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The Spot Writers – “Sally and Julius” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about something “summery.”

This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER WOLFE, the sequel, coming soon, as well as MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series.

***

“Sally and Julius” by Cathy MacKenzie

“Mom,” Sally asked, “isn’t it kinda neat that July and August, the best months of the year, are the longest?”

“Are they?”

“Yeah, 31 days. Two months in a row.”

“Hmmm, guess so.” Her mother stopped rinsing the dishes and gazed at the wall.

Sally was positive her mother was reciting the alphabet song: “Thirty days have September, April, June, and November. All the rest have thirty-one…”

Her mother wiped her hands on the dishtowel and faced her. “But I thought December was your favourite. And May, your birthday.”

“No, Mom, the summer months are the ones I like the best. And so did Julius and Augustus.”

“Julius? Augustus?”

“Julius Caesar. We learned about him in school. He had an ego, just like Marlene and Chloe. They think the world revolves around them, just like Julius did.”

“And who is Augustus?”

“Augustus is his nephew. Great nephew, I think.”

“I see.”

“So, do you know what Julius did? He named July after him, and he made it 31 days. That was the longest month back then.”

Her mother put down the dishtowel and glanced at her before pouring soap into the dishwasher.

“And then when Julius died, Augustus wanted a month after him, so he named the next month Augustus. And he had to have 31 days, too.”

“You seem to know a lot about them.”

“I do. We learned about them in school. Well, except for the months. I found that out by myself. On the internet.”

“Sounds like Augustus was a tad egotistical, too,” her mother said.

Sally giggled. “I think they were freaky. But then guess what happened?”

“What?” Her mother seemed intrigued, latching onto her every word.

“Then the year had too many days, so they had to take two away from February. And that’s how come February became the shortest month.”

Her mother turned back to the dishwasher, pushed the on button, and closed the door. “Interesting. You’ll have to tell Dad that story.”

“Maybe I will.”

When her father returned home from work, she relayed the story to him.

“It’s an interesting tale,” he said when she was finished, “but what’s so special about July and August? Why did they pick those months?”

“Julius liked the summer, Dad. And so do I. Augustus just took the month after Julius did. Not sure if he liked the summer as much as Julius, though.”

“But…”

She scampered off, not wanting to listen to anything else her father would say. His “but” said it all. He’d find holes in her story. She had to admit she was a bit confused. What about the other months that had 31 days? How come Julius didn’t make his month 32 days? Or perhaps way back then the months had less than 31 days and his was the longest. Maybe after Augustus died five other egotistical jerks came along and named months after themselves, too, and made their months 31 days. She’d have to Google it. Maybe there was more to the story.

But, for now, summer waited. She couldn’t waste any of it. It’d be over before she knew it.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

 

 

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The Spot Writers – “Spirit Animal” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about something summery. Today’s piece comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series with several other books in the works. Check out her blog for news about upcoming releases at www.valmuller.com/blog.

“Spirit Animal” by Val Muller

It was the summer without vacations. Two of them cancelled already, and the re-rescheduled one for August not looking good, either. And with Benny being quarantined from friends, it was looking to be a summer to blemish the memory.

I kept thinking of my own summers, the freedom I had to bike with friends, to live outside until Mom called me in for dinner, to build secret campfires and clubhouses out of scrap wood. At seven, Benny was maybe a little too young to do all that on his own, especially without help. Our previous decision to cap the kid count at one seemed like a bad idea this summer. How much better might things be with a little brother?

Instead, it was up to me and Helen to make up for the global pandemic in Benny’s small world. Helen was doing her best, balancing work-from-home with summertime fun. And I’ve basically been on conference calls for the last ten weeks. I came out of the office for a coffee and I saw Benny there, looking dejected. On the most beautiful day in June, just sitting there on the steps staring at the carpet.

So for the holiday weekend, I knew I had to repair Benny’s summer.

We were watching a cartoon, something about spirit animals. Benny asked what that was, and that’s when I decided. “We’re going camping,” I said. “We’re going on a quest to find your spirit animal.”

“Camping?” Helen rose an eyebrow from the kitchen, where she was making dinner. “Where?”

With social distancing, I wasn’t sure campgrounds were even open. Benny looked at me expectantly. I opened my mouth and hoped for the best. “In the back yard, of course!”

So down to the basement I went, searching for my old gear. My tent, the sleeping bags. “It’s a two-man tent,” I reminded Helen, thinking back to our camping days.

“That’s okay,” she said with a little too much relief. “You boys have fun. I’m sure I’ll be okay having the house to myself for a night.”

That night, I remembered why grown-ups don’t camp so much. The humidity, the mosquitos. And, of course, the loss of that “I’m invincible” feeling of childhood and adolescence. Every rustling in the bushes on our three-acre lot, I wondered about our safety. Would a fox attack? Would they smell dinner on our breaths? And what about the bear everyone was posting about on the neighborhood Facebook page? At night, he owned the neighborhood. Even the coyote being tracked down the road would defer to the bear, I’m sure.

“What do we do now, Dad?” Benny asked. He sat on the sleeping bag in the tent, looking at me expectantly. He seemed so little, so young. I rustled his hair and gave him a hug. Sometimes I forget how much of a kid he still is.

“We should go out of the tent,” I said. “We need to find your spirit animal.” I smacked my arm. “And unless your spirit animal is a mosquito, we aren’t going to find it in here.”

“How do we find my spirit animal?”

I glanced inside at the warm glow of the television. Helen was finding her own spirit animal, no doubt. I didn’t know how to answer. I was winging this. I don’t honestly know what a spirit animal is. I’ve never had one of my own. I think it’s supposed to be some kind of vision quest or something. Not something I’m qualified for, really.

“I think a spirit animal has some qualities that you share with it. Something deep down inside of you. It’s powerful,” I hoped aloud.

“How will I know what mine is?” Benny asked.

“When you see it, you’ll know.”

We lit a small fire in the portable hibachi grill. We roasted marshmallows, and I wondered what kind of animals liked marshmallows. While we ate, a small brown toad hopped onto the patio nearby, perching on a damp spot.

“Is that my spirit animal?” Benny asked.

“A toad?” I glanced at its brown, warty surface. “I don’t think so, son. Do you like to eat flies?”

He laughed. “No, Dad, I guess not.”

We waited. In the distance, the crickets chirped, and some nocturnal bird warbled. Late-lingering fireflies blinked under the trees. An owl hooted.

“Am I a cricket?” he asked, moving his arms like a praying mantis.

We both laughed.

“I think you have to see your animal to know it,” I said. I looked at the toad again and wondered if that was my spirit animal. Just kind of sitting there. Being useless except for eating bugs. Maybe it would be good at conference calls. I shivered and shook my head. No. This was not my quest for a spirit animal. Tonight belonged to Benny.

I wondered what kind of young man he would be, what kind of man he would grow into. He was so young, so sheltered. What was this year in quarantine doing to him? Would he know how to socialize? Would he trust others, or be governed by paranoid fear? Would he follow what he was told without question? Would his basis for human interactions be movies? Cartoons where characters go on vision quests to find their spirit animal?

Was I a failure of a father?

At the end of our property, two eyes glowed.

“A fox,” I whispered.

Benny gasped and whispered to me. “Cool, but it’s not my spirit animal.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I just do,” he said.

We went to sleep that night without an answer to his spirit animal quandary. I woke in the middle of the night to the feeling that something was wrong. My first instinct was to check on Benny. He slept soundly next to me. I dashed to the house to peek in the living room window. Helen was sleeping on the couch, the TV still glowing, an empty wine glass on the table next to her. The glow from the house lights illuminated the camping area in an even twilight, and I turned to inspect the yard.

The humidity was stifling, but still I shivered. Something was off.

I turned around, and that’s when I saw it. The bear, the one everyone had been spotting. So far the neighbors had posted a picture from someone’s bedroom window, far-off and grainy; a picture of its muddy paw prints crossing the road; and several shots of its scat around the neighborhood.

This one was within striking range of me. It was brown—smaller than I thought it would be, but still a terrifying size, one that could tear apart dog or boy or man. And it was sniffing around Benny’s tent.

It’s a parents’ worst dilemma. Being useless to help your child.

I could have easily walked into the house to safety. But the bear was right next to Benny. I thought back to all the documentaries I must have watched, and I realized I knew nothing about bears. I thought I remembered that they like to leave people alone, that they are non-aggressive. But was I supposed to freeze? Play dead? One kind of bear, you’re supposed to raise your arms in the air menacingly to make yourself look bigger, I think.

And in the midst of my son’s life being threatened, I had the awful thought that my phone was in the tent, so there’s no way I could capture what would have been an amazing shot.

In an awful moment, the bear rose on two feet, sniffed the top of the tent, and let out a small groan, a grunt. What was it saying? Was the bear saying “Grace,” pre-dinner? And Benny the main course?

My mind raced with how I would tell Helen. It was then that I decided. I would scream. I would distract the bear and let it chase me. Maybe I would die, but that’s what parents were supposed to do for their children.

Something held my tongue. The bear turned to stare at me. Our eyes locked for an eternity. Stars lived and died. Planets crumbled.

I knew then I was looking at Benny’s spirit animal. Gentle, unprovoked, but with terrifying power beneath.

The bear grunted once, then lowered itself and walked nonchalantly back into the shadows of the yard. I knew Benny would be okay. Tonight and always.

I carried him inside a moment later, though, just to be safe. We slept on the floor next to Helen and her empty bottle of wine. I decided in the morning I wouldn’t tell Benny about the bear just yet. He would discover his power in his own time. For now, I’d let him be a little boy.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

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The Spot Writers – “Where Is the Love?”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to choose a news article. Find 5 words in the article that jump out at you. Write a story using those words.

This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER WOLFE, the sequel, coming soon, as well as MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series.

***

“Where Is the Love?” by Cathy MacKenzie

 

I don’t have to look at newspaper blurbs

To find five words

That jump out at me,

I don’t need to see

Ones that’ll stand out.

 

The ones that’ll shout

To me

Are these three:

Covid, social-distancing, death—

Seniors taking their last breath—

And these two:

Health and ICU.

 

This month of June

Couldn’t come too soon

But not much has changed,

The world is still deranged

And crazy.

 

People are lazy

And lackadaisical,

Recognizable,

Ignoring masks

And other tasks.

 

What happened to social-distancing

And outdistancing,

Groups of ten

And wise women and men?

 

Summer is here,

We want to be near,

But without health

What is wealth?

Money or not,

Life can’t be bought.

 

I fear I exist

And co-exist

In a dream,

A nightmare

From which I’ll never wake

To give my head a shake.

 

Despite upheaval

And evil,

Can we pray

For words to say

That won’t hurt

And phrases we won’t blurt

Without thinking,

Without blinking

An eye?

 

I look to the sky

And pray for change,

That we may re-arrange

Priorities

And help minorities,

That peace can prevail

Despite a gale.

 

Where is the love

Once sent from God above?

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

 

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The Spot Writers – “Floating in a Tin Can” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a “never have/had I ever” story.

This week story comes from Chiara. Chiara is currently quarantined in Berlin, Germany, and doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects.

***

“Floating in a Tin Can” by Chiara De Giorgi

Never had I ever thought I’d find myself one day floating in a tin can, like David Bowie’s Major Tom, far above the Moon… and yet, here I am! Of course I really hope I’ll keep in touch with Ground Control and make it back to Earth, but for the time being I just want to enjoy the ride, as they say.

It all began during the 2020 pandemic. People were scared, for a while confusion reigned, but in the end, slowly, things went back to normal – with a couple improvements, if I’m allowed to say so, given that so many didn’t make it.

One big change was that private and independent investors poured money into cryonics research. What’s cryonics, you ask? Cryonics is the preserving of a human body at low-freezing temperatures. Why would one decide to be frozen, you want to know? Well, let’s say you’re suffering from a medical condition that science isn’t able to cure. You have your body frozen and then thawed in the future, when doctors will know what to do. Sweet, don’t you think? I thought so and I had money enough to invest in the project. Moreover, I signed my body off to undergo the procedure in case I became ill with the 2020 virus and would die of it. Which happened.

Admittedly, those were quite the chaotic times, so I don’t blame Cryonics Ltd. for forgetting my body was under ice for about fifty years – when an undergraduate looking for the restroom got lost in the labyrinthine basement and found me.

The world I was resurrected into was quite different from the one I had died in. I couldn’t keep my enthusiasm at bay. Not only was I cured, I also became a celebrity and got rich again in a matter of days.

In the years I had slept away, science and technology had improved hugely. I felt like a toddler in a candy shop, I wanted to know everything, and everybody indulged me.

I could have paid for this space trip, but it was hardly necessary, as any ad company in the world is willing to pay me a ridiculous amount of money just for the honor of putting my face on their products. Space travel is quite common these days, although still a bit expensive. Not everyone can afford it, but I’m happy to report that life conditions have also improved hugely for the majority of the Earth’s population. There are of course reasons for it, one of them being that the Moon is being colonized at the moment, and those who accept dangerous jobs up there are the ones who wouldn’t fare well on Earth.

Anyway. As I was saying, space travel is quite common. What isn’t that common, though, is time travel.

I am the willing participant in a research study on time travel – it seemed the next logical step to take.

So if you get this message, please reply. It will be corroborating evidence that it works. Thanks!

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

+++
C.A. MacKenzie is the author of (among other books) the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers including Amazon [https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/].

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“The Star”

In Memory of Matthew. Thirty-eight months gone.

 

“The Star”

 

The eleventh of the month arrives too soon,

It’s as if my life’s timed by the moon,

By the number of nights it lights the sky,

This horrible reminder that he did die.

*
Yesterday, on Mother’s Day,

I looked above and imagined a way

I could borrow Mom’s sunshiny star

And whisk her away in a red sports car.

*
Today, I wonder about Matt’s star,

Whether big or small and how far,

Stars sometimes look close and near,

Those are the ones I hold dear.

*
I see many such lights above,

All of whom I dearly love,

Mother and father and my son,

I pray for them when day is done.

*
If Matt were a shooting star,

He’d land on earth and we would spar,

Others would come, joining in,

Everyone sporting a ginormous grin.

*
Alas, too much make-believe,

Those shining stars never leave,

Oh, they may hide or dim their lights,

But they’re always around, days and nights.

*
Tonight, I’ll search for the star that’s Matt,

The strongest one, not one that’s fat,

For he exercised daily, cared about his body,

Never ever would he look shoddy.

*
His star will be full of frolicking fun,

Spouting jokes and sharing a pun,

I know I’ll see him twinkling there,

I have no doubt I’ll find him. I swear.

Matt candle crop

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Happy Mother’s Day

Sharing the poem I wrote today for my ever-missed mother, titled “A Poem for My Mother.”

Mom recent

I tried to grasp that shooting star,

The one I eyed from afar,

The largest one,

Greater than the sun.

 

I missed and reached for another,

A beautiful one like my mother,

A lovely luminous flame,

A true lady, a delightful dame.

 

But that’s pretend, a magical lie,

For who can reach that high

Let alone snatch a star from night

To selfishly rob Heaven of light.

 

And I’d not want to spoil the sight

By taking the loveliest light

Or remove it from its rightful place

And leave a senseless space.

 

But this special day is for my mother,

There can be no other,

And if I could, I’d borrow her star,

Whisk her away in a red sports car.

 

I’d share my every thought,

All that which past years wrought,

Everything the sun and moon kissed

Over the last four years she’s missed.

 

I have many such lights above,

All of whom I dearly love,

Father, grandparents, cousins, son,

I pray for them when day is done.

 

Oh, how I wish dreams came true,

That life didn’t sometimes morph to blue,

That death could be forever flowers

Flourishing ‘neath soothing showers.

 

Mom

 

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The Spot Writers – “The Panhandler (take two)” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a chance encounter. Today’s post is written by Phil Yeats. Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) has published two soft-boiled police detective stories in his Barrettsport Mysteries series. They’re set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community with very quirky citizens. The Amazon link for the more recent one is: https://www.amazon.com/Tilting-Windmills-Barrettsport-Mysteries-Book-ebook/dp/B07L5WR948/

Today’s submission is an alternative take on an earlier SW submission. It might become the opening scene for a sequel to his current WiP – The Road to Environmental Armageddon. He’s trying to invoke late Middle Ages or Renaissance vibe, but story is actually set in a post-Apocalyptic future.

***

“The Panhandler (take two)” by Phil Yeats

Benjamin trudged home in the waning sunlight after delivering a parcel containing four flintlock pistols and a supply of gunpowder to the southwestern gatehouse. He entered the town square from Southwest Road and turned onto the busy Western Road, heading for Little West Lane. His home was near the end of the lane, within sight of the town wall.

He hadn’t feared for his safety as he strode along the busier thoroughfares. The purse of coins he’d received in exchange for the pistols was tucked into a secure compartment within his leather tunic. It suddenly felt heavier as he approached the narrow lane with many nooks and crannies where thieves could lurk.

Thoughts of the weapons at his disposal distracted him as he approached his corner. He barely noticed the scruffy young panhandler sitting on the cobblestones suckling a fractious infant. She was wearing rags, her hair was crudely shorn, and she looked like she hadn’t washed in weeks—a perfect incubator for fleas and lice. When he dropped a penny in her pot, the baby reached for his fingers. The tiny hand and abandoned breast distracted him. He lingered for a moment too long.

“Benji?” she said as he tried to leave.

She handed him her baby and paused before covering her breasts. He diverted his gaze as he took the surprisingly clean tyke and tried to determine who she was. Was she from home, the nearby village where he grew up? If not, she wouldn’t know the childish nickname his mother dumped on him. No one but his friend Thaddaeus used it. Solving the little puzzle wasn’t difficult. She was Leah, Thady’s little sister.

She would have been twelve when he left home six years earlier to study at Caverns Technical College. He crouched beside her, leaving a gap he hoped fleas couldn’t leap and let her inquisitive tyke tug the wisps of hair representing his pathetic efforts to grow a beard.

“Are you okay?” he asked when she began gathering her meagre possessions. “Somewhere to go? Someone looking out for you?”

She dumped the coins from her pot into her hand, counted them, and slid them inside her smock. She stood while pulling the drawstring closed and adjusting the shoulder straps of her kirtle. After hoisting an ancient rucksack onto her shoulder, she reached for her child. “Completely alone and nowhere to go. I’ll find a street vendor willing to sell me a bowl of gruel, then…”

He stood without relinquishing the tyke. “I have bread and makings for stew, enough for two.” He paused glancing up the lane. “And a tub for a bath. You could get cleaned up and…” He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

+++
C.A. MacKenzie is the author of (among other books) the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers including Amazon [https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/].

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The Spot Writers – “Inspiration” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt was created using a random generator. Use these five words in a writing: suntan, paint, waterfall, inflation, exposure.

This week story comes from Chiara. Chiara is currently quarantined in Berlin, Germany, and doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects.

***

“Inspiration” by Chiara De Giorgi

You’ve probably heard of the “writer’s block” before. I’ve never suffered from it. Not one time. My inspiration is always sharp and present, come rain or shine.

Except the one time when it was not.

It was a supremely unusual feeling, and a supremely annoying one too. Where had my inspiration gone? Why play hide and seek then, of all times?

 

I had acquired a lovely cabin in the woods, facing a waterfall. Since it needed refurbishing, I had bought three cans of paint and spent an enjoyable three days painting it anew, inside and out. I hanged laced curtains at the small windows, threw knitted blankets and pillows on the sofa, put a brightly colored, woolen carpet on the floor. I spent the days on the porch and gained a perfect suntan. With no exposure to the media I forgot everything about elections, economy, inflation, and other equally worrisome news from the outside world.

One night I talked to the fire that was crackling in the fireplace. I was cradling a glass, half full with red wine, and moaned. “Where is my inspiration hiding?” I asked.

“It was never yours”, the fire replied.

Since the half full glass was my fourth, the fire talking didn’t bother me in the least. “How do you mean?” I asked.

“Inspiration is a free creature, a living creature. She goes where she wants, not where she’s wanted – or needed, for that matter. You may try and call on her, though. What do you want her for?”

“I’m not sure”, I confessed. “I guess I’m just waiting for her to come to me.”

“And why would she?”

“I don’t know. She’s done that before.”

“Maybe you’ve done something to upset her and now she’s eluding you.”

“Maybe. I’ve no idea, though. But I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you don’t need her, then.”

“Of course I need her! How can I write, without her?”

The fire crackled a bit, before answering.

“Do you remember what the world is like, outside this cabin?”

I grimaced. “I try not to. So many problems.”

“Exactly. And how is it here?”

I smiled. “It’s great! I wake up every day to the smell of pine and the sound of birds chirping and water falling. I love every minute of my days here.”

“So, maybe the people out there need inspiration more than you do. Don’t you agree?”

“Maybe…” I whispered, unconvinced. “But what about me? How will I write again?”

“Well”, crackled the fire, “I guess you’ll have to make a choice. Stay here and live in your dream world, or go back and write about it.”

I pondered its words for a couple of seconds, then gulped the rest of the wine. I didn’t answer.

“So: which one will you choose?”

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

+++

C.A. MacKenzie is the author of the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers, including Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/.

 

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The Spot Writers – ‘Kiss this Right’ by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story or poem using the following words or images: memory, mist, moonlight, mosaic, mask.

 

This week’s story comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara dreams, reads, edits texts, translates, and occasionally writes in two languages. She also has a lot of fun.

***

“Kiss this Right” by Chiara De Giorgi

 

There’s a memory I chase,

One which times threatens to erase.

 

We were kissing in the moonlight,

It was on midsummer’s night

And the wind blew soft and warm

Who could foresee the storm?

Quick the mist surrounded us,

Sudden chill clung like a mask

To our bodies and our minds.

Still today the terror finds

Its way to my poor, weak heart.

Did I think it would not hurt?

Then the memory gets shattered,

I don’t know what I remember.

It’s like an old-fashioned mosaic,

Like a page with splattered ink

And to this day I cannot say

Why the kiss did break away.

Have I dreamt or have I lived?

Was it real, or have I wished?

 

Once a year’s midsummer’s night

Maybe I can kiss this right.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

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The Spot Writers – “Mistaken” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story or poem using the following words or images: memory, mist, moonlight, mosaic, mask.

This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER WOLFE, the sequel, coming soon! As well as MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series.

https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/

***

“Mistaken”

Mist masks
Memorable memories
But moonlight
Magnifies
The mosaic—
Moody,
Muddy.
Mortuarial.

***

 The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

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C.A. MacKenzie is the author of the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers, including Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/.

 

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