Author Archives: Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

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About Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Author of two published books – No Hill for a Stepper, 2001, and The Last Bordello, 2016, and numerous children's books. Her third novel, Distilling Lies is set in 1928 and will be released on May 9th. A former early childhood specialist, she taught bias-free education to teachers at the local, state, and national levels and applies this fundamental principle in her writing. Whether writing for adults or children, her stories revolve around empowering the readers (and listeners) to believe in their potential, to appreciate diversity, and to believe in the power of imagination. When not on her laptop, she willingly serves as the lap-top for her five young grandchildren. In addition to writing, she enjoys boxboxing, hiking, dancing, strength training, and traveling. Occasionally, she pulls out the oil paints to see what emerges on a blank canvas. In addition to her blogging website, cdwcreations.com, you can find her on Facebook and on Instagram @cdwwrites .

The Madam’s Worry

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Another one-two-three whiskey slam, and Reba retired to her room. The house quiet, I poured another shot, placed the poker chips back in their slots, and settled my weary bones in the parlor.

I flicked off the chandelier and closed the curtains, indications the bordello was closed for business. Now, only a small flame flickered from the lantern beside my settee. A beautiful house, a beautiful room. The thought of being forced out terrified me and left me queasy. Perhaps the whiskey was talking, making me somber and heavy-hearted. What if city officials dropped my grand establishment from the city’s Blue Book, and Madam Volvino’s House of Disgust remained open?

The room, empty of anyone with predetermined Expectations of me, I slouched on the red velvet settee and took another sip. I remembered that one perfect night with John and then dismissed the memory. Years ago, others saved me. This time, I’d do it on my own.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

 

 

Valen-TiMe’s Day

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If you saw one of my previous posts “What am I getting myself into,” you’ll know that I think of projects at the last minute and push myself into a deadline. Well, the deadline is today and last night, I finished my V-Day presents for my grandkids.  Hand-stitched since I don’t own or know how to use a sewing machine. This one’s for my grandson:

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This is my granddaughter’s:

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Definitely a bunch of mistakes but, I did it! And, blurry-eyed, on time! Whew!

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, EVERYONE!!!

It Ain’t About Hooch

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I need to say something. Something to calm Brandon’s storm. “So Brandon. Remember that Possum Piss you forced me to swallow?”

“Shut up, Emma June.”

“Just saying. I wouldn’t have minded so bad if you’d poured what we’re selling down my throat. Best in the south.”

“Best in the south,” Scoot mutters.

Brandon’s black eyes coil like a snake as he stares at me. “Ain’t about hooch, stupid ass.”

Scooter makes a slow-go at standing up. He sticks his hand inside Knife Pocket. I get closer to him and whisper, “It’s okay, Scoot. We’re going home soon.”

Frank’s eyes go wide, his fists clenched at his sides. “I didn’t touch your sister, Brandon.”

“Yeah? And I trust you? You’re nothing but a gigolo from New Orleans.”

“Nah-Len’s,” Frank says.

I try not to laugh at Frank’s Seriousness. He’s never pronounced the town like that.

Brandon spits again. I want to tell him I know what he did to Carla. I can’t. I promised. But I never promised one thing.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

 

How do you shake hands?

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Funny, how a word prompt will remind you of something. A long time ago, when I was fourteen, the pastor leading our confirmation class, talked about shaking hands. He said, “Shake hands as if you mean it. Who wants to shake a limp fish?” We called him P.F. and, for many reasons, he was one of the best individual’s I’d ever met.

For some reason, his unexpected comments about shaking hands stuck with me. Shake firm. Show your strength. Show  your character.

So, I began shaking with confidence even if I didn’t feel any. That’s when I noticed the different kinds of handshakes on my receiving end. The limp fish. The Lukewarm I-don’t-really-want-to-meet you kind; the one’s with, egads, two fingers.

Decades later, I realize I have formed my own version of a handshake. The main difference is that I don’t do the pump up and down. I grab hold, look in the person’s eyes as if they are worthy, and don’t let go until I feel as if I’ve truly “met” them. Sometimes, I will put my other hand on top for good “measure.”

How do you shake hands? (Or do you just fist-bump? 🙂 )

Oh, and if you are shaking a paw, always do it gently!

Don’t criticize those who are “different”

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I don’t want to answer any more of her all-the-time questions. So I ask, “Where’s Scooter?”

“Behind on his school work. No surprise there.” She laughs, but I know her son lagging behind in this world rubs blisters of worry under her skin. “He’s home with Leonard,” she continues. “I’ll swannee, my poor husband doesn’t have much hair left from the strands he pulls out trying to help Scooter.”

“Hmm,” I say, looking at Choppers.

Kids at school say Scooter’s grain elevator doesn’t reach the top of the silo. That he acts more like a six-year-old than a thirteen-year-old. They don’t know Scooter like I do. He might not be the brightest penny in the cash box, but I’ve known him all my life. He has more grain than most of the numbskulls in Holly Gap, Texas and Scooter’s worth more than the whole lot of them. Wherever Scoot skips, bounces or walks, goodness sprouts in the footsteps he leaves behind. Without Scooter, everything would grow dead.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

Daily word prompt: Criticize

“Boys that age get a little carried away”

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I muster up Miss Brave. “Daddy? Can an almost twelve-year-old have a friend that’s almost fourteen?”

“Of course, Sugar Pea.”

“Even if it’s a boy?”

Daddy sighs and creases his forehead. He places both hands on my shoulders. The pressure feels like serious is coming. “Emma June. Boys that age get a little, a little, carried away sometimes and don’t always think with their heads. Do you know what I mean?” His eyes beg me to understand.

I think of Frank who got carried away with his need for moonshine money and blackmailed me to get it. I think of the man behind the flea circus tent who told his girl, “We’ve been friends a long time now. Time for something more.” Then Carla and me Heard a loud smack across his face and the man yell, “bitch”.

“Boys want more than a girl might wanna give,” I say.

“That’s right. And a boy hasn’t got any right to take it if a girl says no.”

“But what do I have to take?” I never let Frank take my dollar. And I didn’t let Brandon dance with me at the carnival.

Daddy sighs again. “Maybe, since your Mama is away and all, this is something you should ask Miss Helen. In the meantime, don’t let any boy touch you.”

I don’t tell Daddy, but he’d be proud knowing I didn’t shake Frank’s spitty hand.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket