The Spot Writers – “A Little June Magic” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “June” because it’s….well, you get the idea! This week’s work comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. Val is at work illustrating the first three books and editing books 4 and 5.

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“A Little June Magic” by Val Muller

“Hey Miles, what’s the best day to mow the lawn this weekend?” Jack asked his phone.

Ainsley raised her eyebrow. “Are you serious.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

Jack looked up and shrugged. “Are you saying you don’t want me to mow the lawn this weekend?”

Ainsley crossed her arms.

“What?” Jack joked. Then he followed Ainsley’s accusing eyeline to his phone. “Oh, this. What? I was asking Miles to help me help you.”

“It’s going to rain tomorrow,” Ainsley said. “So you can mow Sunday. You don’t need AI to tell you when to mow the lawn.”

Jack smirked and pushed a button. “Miles,” his annoying-as-**** AI assistant, started talking:

“Although the expected weekend rain is predicted to happen on Saturday, the densest of clouds are not expected in your area until 3:00 p.m. Eastern time. Therefore, the best time to mow your lawn would be Saturday before 3:00 p.m. Sunday is expected to be warm and sunny, but rain from Saturday is likely to last all evening, creating potentially wet conditions that may result in slipping, injuries, damage to mowing equipment, and undesired tire tracks on the lawn.”

“We’re supposed to meet Beth for ice cream on Saturday,” Ainsley said.

Jack held the phone to his mouth. “Jack, my wife thinks we have plans on Saturday. Do you think it would be safe to mow on Sunday, and if so, can you advise me of the best precautions to take?”

“Sunday’s conditions may be wettest in the morning, following a predicted night of rain. However, if you use caution, check fields for puddles and mud, and clean your equipment after mowing, you may be able to mow on Sunday.”

“Thank you, Miles.”

“You are most welcome, Jack. Please let me know how else I might assist you.”

“You can go away,” Ainsley said.

“He didn’t hear you,” Jack said.

“He?” Ainsley clenched her fists. “It’s not a he, it’s an it. In fact, it’s not even an ‘it.’ It’s not even dignified enough to be given that pronoun, it’s a—” She raised her hand in the air, expecting some kind of revelation, but nothing came. “Like a dash on a paper, a nonverbal utterance, a—”

Jack hit the button. “Miles, come up with a pronoun to use to call AI when we don’t want to assign—” Jack thought for a moment. “I should start by saying this isn’t my idea. I think you deserve to be called ‘he,’ but my wife, she just doesn’t buy into the whole AI thing yet. So this is a thought exercise for her benefit, not mine.”

“What are you saying?” Ainsley asked.

Jack hit the button to stop recording. “You should be careful what you say to AI. If you’re mean to them, they may give you worse answers.”

“They? You’re literally proving my point.”

“What point?”

Ainsley groaned. “Don’t make me go through it all again. You know, the Terminator. Robot overlords. The apocalypse. All that stuff. You’re helping the enemy here. I’m telling you, just mow on Sunday.”

Jack didn’t answer. He was typing away.

“Miles suggested using the letter X, perhaps. Or one of these characters—” He showed Ainsley his phone.

“I don’t need a separate AI pronoun. I’m just not going to acknowledge it.”

“You just said it,” Jack reminded her.

“Why don’t you put the phone down and enjoy being outdoors? It’s June, finally. It’s warm, there’s birds everywhere. I remember this book I read as a kid. It was about going barefoot in June. It was so magical, with the grass and the moon. Owls. Just all the things about nature. It made the summer seem magical.”

Jack pushed a button. “Miles, write me a short book about going barefoot in June. Make sure it includes owls, grass, and the moon, please. And make it extra human. It’s for my wife.”

*

Ainsley rocked gently in the hammock, the weight of Jack’s phone holding down the napkins on the side table that held her iced tea. She turned the page of her paperback and looked up as Jack rolled by on the mower. Then she adjusted her sunglasses, stretched her toes, and returned to her novel as the drone of the mower grew quieter and quieter. Turned out AI got it wrong. If you were brazen enough, you could mow on Friday.

***

The Spot Writers:

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 – “Paying the Price” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story where the main character is a creative writing teacher. This week’s contribution was written by Phil Yeats.

In April, 2024, Phil published The Body on Karli’s Beach, the third book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore Nova Scotia town. For information about these books, and The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

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Paying the Price by Phil Yeats

He trudged along the coast road to the north of town, bemoaning his fate. He’d spent two soul-sucking early evening hours teaching bored housewives and retirees the rudiments of creative writing. Hours he should have spent pouring forth pearls of creative wisdom on his next novel.

Who was he kidding? He’d produced no pearls since he published his first award-winning mystery romance during his final year as an undergraduate in a small university’s creative writing program. He’d self-published it using the pen name Annabelle Granger. An independent publisher respected in the realm of mystery novels snapped it up and moved it from the winner of a minor award with modest sales to the top of the bestseller list.

Two follow-up novels featuring the same characters weren’t as good. He knew it, his publisher knew it, reviewers knew it, and so did his readers. Sales tanked, and he soon found himself without a publisher. Or a steady income.

As he turned off the coastal road and down the dirt track to the dock where his rowboat awaited, he reviewed his rapid fall from fame and fortune. There was no mystery.

He wasn’t into mysteries, but during that final year at the university, a fellow student in the creative writing program encouraged him. Together, they turned his initial draft into a semi-literary novel that pleased both the readers of cozy mysteries and the stuffier literary critics. After they graduated, he didn’t put the required effort into the follow-ups because his mind was on what he hoped would be his next project—an adventure romance that asked a simple question. Why can’t society deal with the rapidly approaching climate change crisis?

He squandered the royalties from his only successful book on the small island he purchased and the house he built. No wonder he was now stretched for funds and reduced to teaching creative writing classes.

When he arrived at the shore, he saw her sitting on his dock, admiring the sunset. He recognized her immediately. Ashley Barnes, the muse who helped make his first book a roaring success.

He sat beside her and said nothing until the sun sank below the horizon.

“So what brought you to this obscure point in the western hemisphere?” he asked as the sunset’s yellows and oranges expanded to fill the western sky.

“Looking for my friend, Annabelle,” she said.

“Well, here I am.”

“Don’t think so. I’m looking at David Mitchell, not Annabelle Granger.”

As he rowed his skiff to his island home, he pondered the meaning of Ashley’s last comment. The answer seemed obvious. Annabelle was his creation, but Ashley contributed to her success. Did that mean she was looking for payback?

If it was money she was after, she was out of luck. He never had any.

*****

The Spot Writers:

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 – “Creativity”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story where the main character is a creative writing teacher.

This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. (Alas, she’s only five days late!) Her writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She recently published WHEN KAYAKS FLY, a mix of fantasy, real life, and gallows humour. A fun read! Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589332.

Check out http://www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on Cathy’s works.

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Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story where the main character is a creative writing teacher.

This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. (Alas, she’s only five days late!) Her writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She recently published WHEN KAYAKS FLY, a mix of fantasy, real life, and gallows humour. A fun read! Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589332.

Check out http://www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on Cathy’s works.

***

Creativity

“Come on, class. Hop to it!” Cheryl gripped her hands, immediately regretting she’d been so gruff on her Grade 3 students, but they were an ornery bunch, rarely listening to her. Were their parents raising a den of juvenile delinquents? Kids in her generation had never acted like the kids today, and she could only imagine the state of the world for the next generation’s children. Ah, not my worry, she thought.

She scanned the class. A brainstorm hit her. “Children, attention please.”

For once, they hushed and looked expectantly at her.

“I have a surprise for you!”

The kids stared intently. A surprise? That never failed to get their attention. 

“Well, perhaps not that much of a surprise, but something exciting to do. Let’s write a creative exercise. A creative fiction. I don’t usually give homework, but today I am. It’s Friday, so you’ll have all weekend to do it.”

At the stunned looks on their faces, she added, “It’s homework, yes, but it’ll be fun.”

“Yes, Jimmy?”

“What’s ‘creative fiction.’”

“Good question! My apologies for not giving an explanation. So, a creative non-fiction is a true story with a creative twist on it. ‘Creative’ as in with imagination.  But let’s do a ‘creative fiction’ instead. For instance, you could… Ah, think ahead thirty—no, forty—years and write about where you think you’ll be then. Or hope to be.” Gah, could the children even count that high?

She eyed the clock. Thankfully, almost 2:30.

She smiled. “Any other questions?”

Several kids nodded but didn’t speak. Others continued to dumbly stare.

Saved by the bell!

“Have a good weekend, class.” She doubted one child heard her.  They were too busy gathering their things and racing from the room. 

She sighed. Perhaps she should do the exercise too. After all, she was a creative writing teacher—or supposed to be—until she’d been called to sub Grade 3 after Ted Greene had met up with an untimely vehicular accident. The motorcycle driver—Ted—hadn’t stood a chance against the semi that had swerved into his lane, but he was still hanging on…

Such a handsome guy. She let her mind wander, remembering their recent dates. Though they hadn’t really clicked, she’d fantasized about their eventual union if they did click at some point. The happy life she—they—would share. Their beautiful, intelligent children. And after their children were settled in university, she and Ted would travel the world. Visit all the places she’d read about in geography high school books and— 

A knock on the door jolted her from her thoughts. 

“Cheryl, you okay?”

“Sandra, hey. Yes, all’s good. You?”

“You looked like you were off in another world.” 

“Ha, no. I’m right here. Just gathering my things.” Gathering my thoughts is more like it!

 “Plans for the weekend?” Sandra asked. 

“Nothing exciting. You?” 

“Same old. Same old.” She turned to go. “Call me if you want to meet up tomorrow. Go shopping or something. I hate that you’re alone all the time.”

“Thanks. Will do.”

Cheryl stuffed papers into her briefcase, slung her purse over her shoulder, and headed to her car. 

When she was in view of her Porsche Boxcar, she paused. What in the world! Who was that snooping around her vehicle? The guy peered into the passenger side window and then walked around to the other side, where he looked in the driver’s window. What? Could there be a dead body in her two-seater? Yeah, okay…

He was gazing intently into her vehicle when she stopped a foot away from him.

She coughed.

The stranger jumped and looked up. “Oh, hello. Is this your car?”

“It is.”

“I have one just like it. Just wanted to see if our interiors were identical too.”

Yeah, okay. That’s what all men say. A pick-up for sure!

“Mine’s solid black,” she said. Stupid comment; he knew that from examining the interior.

“Mine too. I believe we own identical vehicles.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, what’s the chances?”

Yeah, she thought, what’s the chances?

He was intriguing despite the snoopiness. Dark hair. Tall. Almost “tall, dark, handsome.” Not that tall, however. Cute—not handsome.

“What you doing later?”

She was taken aback. What? “Umm, why do you ask?” What if she were presumptuous, thinking he wanted a date when he was simply making friendly convo?

“It’s almost time for dinner. I know a great little place. We could grab a drink first. Then a bite to eat…” Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be presumptuous.”

Ha, she thought. Presumptuous—her exact silent word. 

“I’m sorry. You married? I’m not in case you’re wondering. And if you are or have a boyfriend… Heavens, not trying to ruin a relationship or— ”

She thought quickly. “No, I’m not married. I could meet up in say, half an hour? I have an errand I must run.”

“Sure. It’s The Old Port. On Fitzgerald. The corner of Fitz and Main.”

“I know where that is. I’ll meet you there. Maybe give me an hour.”

“Great. See you shortly.”

She watched him walk away.

He turned. “My name’s Sam, by the way. Sam Banks.”

She nodded. Nice to meet you, Sam Banks.

When he was out of sight, she rummaged in her purse for her cell. She scrolled until she reached her husband’s number. Dan answered on the third ring.

“Hey,” she said. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry to ruin our evening. Philip’s called a last-minute board meeting for five o’clock. I might not be home until ten or so.”

“Aw, really? That’s okay. I might go out with Sandra for a quick bite.”

“Great. I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up.”

I won’t, she thought, stuffing the cell back into her purse.

“Hmm,” she mumbled. “Who shall it be tonight? Should I visit Ted in the hospital? Meet Sam? Or should I stick with Dan and mope in a lonely house?”

Cheryl sighed. At sixty-four, what were the chances she’d have three men pining over her? She’d promised herself, sufficient money or not, that she was retiring at sixty-five. Then she’d be free. Free to do what she—and only she—wanted. She’d never married, never had kids. No family to speak of. But she was fine with that. She couldn’t wait for her new life. She’d already bought the acre of land on Stephens Road, and the only decision left was to pick one of two tiny homes. She’d been guaranteed delivery on either one within four months. Then, she’d put her house of thirty-plus years on the market. With her pension and the profit on the house, not to mention her savings and investments, she’d be on easy street and—

“No,” she muttered, “tonight I’ll enjoy a dinner with Sam.”

***

The Spot Writers:

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 – “The Easiest Job in the League”

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story in which the main character is a creative writing teacher. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, who is so busy revising and illustrating her Corgi Capers tales that she forgot it was her turn to write!

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“The Easiest Job in the League” by Val Muller

“A timer?” She placed her hands on her hips. “Like standing there the whole time holding a stopwatch and clicking the button when they finish their lap?”

The swim official nodded. “That’s right. It’s the easiest job in the league. Best way to get volunteer hours.”

Right. Volunteer hours. Those required hours you had to fill or pay the fine. She had always preferred paying the fine. It was easier to sit in the stands at the swim meets, laptop on her knees, letting her mind zone out with the monotony. She could earn enough through her writing to pay the league for her missed hours, and the work was much more enjoyable.

But now, the officials were combing the stands in search of volunteers. Required hours or not, they said, the meet could not run without volunteers, and everyone would have to sit there, swimmers included, until five more people stepped up.

More time to edit, she thought.

But then, there was her daughter. She was here to swim, after all.

Before long, Jackie found herself standing there on lane 9, holding a timer in her left hand and a plunger timer in her right, waiting for the clock to start. Her partner, holding a stop watch and a clipboard, offered a smile. “It’s so fun to watch from down here. You get such a good view that way,” the woman said.

Jackie wracked her writer brain for something to say, some positive and innocuous banality, but there was nothing. Her brain ran loose with allusions to Dante’s inferno, and she wondered which circle of Hell made you time a swim meet.

.

“I’m Claire, by the way,” the woman said.

Jackie nodded, but her mind jumped to another scenario, one in which she ran down the line of timers, pushing each into the pool. Of course it wouldn’t be her doing it. It was a character with a backstory, someone who had been slighted early on in life, maybe someone with a toxic mother. Pushing the timers into the pool was just the tip of the iceberg. But she wouldn’t use such a cliche in her description, of course. It’s just that it was so hard to avoid being trite when she had to–

“That’s the start!” Claire screamed.

Frantically, Jackie pushed the button on her stopwatch. The

first race was the little kids, just one lap. But they were slow. Thirty four seconds was just enough time to–

This time, the aquatic center was abandoned. It was a post apocalyptic novel, probably a young adult piece, and of course there would be some teens who made their way to the pool. They would drain it, maybe. Or maybe fill it with toxic chemicals to trap the zombies. There would be zombies, right?

“Here she comes!” Claire called frantically. “Get ready!”

Jackie looked down just in time to see the swimmer in lane 9 hit the wall. Jackie hit her stopwatch and the plunger and showed her time to Claire, who recorded it on the clipboard.

“It’s so hard to keep your mind on it,” Jackie mumbled. But Claire didn’t hear with all the cheering and yelling and splashing echoing in the pool room.

“These next races are medleys. You have to count. Two laps of each stroke.”

Two laps of each stroke? That was enough time to compose a novel. Jackie hit her stopwatch and peered up at the stands. There was a man looking disinterested and angry. Wonder why he didn’t get asked to be a timer.

And that’s all it took. She was off in the middle of a spy novel. The man had no swimmers in this meet, of course. In

fact, he had no children at all. That is, none that he knew about. But that would all change after today’s rendezvous. The woman who called him here under the guise of needing a private eye was actually a former lover, and their one-night stand was now twelve and about to enter the seventh grade. He would not take it well. He would have no interest in her and would remain estranged, sending only a birthday card once a year until a tragic accident killed his former lover, leaving him the sole–

“Jackie!”

Claire was punching her. “That’s the race. Did you get it?” Startled, Jackie pushed down on both the plunger and the stopwatch.

“It’s too late,” Claire said. Swim is a sport where a fraction of a second counts.

Three minutes later, sheepish yet relieved, Jackie was walking back to the stands, wondering what she should write while waiting for her kid to swim. The grumpy man passed her along the way. A frowning swim official handed him her stopwatch and threw Jackie a glare. The man would be taking Jackie’s place as a timer.

“You’ll keep your mind on it,” Jackie whispered to him, watching the way he swayed as he walked, capturing the beauty of it for her next great work.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://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/