"I am not accepting books by self published authors."
AHHHHHHHH GRrrrrrrrrraahhhhhhhhh
WHYYYYYYYY
That's when I get frustrated. Now, I TOTALLY realize that it's up to each individual reviewer to decide what THEY want to accept, and I absolutely respect that.
That doesn't mean I can't cry a little about it.
Seriously.
So this is just me asking if there's a specific reason I see so many reviewers not wanting self published titles?
Thanks!
Missy
However, one thing that Goodreads is awesome for is connecting authors with reviewers. I've looked at SO MANY book blogs by reviewers and been REALLY excited to have that person read and review my book when I get to the part that says:
"I am not accepting books by self published authors."
AHHHHHHHH GRrrrrrrrrraahhhhhhhhh
WHYYYYYYYY
That's when I get frustrated. Now, I TOTALLY realize that it's up to each individual reviewer to decide what THEY want to accept, and I absolutely respect that.
That doesn't mean I can't cry a little about it.
Seriously.
So this is just me asking if there's a specific reason I see so many reviewers not wanting self published titles?
Thanks!
Missy
April 24, 2012
Synopsis of Cadence
"Mama he hurts me, and I don't know what to do,
Mama I thought that I could come, and talk to you.
He said that it's okay, when he sneaks in at night,
But I don't understand, it just don't feel right."
Those are the words that flow from Brynn's lips as she pours her heart out with her music. She's a beautiful songstress living in bustling New York city, but she can't forget where she came from. She can't forget the steamy Georgia night when her father tried to kill her mother, nor what she did to stop him. Blessed with a voice that can mesmerize, Brynn has power, but she has no idea how much.
She's happy, finally living her life the way she wants, when her boyfriend Cole is brutally murdered. She wasn't in love with him, yet, but his death devastates her. She calls her mother and finds out that her father's no longer in the nursing home in a vegatative state, he's gone. She knows he's found her.
Turning to Cole's brother Trent, the only person she thinks she can trust, Brynn must evade her father's sick, twisted plans for her, and guard her heart. Every time she looks at Trent she sees Cole, but they're worlds apart. Can she resist his forbidden allure, and stay alive? Will she discover all the secrets the magic in her voice possesses, or will she succumb to her father's wicked plans?
Mama I thought that I could come, and talk to you.
He said that it's okay, when he sneaks in at night,
But I don't understand, it just don't feel right."
Those are the words that flow from Brynn's lips as she pours her heart out with her music. She's a beautiful songstress living in bustling New York city, but she can't forget where she came from. She can't forget the steamy Georgia night when her father tried to kill her mother, nor what she did to stop him. Blessed with a voice that can mesmerize, Brynn has power, but she has no idea how much.
She's happy, finally living her life the way she wants, when her boyfriend Cole is brutally murdered. She wasn't in love with him, yet, but his death devastates her. She calls her mother and finds out that her father's no longer in the nursing home in a vegatative state, he's gone. She knows he's found her.
Turning to Cole's brother Trent, the only person she thinks she can trust, Brynn must evade her father's sick, twisted plans for her, and guard her heart. Every time she looks at Trent she sees Cole, but they're worlds apart. Can she resist his forbidden allure, and stay alive? Will she discover all the secrets the magic in her voice possesses, or will she succumb to her father's wicked plans?
April 23, 2012
Island of Dolls
My name is not 147. My name is not 147. My name is not 147.
23 year old nursing student and aspiring actress Shallen wakes up after a modeling interview far away from her hometown of Savannah, GA. All around her are beautiful women. They're gorgeous, multi-racial, and have shaved heads. Every woman has a number tattooed on the back of her head, and Shallen is horrified to find out hers is number 147.
Where is she?
The Island of Dolls. A secret island far from most civilized countries. It's owned by a multi-national corporation, and employs the most ruthless tactics to get what it wants. It wanted Shallen. With her five foot nine inch frame, piercing green eyes, and flawless complexion, Shallen fits right in with the rest of the dolls on the island. When she's informed of what's expected of her she's horrified.
She's a living doll. A number in a catalogue for rich men to purchase for an evening....or forever. They can choose what color eyes she has when they meet, and choose the length, style, and color of her hair. Her clothing is their choice, and she will comply.
Dolls who don't comply....disappear.
It's the third anniversary of his sister Michelle's disappearance, and Special Forces Sergeant First Class, Dimitri Androvsen has traced his sister to the shadowy Island of Dolls. You have to have more than wealth to get in, and you have to give more than your silence to get out. When he flies to the island in the guise of an international playboy, he's forced to choose a Doll to service him, but his sister's not on the menu. He chooses Shallen, and is surprised when she's more fighter than lamb. Determined to find out where his sister is, and rescue Shallen, they must both play a game where the loser, loses forever.
WIth no one to trust, and an evil so raw it'll take your breath away, this is a thriller destined to keep you awake at night turning the pages. Will Shallen and Dimitri survive, or will they too, become victims on the Island of Dolls?
Releasing December 31, 2012
23 year old nursing student and aspiring actress Shallen wakes up after a modeling interview far away from her hometown of Savannah, GA. All around her are beautiful women. They're gorgeous, multi-racial, and have shaved heads. Every woman has a number tattooed on the back of her head, and Shallen is horrified to find out hers is number 147.
Where is she?
The Island of Dolls. A secret island far from most civilized countries. It's owned by a multi-national corporation, and employs the most ruthless tactics to get what it wants. It wanted Shallen. With her five foot nine inch frame, piercing green eyes, and flawless complexion, Shallen fits right in with the rest of the dolls on the island. When she's informed of what's expected of her she's horrified.
She's a living doll. A number in a catalogue for rich men to purchase for an evening....or forever. They can choose what color eyes she has when they meet, and choose the length, style, and color of her hair. Her clothing is their choice, and she will comply.
Dolls who don't comply....disappear.
It's the third anniversary of his sister Michelle's disappearance, and Special Forces Sergeant First Class, Dimitri Androvsen has traced his sister to the shadowy Island of Dolls. You have to have more than wealth to get in, and you have to give more than your silence to get out. When he flies to the island in the guise of an international playboy, he's forced to choose a Doll to service him, but his sister's not on the menu. He chooses Shallen, and is surprised when she's more fighter than lamb. Determined to find out where his sister is, and rescue Shallen, they must both play a game where the loser, loses forever.
WIth no one to trust, and an evil so raw it'll take your breath away, this is a thriller destined to keep you awake at night turning the pages. Will Shallen and Dimitri survive, or will they too, become victims on the Island of Dolls?
Releasing December 31, 2012
April 19, 2012
Excerpt from Cadence
Tears fall. They creep up on me and spill out of this face of mine. There's nothing I can do about it now. I'm committed to this emotion the way one commits to jumping off a cliff. Once you throw yourself out there you can't pull yourself back onto the ledge. They're jagged hot pearls of my pain cascading down my face in a race to the pillow I'm clutching to my stomach like it'll actually dull the pain. I smell the flowers Cole gave me days ago, and I can't stand the beautiful perfume of them any longer. They stare at me, silent, pointing their finger like petals at me. Accusing me. I thought about our date just three nights ago.
"You're a witch, Brynn." He'd said it so matter of fact. No hesitation in his voice at all. He'd just looked at me with his eyes full of desire as he'd kissed me goodnight.
"What do you mean?" My heart had thundered in my chest. He couldn't possibly know what I was. I wasn't even sure I knew what I was.
"Your voice. It's bewitching. I've never heard anything like it. I can't get the sound of it, and the thought of you out of my head. Please let me stay tonight." He'd devoured me with his gaze, and I happily let him swallow me whole, but it wasn't right. It wasn't the time. I'd felt relieved he merely thought I was bewitching.
"Cole, you know I really care about you, and I love spending time with you, but it's not right. Not yet." I couldn't tell him then that I'd never been with any man, save one that still haunted my nightmares. Just thinking about it brought gooseflesh to my skin and I'd grabbed his hand. "You're so sweet to me, let's just get to know each other just a little more please?" I'd looked up at him then, my eyes pleading. I didn't want him to walk away, but I couldn't be with someone who wouldn't value me. All of me.
He'd watched me for a second, his dark hair falling over his forehead, begging me to brush it back with my fingers. He'd leaned down and tasted my lips again, and I savored the texture of his mouth, the hint of the creme brulee we'd shared for dessert still on his tongue. "Your wish is my command, princess," he'd said it with such husky longing that I nearly said yes, but my choice didn't waver. I didn't break. I'd smiled at him as I turned the knob to my apartment. I could love this man. I could. I'd felt the hope of our relationship intensify as I'd backed through the door and watched his face disappear as I slowly closed it behind me. I had locked the deadbolts, all four of them, and leaned my back against the door.
I had felt full of him. Full of his smile at dinner, full of his laugh as we'd walked to my apartment, full of his hands as they'd pushed me to the inside of the sidewalk. Full of the scent of his dark skin. I'd smiled, so happy, and looked at the flowers he'd presented to me when he'd picked me up. The riot of colors made me smile, made me think of how adorable he'd been pulling them from behind his back. I'd walked over and smelled the lilacs, and lillies. Two of my favorites.
I'd gone to bed that night with the memory of his kiss, the memory of his hands in mine on my mind, and I'd dreamt of him. I'd dreamt of what he and I could be, what we could have, what we could make together.
All dashed, all ended. Every feeble hope that I'd had was gone. I scrubbed my hands against my eyes to stop the assault of tears that threatened to drown me. He was gone. The man I'd come to nearly cherish. Gone in an instant, his life a mere blip on mine. Just weeks of togetherness. Weeks of a togetherness that I knew I'd never forget. I panted as I crawled off the bed and into my bathroom. I couldn't stand. I leaned against the side of the bath tub and turned on the water. I wanted to drown in the heat, and wash the pain of his murder away. I knew it was my fault. I knew the moster was back. I'd hoped, prayed, clung to the belief that he was gone, and that every bit of him, save his rotten heart, had died ten years ago. I didn't know how he'd found me, and I wondered why mama hadn't called to tell me he'd woke up.
The water was hot, scalding, and I poured my body into it. I sat there, as the tub filled, my arms wrapped around my legs, my sobs thick, my nose running and the tears flowing. I cried for Cole. I cried for myself. I felt the fear invading me, and I tried so hard to contain it. It was there, gnawing at me.
Daddy was here. He'd found me.
"You're a witch, Brynn." He'd said it so matter of fact. No hesitation in his voice at all. He'd just looked at me with his eyes full of desire as he'd kissed me goodnight.
"What do you mean?" My heart had thundered in my chest. He couldn't possibly know what I was. I wasn't even sure I knew what I was.
"Your voice. It's bewitching. I've never heard anything like it. I can't get the sound of it, and the thought of you out of my head. Please let me stay tonight." He'd devoured me with his gaze, and I happily let him swallow me whole, but it wasn't right. It wasn't the time. I'd felt relieved he merely thought I was bewitching.
"Cole, you know I really care about you, and I love spending time with you, but it's not right. Not yet." I couldn't tell him then that I'd never been with any man, save one that still haunted my nightmares. Just thinking about it brought gooseflesh to my skin and I'd grabbed his hand. "You're so sweet to me, let's just get to know each other just a little more please?" I'd looked up at him then, my eyes pleading. I didn't want him to walk away, but I couldn't be with someone who wouldn't value me. All of me.
He'd watched me for a second, his dark hair falling over his forehead, begging me to brush it back with my fingers. He'd leaned down and tasted my lips again, and I savored the texture of his mouth, the hint of the creme brulee we'd shared for dessert still on his tongue. "Your wish is my command, princess," he'd said it with such husky longing that I nearly said yes, but my choice didn't waver. I didn't break. I'd smiled at him as I turned the knob to my apartment. I could love this man. I could. I'd felt the hope of our relationship intensify as I'd backed through the door and watched his face disappear as I slowly closed it behind me. I had locked the deadbolts, all four of them, and leaned my back against the door.
I had felt full of him. Full of his smile at dinner, full of his laugh as we'd walked to my apartment, full of his hands as they'd pushed me to the inside of the sidewalk. Full of the scent of his dark skin. I'd smiled, so happy, and looked at the flowers he'd presented to me when he'd picked me up. The riot of colors made me smile, made me think of how adorable he'd been pulling them from behind his back. I'd walked over and smelled the lilacs, and lillies. Two of my favorites.
I'd gone to bed that night with the memory of his kiss, the memory of his hands in mine on my mind, and I'd dreamt of him. I'd dreamt of what he and I could be, what we could have, what we could make together.
All dashed, all ended. Every feeble hope that I'd had was gone. I scrubbed my hands against my eyes to stop the assault of tears that threatened to drown me. He was gone. The man I'd come to nearly cherish. Gone in an instant, his life a mere blip on mine. Just weeks of togetherness. Weeks of a togetherness that I knew I'd never forget. I panted as I crawled off the bed and into my bathroom. I couldn't stand. I leaned against the side of the bath tub and turned on the water. I wanted to drown in the heat, and wash the pain of his murder away. I knew it was my fault. I knew the moster was back. I'd hoped, prayed, clung to the belief that he was gone, and that every bit of him, save his rotten heart, had died ten years ago. I didn't know how he'd found me, and I wondered why mama hadn't called to tell me he'd woke up.
The water was hot, scalding, and I poured my body into it. I sat there, as the tub filled, my arms wrapped around my legs, my sobs thick, my nose running and the tears flowing. I cried for Cole. I cried for myself. I felt the fear invading me, and I tried so hard to contain it. It was there, gnawing at me.
Daddy was here. He'd found me.
April 17, 2012
Candence - A New Book
Hi all, this is the first chapter, or prologue, for my new book Cadence. Please leave comments and let me know what you think!
Missy
I watched in silence. It consumed me the way I’m sure it had in my mother’s womb. It was muffled, a glaring silence that was only broken by the crack of his hand against her flesh. It was distended, as though I was hearing it as the fourth echo of an actual sound. I couldn’t bear to watch as he fisted her hair in his hands, reared his meaty fist back, and hit her again. I felt the oppressive silence screaming in my head. I swiped at the tears with the back of my dirty hand, daddy had thrown me out the door the minute he’d gotten home and started hittin’ mama.
He’d called her a whore, a slut, a bitch, and other names so bad I couldn’t even bear to voice them in my head. I’d picked myself up, my skinny arms and legs slick with perspiration from the hot August night, and my knees skinned from landing in the grass and rocks off the front porch. I screamed inside of myself, but it didn’t come out as anything but a little grunt of pain. I’d learned long ago not to make noises when daddy was in one of his rages. He’d come home drunk again, and I’d seen the fear in mama’s brown eyes when she’d heard the truck door slam. The stench of my own fear permeated every pore that I had and I’d trucked up the steps as fast as I could, and slipped through the door as daddy’s fists had started flying.
Who knew why he was hittin’ her this time. Daddy never needed a reason to do a lot of things. He never needed a reason to slap me across the face, and he never needed a reason to slam mama’s head into the refrigerator door, but tonight felt different. His rage was hotter, he was hittin’ her harder than he’d ever hit her in my whole life, and bein’ eleven I’d been alive for long enough to not only dislike my daddy, I plain hated him. I hated him with all the fierceness and hotness that I loved my mama. If there was two emotions that were night and day from each other it was how I felt about my mama and my daddy. I wanted to kill him.
“Stop!” I yelled it at him, and his broad shoulders stopped for a millisecond before he started slappin’ her again. Mama’s hair was full to bein’ pulled out of her head, and her eyes were already showin’ signs of being swollen shut. Her mouth was bleedin’ and her nose was pumpin’ blood out a it as sure as a vein was ripped open in her face.
I’d never seen daddy come this unglued on her. He’d hit her plenty, but this time, this time it felt like he was on a mission to extinguish her very soul. Mama fell to the ground, her back hittin’ the dark wood hard. The side table by the couch fell over as mama reached out, tryin’ to find something to defend herself with, and I stayed rooted, immobilized by childish fear on the floor by the door. What was this that he was doing? Was he going to stop, or was he going to beat her until there was nothing left of her save a memory?
I screamed then. The sound left my stomach, flowed up my throat, traveled out of my mouth, and reverberated long, loud, and high in the night. Daddy’s arm was cocked back, his cannon fist ready to explode one more time all over my mama’s face as he held her down on the ground, straddling her small body. I could feel his anger and hatred mixed with the foul stench of his over ripe drunk body straining to lash out at mama. He stopped. He turned his head towards me, and he got up, his body towering over me. I’d walked forward of no accord, just stepped closer and closer to the point where my daddy was beatin’ my mama to death. She lay there, broken on the floor, her sobs choked, harsh, mingling with her tears.
I kept screaming. It was like a river flowed out of me, my heart couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop the vibration of my emotions from leaving me, one long, deep, wrenching scream at a time.
Daddy struggled as he walked over to me. He put his hands over his ears, and he tried to make it over to me, but the wall of my screeching stopped him. He stood there, drunkenly weaving with his mad eyes, lips twisted in a grimace, his face blotched and red from alcohol. His hair was wild about his face, it stood up in tufts on his head, and he clutched at his ears as he screamed at me to stop my screamin’ or he was gonna beat the hell out a me. He yelled, but then he fell. He fell to his knees in front of me, and I stopped.
“Stop hitting her! Stop hitting her! Stop hitting her!” I ran over to him and as loud as I could I screamed it in his face, all the years of pain and anger expelled out of me in a frequency meant for his soul. I pushed at him as he knelt on the floor, his eyes shut, his mouth still screwed up in a grimace, and his hands over his head.
My grey eyes closed, and I threw my head back and I let it go. I felt every lash of his belt on me as I screamed. I felt every slap to the face, every pull of my hair, every single inappropriate touch of my little body, and I screamed it out. My blood boiled, and it sang in my veins as I let it go. He’d done hurt me too many times. I didn’t know why my screams were stoppin’ him dead, but I’d scream the house down if it’d stop my daddy from hurtin’ us one more time. I thought about every time he’d pushed mama to her knees at the table and made her eat like a dog because he said the food she cooked him was cold, every time he’d accused her of sleepin’ with another man just because he had a wanderin’ eye and he liked to put all the blame on her.
I let my vicious hatred of the man who helped bring me into this world flow from my body in a long and ragged scream that felt like it was gonna break my vocal chords. My hatred came alive, and I fisted my hands, put them into my stomach and bent over at the waist, my breath leavin’ me in a long, loud trill of pain. It danced out of me, ragged, pulsating with every memory that my daddy'd ever given me.
I’m not sure how long I screamed, but by the time I was done daddy was on the ground, convulsing. His body twisted up, his ears and eyes bleeding. I sucked in a breath as mama crawled over to me and collapsed at my feet. I rushed over to the kitchen to get the phone and call the police. Someone needed to be here. Someone needed to save her.
Someone needed to save me.
Missy
I watched in silence. It consumed me the way I’m sure it had in my mother’s womb. It was muffled, a glaring silence that was only broken by the crack of his hand against her flesh. It was distended, as though I was hearing it as the fourth echo of an actual sound. I couldn’t bear to watch as he fisted her hair in his hands, reared his meaty fist back, and hit her again. I felt the oppressive silence screaming in my head. I swiped at the tears with the back of my dirty hand, daddy had thrown me out the door the minute he’d gotten home and started hittin’ mama.
He’d called her a whore, a slut, a bitch, and other names so bad I couldn’t even bear to voice them in my head. I’d picked myself up, my skinny arms and legs slick with perspiration from the hot August night, and my knees skinned from landing in the grass and rocks off the front porch. I screamed inside of myself, but it didn’t come out as anything but a little grunt of pain. I’d learned long ago not to make noises when daddy was in one of his rages. He’d come home drunk again, and I’d seen the fear in mama’s brown eyes when she’d heard the truck door slam. The stench of my own fear permeated every pore that I had and I’d trucked up the steps as fast as I could, and slipped through the door as daddy’s fists had started flying.
Who knew why he was hittin’ her this time. Daddy never needed a reason to do a lot of things. He never needed a reason to slap me across the face, and he never needed a reason to slam mama’s head into the refrigerator door, but tonight felt different. His rage was hotter, he was hittin’ her harder than he’d ever hit her in my whole life, and bein’ eleven I’d been alive for long enough to not only dislike my daddy, I plain hated him. I hated him with all the fierceness and hotness that I loved my mama. If there was two emotions that were night and day from each other it was how I felt about my mama and my daddy. I wanted to kill him.
“Stop!” I yelled it at him, and his broad shoulders stopped for a millisecond before he started slappin’ her again. Mama’s hair was full to bein’ pulled out of her head, and her eyes were already showin’ signs of being swollen shut. Her mouth was bleedin’ and her nose was pumpin’ blood out a it as sure as a vein was ripped open in her face.
I’d never seen daddy come this unglued on her. He’d hit her plenty, but this time, this time it felt like he was on a mission to extinguish her very soul. Mama fell to the ground, her back hittin’ the dark wood hard. The side table by the couch fell over as mama reached out, tryin’ to find something to defend herself with, and I stayed rooted, immobilized by childish fear on the floor by the door. What was this that he was doing? Was he going to stop, or was he going to beat her until there was nothing left of her save a memory?
I screamed then. The sound left my stomach, flowed up my throat, traveled out of my mouth, and reverberated long, loud, and high in the night. Daddy’s arm was cocked back, his cannon fist ready to explode one more time all over my mama’s face as he held her down on the ground, straddling her small body. I could feel his anger and hatred mixed with the foul stench of his over ripe drunk body straining to lash out at mama. He stopped. He turned his head towards me, and he got up, his body towering over me. I’d walked forward of no accord, just stepped closer and closer to the point where my daddy was beatin’ my mama to death. She lay there, broken on the floor, her sobs choked, harsh, mingling with her tears.
I kept screaming. It was like a river flowed out of me, my heart couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop the vibration of my emotions from leaving me, one long, deep, wrenching scream at a time.
Daddy struggled as he walked over to me. He put his hands over his ears, and he tried to make it over to me, but the wall of my screeching stopped him. He stood there, drunkenly weaving with his mad eyes, lips twisted in a grimace, his face blotched and red from alcohol. His hair was wild about his face, it stood up in tufts on his head, and he clutched at his ears as he screamed at me to stop my screamin’ or he was gonna beat the hell out a me. He yelled, but then he fell. He fell to his knees in front of me, and I stopped.
“Stop hitting her! Stop hitting her! Stop hitting her!” I ran over to him and as loud as I could I screamed it in his face, all the years of pain and anger expelled out of me in a frequency meant for his soul. I pushed at him as he knelt on the floor, his eyes shut, his mouth still screwed up in a grimace, and his hands over his head.
My grey eyes closed, and I threw my head back and I let it go. I felt every lash of his belt on me as I screamed. I felt every slap to the face, every pull of my hair, every single inappropriate touch of my little body, and I screamed it out. My blood boiled, and it sang in my veins as I let it go. He’d done hurt me too many times. I didn’t know why my screams were stoppin’ him dead, but I’d scream the house down if it’d stop my daddy from hurtin’ us one more time. I thought about every time he’d pushed mama to her knees at the table and made her eat like a dog because he said the food she cooked him was cold, every time he’d accused her of sleepin’ with another man just because he had a wanderin’ eye and he liked to put all the blame on her.
I let my vicious hatred of the man who helped bring me into this world flow from my body in a long and ragged scream that felt like it was gonna break my vocal chords. My hatred came alive, and I fisted my hands, put them into my stomach and bent over at the waist, my breath leavin’ me in a long, loud trill of pain. It danced out of me, ragged, pulsating with every memory that my daddy'd ever given me.
I’m not sure how long I screamed, but by the time I was done daddy was on the ground, convulsing. His body twisted up, his ears and eyes bleeding. I sucked in a breath as mama crawled over to me and collapsed at my feet. I rushed over to the kitchen to get the phone and call the police. Someone needed to be here. Someone needed to save her.
Someone needed to save me.
April 13, 2012
How do you....
So recently I picked up a few free books on Amazon.com for my kindle. I started on one tonight, and it's horrible. I mean, downright bad. I would rate it one star.
As an author, I hesitate to do this because I feel like if I do the author of the book may choose to retaliate in some way, however, as a reader I am absolutely appalled at some of the reviews. After reading part of the book, I know that the 5 and 4 stars that were given to the book are fake. Especially the one that says the editing was superb.
I'm not an editor, but as a college educated woman with several years experience writing, and many more reading, I can tell what's been edited, and what hasn't been.
I feel bad for the author, but honestly I feel WAY worse for the people who are actually paying for this manuscript. It could be fantastic with some significant editing, but I don't think the author had it professionally edited or knows that she really needs to read her work OUT LOUD to herself before publishing it.
What to do?
As an author, I hesitate to do this because I feel like if I do the author of the book may choose to retaliate in some way, however, as a reader I am absolutely appalled at some of the reviews. After reading part of the book, I know that the 5 and 4 stars that were given to the book are fake. Especially the one that says the editing was superb.
I'm not an editor, but as a college educated woman with several years experience writing, and many more reading, I can tell what's been edited, and what hasn't been.
I feel bad for the author, but honestly I feel WAY worse for the people who are actually paying for this manuscript. It could be fantastic with some significant editing, but I don't think the author had it professionally edited or knows that she really needs to read her work OUT LOUD to herself before publishing it.
What to do?
Missy LaRae
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