WRITING SAMPLES

I love to write! I do it every day. I have two published books and am currently working on my third. I’ve written several screenplays and I love to create in different styles and voices, for all different types of things. These are just a few samples.

More available upon request. Let’s connect and collaborate: cherie.fruehan@gmail.com

SHORT FILM screenplay: just a pinch

copyright: cherie fruehan

BLACK SCREEN

Slowly, as if someone turns an amp up to eleven, the
MECHANICAL CHURN of a meat grinder rises into earshot,
along with a man's BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM.

INT. JIMMY'S BUTCHER SHOP - BACK ROOM - SCRANTON, PA

CLOSE UP: FRANKIE DEFAZIO'S tear streaked face is twisted
in pain. He howls like...well, like a man whose arm is
stuck in a meat grinder.

JOHNNY DECARLO and CARMINE FRANGIONE, dressed like they
just stepped off a Goodfellas set, hold him down, while
JIMMY 'THE BUTCHER' SIMONETTI, dressed in a hair net, latex
gloves and white butcher's coat, forces the man's arm into
the hopper of the CHEF'S PAL 6000.

Tendrils of blood soaked flesh and pulverized bone churn
from holes in the machine's grinder plate, onto a metal
pan.

Off to the side, ROCCO D'AGOSTINO throws up in a trash can.

                    JOHNNY
              (To Carmine)

          I thought you quit smokin' cubans.
                    CARMINE

          I did.

                     JOHNNY
          I smell smoke, do you smell smoke?

A cloud of smoke rises from the Chef's Pal 6000 and it
grinds to a hard stop.

                    JIMMY THE BUTCHER
          Ah, God dammit! It's always the elbow.

Jimmy lets go of Defazio's shoulder and Defazio slumps,
sobbing, mumbling incoherently.

                    JIMMY THE BUTCHER
              (To his pals)

          Clean him up! And get Rocco some
          ginger ale.

Jimmy snaps off his latex gloves and throws them into a
trash bin. He peels off his hairnet, looks directly into
the camera, walks toward the audience.

                    JIMMY THE BUTCHER
          Now don't you's go gettin' the wrong idea.
              (Tosses his hair net)
          I'm really a nice guy. And I don't
          like hurtin' no-one. It's just
          that, when someone is stealin'
          from you, you's gotta teach 'em a
          lesson.
              (Grabs a towel, wipes
                blood off his face)
          That shithead back there? He got
          his hand caught in the till. So I
          took his hand.

              (Tosses the towel)
          Now, he's got only one
          left...lucky rabbit. And I doubt
          he'll be usin' it to steal from me
          ever again.

He pops up his chin, as if we asked him a question.                              
                     JIMMY THE BUTCHER
           What's the story? I gotta take ya's back.

TO BE CONTINUED…

personal blog: january 1, 2024

When she rose, it was a new year—and, also a day like any other day. The same sun warmed the winter sky as the birds sang their familiar morning song from high up in the naked trees. Her pups, hungry with the dawn, pawed her bed for their familiar routine—potty, food, walk. It was not exciting, it was not enlightening, it was not unordinary. Yet, there was something else, something deep down. A peace. A calm. A knowing. That this new year was going to bring great things—deep understanding, astounding creativity, true happiness. And she was grateful.

FREE WRITING: AUGUST 9 2024

.Love Letters (paint, ink, metal leaf on canvas).

If you follow astrology, or if you have cracked open your social media in the past few days, you will have heard we are in an 8-8 Lion’s Gate portal. Meaning it’s a time to manifest wealth and abundance—whatever that may mean to you. It does not have to be so literal. It can be actual monetary wealth, or it can be a wealth of knowledge, experience, joy, or an abundance of good health or love.

Let’s set our intentions for all the good things to come, but also remember to love yourself, right now, exactly where you are, no matter what else you are striving for. It all begins with self love—not in a cringy way, but in a compassionate way.

Today, sit down and write a love letter to yourself. Thank yourself for of the knowledge you have gained along the way, for everything you have accomplished thus far, through experiences good and bad. Remind yourself you can achieve anything and that you are already wealthy. Be confident you are perfect just the way you are, warts and all, and then move forward in love, in knowing you are worthy for all is to come to you.

Love your self, the way I love you.

OPENING CHAPTER: DINNER WITH THE HAWTHORNES

AWARDED HONORABLE MENTION: READER’S DIGEST SELF PUBLISHED BOOK AWARDS

It was a still, Sunday morning, save for a sparrow. The panicked bird fitfully flapped its wings, tip-tapping its beak against a cloudy window from inside the small garden center as it tried to escape. The bird’s spastic attempt at freedom distracted Rochelle Hawthorne.

Poor bird. Rochelle forced herself to concentrate so she wouldn’t forget the list of items she’d memorized. Items, usually neatly written on a monogrammed pad, were now jumbled in her head as they tried to disappear. Rochelle lived by lists. She wrote them down, and rewrote them once again, tidy and organized. She’d even put the items in order of location inside the store, to make for a more efficient trip—but not today. Today, she didn’t dare make a list of the items she needed. Today, she was going to have to remember.

Towels. The bird appeared to be exhausting itself trying to escape. There’s an open door right below the window. You flew in through that same door!

Rochelle had problems of her own. She wrestled with a creaking metal shopping cart, as she jockeyed it through unkempt aisles, resenting its errant front wheel. It was hard enough keeping her thoughts in line…towels…never mind trying to steer an erratic buggy with a wandering front end. On top of that, she could still hear the desperate bird in the background. Flutter-flutter, tip-tap. Rochelle grabbed a small stack of white terry towels and placed them in the cart.

Lye. A regular at her local garden center, everyone there knew Rochelle by her first name. Which was why she chose this particular store, secluded in the country, many towns away from her own. No one would know her here. There it is! Lifting the plastic bag of lye from the shelf, she read the words caustic and food grade and wondered how a thing could possibly be both. She placed the package of lye into the cart. Uhm…shovel.

The malodorous scent of mulch hung in the air as Rochelle forced her cart to make the turn at the end of one aisle into the next, causing its stubborn wheel to lock and sprag along the floor, leaving a black skid mark on the concrete. Flutter-flutter, tip-tap. She spied the shovels and made her way toward them. She eyed the jumbled lot, their handles leaning against each other like drunken cowboys.

She pulled a pointed shovel from the dented and dusty rack, lifting her sunglasses to get a better look at the shovel’s sharp tip. This should cut easily through the wretched Texas clay soil.

“Well, that’s a beaut!” The voice behind her startled Rochelle.

“Excuse me?” she turned and asked the old man—Earl, according to the name tag pinned to his orange vest. Aside from his vest, he was very beige: beige khakis, beige work boots, a plaid flannel shirt with varying shades of beige. Even his white hair, tinged by nicotine, was indicative of a middle school lunch tray.

“That shovel there! It’s quite a beauty! That tip’ll slice through anythin’. You buyin’ that for yer husband, little darlin’?”

Yes. “No, it’s for me,” she forced a horizontal smile. Oh no, what else did I need?

“For you? I wouldn’t be expectin’ a fancy lady like you to be gettin’ all dirty.” Earl laughed until he wheezed.

“I love to garden…is it Earl?”

“Yessiree, ma’am. Earl McCreedy! I been workin’ this garden center for sixty years. Haven’t seen ya in these parts before.”

Rochelle slowly tightened her grip on the shovel, stretching her knuckles ever so slightly. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Haven’t seen ya in the store before. What kinda gardenin’ do you do? Vegetable or flower?”

“Uhm…flower.” Rochelle was desperate to be on her way, but there was one more thing she needed…if only she could remember. Flutter-flutter, tip-tap.

“Yeah, I figured. I saw that-there lye in yer cart. Hydrangeas?”

“Hydrangeas?” Rochelle bit her lip. “No, I don’t need any hydrangeas, thanks.”

Earl laughed until he coughed, then wheezed—long and constricted, the kind one earns from sucking on two packs a day since childhood. Rochelle visualized his gray lungs clamping in fear, not wanting to allow in another putrid and poisonous smoke-filled breath. What was it I needed? She thought hard while Earl regained his composure.

“You sure are funny lil missy. I was just thinkin’ that maybe yer buyin’ that lye to change the color of yer hydrangeas ’cause lye’ll turn ’em from blue to pink if you amend the soil just right.”

“Uh…em, yeah,” she lied, “that’s what I’m using it for.” Now can I get the hell out of here? Flutter-flutter, tip-tap.

“Thing is…I see yer buyin’ that-there shovel, with that-there cuttin’ edge. Makes me get to thinkin’ you got that real stubborn clay soil. You know…the kind that when ya stomp that new shovel in there reeaal good…you hear that suction…that clay stickin’ to the metal like a guppy? And ya pull that clump of earth out and it’s huggin’ the blade, and then ya have to clean the head of the shovel every time? Before ya stick it back in the ground?”

Rochelle’s head was spinning, white knuckles clamped to the shovel’s shaft. Shut up, shut up! There’s something I’ve GOT to remember! Flutter-flutter, tip-tap.

“Well…that stubborn clay soil is alkaline as can be, so ya won’t be needin’ that lye to make yer hydrangeas pink.” Earl’s eyes, magnified and distorted by his coke-bottle lenses, squinted at Rochelle, then cut to her cart. “What else ya got in there?”

Rochelle quickly placed the shovel in the cart, its handle stuck out and forward like a knight’s lance, ready to strike its opponent, and headed for the register, away from Earl and his questions.

“Have yerself a blessed day, young lady!” Earl called out, as Rochelle forced her rebellious buggy across the floor. “Y’all come back again, ya hear?”

Think, think, THINK! Keep moving forward. Earl’s hacking receded in the distance as Rochelle made her way toward the front of the store, and the unsuccessful bird. Just four inches lower…