The Spot Writers – “I Wish I Were” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

The task for this prompt is to write a story with a strong focus on one of the four elements: earth, air, wind, or fire. The element can be literal or metaphorical, such as a character with a fiery personality.

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is currently in Berlin, Germany, doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects. Her YA novel “Mi chiamo Elisa” was published in Italy by “Le Mezzelane Casa Editrice” in September 2020 and recently in Turkey with the title “Benim adım Elisa”. Her children’s book “Şebnem ve Schrödinger’in Kedisi” was just published in Turkey by Sia Kitap and in Italy with the title: “Chiara e il Gatto di Schrödinger”.

***

“I Wish I Were” by Chiara De Giorgi

If I were air…

I would be a strong wind, an impetuous gust. I would pick up one who, trapped by invisible borders, cannot move from their land. I would lift them up, I would carry them far away. I would take with us the scents from their home, so they’ll live forever in their memory. Then I would become a soft breeze and gently deposit them in a new place, offer them one last hug before letting go.

If I were water…

I would be a clear and placid pool, making everything green and serene and pleasant around me just by being there. I would become a wave in the ocean, to play with the dolphins and the seagulls that fly free in the sky. I would be a roaring torrent that carries downstream impurities and errors and leaves the mountain clean and intact.

If I were fire…

I would be the flame of a candle breaking through the darkness, burning the words of a spell, written on a slip of paper by a benevolent witch. I would carry her wish to heaven, I would hold her hopes with me. Then I would become a bonfire that crackles and spreads warmth, that melts the chill clutching a heart.

If I were earth…

I would be dark, rich, soft. I would cherish the seeds entrusted to me, I would nurture and nestle them, and I would rejoice to see them grow, strengthen, extend until they pierce the surface and rise to the sky. I would be proud of them, pleased with the part I played in their growth.

If I were…

But I’m just a little dreamer.

I cannot fly, quench, burn, nurture.

I can only dream and offer my dreams to others.

Thus, perhaps, I can do, be… all.

*****

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/

The Spot Writers – “The Concert” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

Catherine A. MacKenzie’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone novel (18+), are available on Amazon.

The task for this prompt is to write a story with a strong focus on one of the four elements: earth, air, wind, or fire. The element can be literal or metaphorical, such as a character with a fiery personality.

Cathy continues with her Melvin character. Once she’s written enough stories about him and his family, she’ll compile them into a cohesive novel [albeit a short one—a novella, maybe—as she figures she’s soon gonna become tired of Melvin and his plight(s), real or imagined].

Anyhow, Kailani lurks somewhere within air, earth, and wind. Will this be the episode she’ll return? Read to find out…

***

“The Concert”

Marie and I are having a quiet day. The kids are away at a week’s summer camp. Marie’s knitting, and I’m scrolling through Facebook on my cell when I almost jump out of the chair.

“Marie! Marie!”

“Melvin! What in the world—”

“They’re coming, Marie. They’re coming to Halifax!”

“Who’s coming? Aliens?”

“That’s too funny, Marie. No, it’s my favourite group: Earth, Wind & Fire. Can’t believe it!”

“What!”

Marie doesn’t exactly toss her knitting needles in the air at the news as I expected her to, but I hear excitement in her voice until—

“Thought they were all dead. Haven’t heard of them for eons.”

“Maurice White, the leader, died a few years ago, but they’ve been touring for years. Never had a chance to see them in person before. We gotta go.”

“Can’t believe they’re coming here. We never get any of the good groups.”

“They are! Believe it!”

She sighs. “Not my cuppa, Melvin. You go.”

“You just said they were a good group.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to see them.”

“Aw, Marie. Be a sport. I don’t wanna go alone.”

“Oh, Melvin, give me a break. You’re such a child.”

“Please, Marie? It’d be so much fun. We can make a night of it. Ship the kids off to your mother. We could stay at the Lord Nelson. Go to a fancy din.”

She stares at me for several long seconds. Pondering. Changing her mind, I hope. Reconsidering, at least.

“I could stay at the hotel while you’re gone. Maybe find a spa. Ooooh, a nice relaxing massage would be lovely.”

“Aw, Marie. No. I’m sure they’ll sing their number one hit ‘Shining Star.’ You love that song. We played it at our wedding, remember?”

“I can go on YouTube and listen to it anytime I want.”

“Not the same, Marie. Not the same.”

“Oh, let me think on it.” She screws up her face as only Marie can. “Nope, I’d prefer a massage.”

“Well, I’m gonna buy two tickets. I know you’ll change your mind when the big night comes. You book the restaurant and the hotel. I’ll do the rest.”

I buy two tickets through the site Facebook directed me to. A bit pricey at $145 U.S. each, but what the hell, right? We only live once. I won’t tell Marie the price. She’ll blow a gasket. The tickets are on my phone, so she’ll never know.

July seventh arrives. We check into the Lord Nelson at 3 p.m. sharp. Gotta get every second out of our stay. After unpacking, we stroll across the street to the Public Gardens. Marie oohs and aahs at every blooming flower.

“You’re being such a sport, Melvin. I know you’re not interested in flowers. So, you know what?”

“What?”

“I’ll go with you tonight. Seeing as how you have two tickets. Waste not, want not, right?”

I squeeze her hand. (Yep, we’re actually holding hands! It’s like the second honeymoon we never had.) “Great, Marie. Thank you.”

She smiles.

The show starts at seven. At five o’clock, we saunter across the street to La Frasca Cibi & Vini, an Italian restaurant that Marie booked. I splurge on a bottle of rosé. Marie orders the handmade gnocchi. I have the pork ribs. Marie doesn’t stop raving about the gnocchi. I don’t stop raving about the ribs.

After I paid the (exorbitant) bill, we stroll down to the Scotiabank Centre. The evening is balmy. Perfect weather for kayaking but, instead, I’ll be seeing Earth, Wind & Fire. Even the lure of Kailani can’t keep me from the concert. My heart races in anticipation. I hum “Shining Star.”

I’m not surprised at the line-up when we arrive at the facility. A boisterous crowd. No doubt a sold-out show with stupid suckers hoping to buy seats. Waiting for the usual scalpers.

“Lots of kids here, Melvin.”

I look around. “Yeah, there is, isn’t there?” Kinda weird, but whatever.

There’s a buzz in the air. The line soon disappears into the building.

I pull up my tickets on my cell phone so they’re readily available.

When we reach the ticket taker, I thrust out my phone.

He has his scanner in hand. Scans the barcode. “Hmmm, something’s wrong,” he mumbles.

He’s old. Doddery. Not too smart.

“Not scanning.” He adjusts his glasses. Peers at my phone. Smiles. “Afraid you’re at the wrong venue, bud.”

My heart races. “What do you mean?” A second later, I clue in. “Oh, it’s at the Forum? No problem.” Plenty of time to get there.

Ticket man laughs. “Well, could be. Not sure what it’s called in Virginia.”

“Virginia? What do you mean?”

“Your tickets are for Earth, Wind & Fire in Halifax, Virginia. The good ole U S of A. You’re in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, bud. Tonight’s event is Merlin & Mercy, the Magical Duo.”

“What!”

Marie pokes me in my side, whispers, “Melvin, what have you done?”

I whisper back. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re such a duffus. How much did you pay for these tickets! These tickets we can’t use!”

Ticket checker motions to the right of me. “Please, move aside while you’re discussing your dilemma.”

“Dilemma? You’re darn tootin’ I have a dilemma.”

Marie latches to my arm. Hard. Tries to pull me back. “Come on. Can’t stay here.”

“Don’t you want to see Merlin & Mercy?” I ask.

“Sorry, bud,” ticket guy interjects. “Sold out. Move along, please.”

Nosey bastard. “Move along, please,” I mumble, mimicking the guy. Christ!

“Well, I guess it’s back to the hotel,” Marie says. “Maybe I’ll get my massage after all.”

“Guess so. Can’t get to Virginia in time for tonight’s show, that’s for sure.”

***

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/

The Spot Writers – “Teacher Week at the Westlake Mountain Retreat” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit Corgi Capers mystery series. The prompt is: write a story in which an element (earth, air, water, fire) plays a major role (either literally or metaphorically).

***

“Teacher Week at the Westlake Mountain Retreat” by Val Muller

Teddy’s eyes glowed in the fire, his “counsellor” badge glowing in the flames. “Think of it. Picture it. What is it that vexes you?”

Megan glanced at around the circle of light. The woods were dark now, and the fire accentuated everyone’s faces in sharp angles and shadows. A mourning dove called from a tree. As Meg watched the other adults mulling around the circle of stone and soot, she tried to place them in various stages of mid-life crises. Most looked stressed. Some, embarrassed. A few looked as if they had stepped off the edge of the world and entered a mindless utopia that dismissed the realities of life. She wondered if any of their mental states were healthier than hers.

Before she knew it, another young twenty-something counsellor stepped into the fire’s circle of light, nodding at Teddy. It was Ron, the counsellor who had checked Megan in. It was supposed to be teacher week at the mountain retreat, and as teachers, Meg and Kris had gotten their tickets for half price, but it looked like they were the only teachers there. Rushed dinner conversations—sloppy joes eaten around a fire—suggested that many here were from the corporate world or other professions. Were all the other teachers too burned out to care?  

“I know it can be kinda scary to share,” Ron said. “I’ll go first. I had a vexation once. When I graduated high school, I thought, whoa, man, what gives? I’ve been trained to go from class to class, to do what teachers say, to get As or Bs or whatever, and now I’m thrown into the real world, and what now?”

All eyes shifted to Ron in the fiery light. Meg exchanged a look with Kris.

“So, what vexed me? I’ll tell you what. It was chains, man. Chains. I was chained to a bell schedule, chained to report cards, chained to the system, man. And what did I need?” He looked around the campfire for an answer, but all eyes seemed hesitant, the way students are on the first day of school. Everyone too scared to answer.

“I needed to break those chains, man! And what did I do? I came to this place, applied for the job, got the job, and in the week of prep before the campers got here, I took up an axe and chopped wood. I chopped and chopped. Each piece of wood, I imagined a link in the chain. Schedules, gone. Teachers—” Here, he looked guiltily at Megan and Kris, no doubt remembering their conversation earlier about their profession. “The bad ones, I mean, gone. Chop, chop. Straight A expectations, gone too. Chains were my problem. Chopping solved it.” He looked around the campfire. “The wise have said—picture your vexation, then picture a way to thwart it. That’s what we’re here for this week. Normally we work with kids, but this week of the year is always one of my favorites. I love working with adults, helping them return to the mindset of childhood. Returning to infinite possibilities.”

“But to get there,” Teddy said, “you have to figure out what vexes you.”  

Heads nodded around the campfire. Indeed, that’s how the retreat was advertised. A reset. A restoration. Everything from the brochure to the atmosphere put out 1980s sleepaway camp vibes. The sense of nostalgia and even the nods to the classic horror films of Meg and Kris’s childhoods made the place both familiar and strange. They were assigned to cabins of four, and the next week was filled with teambuilding activities—canoeing, crafts, campfires, cooking.

A man with a worn fishing hat stepped into the circle. He hadn’t said much at dinner, but Megan pegged him as a former corporate executive who’d cracked. He raised his hands to the fire. “What I see is my life as a powerful wind, a hurricane I had no control over. It felt good at first, my hair blowing around, the excitement of it all. But it came from all sides, all directions. It vexed me. I lost control.”

“And what do you need to do to escape that wind, man?” Ron asked.

“I need to be still. I need my soul to be still.”

Teddy clapped his hands. “Fantastic! I’ll tell you what. You and me, a night hike up to the peak. A night under the stars. There’s nothing so still to put your soul at peace.” Then Teddy looked around the fire. “Who else is vexed by unending wind?”

To Megan’s surprise, Kris nodded. She raised her hand. “Me! Me! The last two and a half years has been rough for this teacher. Constant policy changes, kids with emotional crises, it’s like a constant hurricane. Not a moment to be still.”

Without a word, Kris joined Teddy and the Exec. Megan opened her mouth, but what was she going to say? She felt betrayed. She and Kris agreed to go on this retreat together, and now Kris was abandoning her. But Megan wasn’t about to spend a night out in the open under the stars. She much preferred the safety of the cabin, no matter how rickety.

The discussion continued, with several more of the campers articulating the vexations of their lives: floods, hurricanes, pressure. Soon only a handful were left. Ron turned to Megan. “What vexes you? You’re a teacher. Are you vexed by stormy winds like your friend?”

Megan stared into the fire. “No.” The flames licked the wood. Campfires had always calmed her as a child, but this one was different. Even in the chill of night, this fire made her brow sweat. The light seemed too bright, almost, an assault on the night. “The last three years have been the worst of my career, I’ll admit,” she said. “But it wasn’t like a strong wind. A strong wind—well, you can go inside to escape that. Mine was like a fire. Like an out-of-control fire. Maybe it started small, but it kept being fed.” She thought to the last few years. The unexpected closure at the end of the school year. The mask mandates. Grades counted. No, they didn’t count. Learning was optional. No, it was required. Students could come back in person. No, they could learn from home. Teachers had to come in to school and teach on a computer. No, to students in the classroom. Both. At once. Take attendance. No, attendance doesn’t count. We can’t hold students accountable. We have to be rigorous. Teachers are heroes. Teachers are the worst.

“It’s like being tied to a stake,” she said. “Like a witch. Watching them light the fire under you. Watching it burn, smelling the smoke, knowing it’ll come for you next. There’s sheer terror and even a sense of hope that once the flames burn over you, there will at least be an end to it. Every time something seemed to stabilize, someone threw another log onto the fire. Give everyone grace except for us. We were the dumping zone. The heat. It’s too hot to handle.”

Megan looked down. She was shaking.

“Ahhh,” Ron said, smiling. “Fire. That’s one of my favorite vexations to quench. And there’s nothing better at quenching than night swimming!”

He clapped his hands, and three other members of the camp joined him. Megan found herself following as well. They all shed their clothes at the shoreline. A part of Megan, somewhere in the back of her mind, realized this was the start of so many cheesy horror movies. It was the rising action of a badly-plotted tale. And yet here she was.

The water in the lake was chilly, and it shocked her. She felt like a teenager, screaming into the night with the others. Then she took a deep breath and stayed under the water impossibly long, long enough that all the flames around her quenched. The moon above danced behind the curtain of water. She emerged, her lungs filling with the cool of night, the moonlight revealing her skin glowing and cleansed, and in the chilled mountain air, not even a whiff of smoke.

***

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/