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The Spot Writers – “Transitions” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt: “Winter to spring—a time of transitions. Write a story that takes place in a train station.”

This week’s fiction is from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out her novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, available on Amazon and other retailers. www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/

***

Transitions by Cathy MacKenzie

The whistle shrieks from around the bend. Sally sits on the bench, debating whether to stand or wait until the train pulls into the station and everyone alights. People are in such a rush today that they can’t be polite and let people exit before charging in, whether in an elevator or a train. Her mother taught her better manners than that, but she can be impatient, too, depending upon her mood.

The brakes squeal, metal against metal, and the waiting throng descends upon the train as if vultures at a firing squad. The doors open, and bodies squirm to the platform while others squeeze inside.

She stands and adjusts her heavy wool coat over her arm. The station is warm though the last dregs of winter linger outside.

The train rumbles in preparation for departure. Stragglers jump aboard, latching to the stanchions and grab rails.

She has seconds to cover the remaining distance and slip inside before the doors close.

She moves slowly, deliberately. Wedged like a rubber mannequin in a metal packing crate doesn’t appeal to her, nor does the stench of people heading home after work.

The vibration beneath her feet calms her nerves. She dislikes this period—these undefinable days; not winter but not spring despite what the calendar states. That elusive space in between. The storm before the calm.

But winter transitions into spring, and spring shifts quickly into summer, her favourite season.

Abruptly, she turns the opposite way, takes a few steps, and dons her coat.  She’ll walk the forty-two minutes to her apartment on Mason Avenue.

***

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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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 – “Perfect Sailing Weather” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The current prompt is a story about something nice and unexpected happening on a gloomy day.

Today’s post comes from Phil Yeats. Last week, Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) published his most recent novel. Tilting at Windmills, the second in the Barrettsport Mysteries series of soft-boiled police detective stories set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community is available on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/Tilting-Windmills-Barrettsport-Mysteries-Book-ebook/dp/B07L5WR948/

 

*****

Perfect Sailing Weather by Phil Yeats

Neither rain, drizzle, nor fog kept me from my favourite outdoor activity. Well, fog presented a problem, but rain and drizzle, especially when accompanied by strong winds, were beneficial.

My favourite outdoor activity is sailing and my punishment of choice, the International Contender single-handed racing dinghy. That five-metre-long beast is low to the water, extremely lively, and any fool who tries to tame it will get soaked. Rainy weather is inconsequential.

My father died while I studied for my final university exams. His sudden traumatic passing didn’t prevent me from graduating near the top of my class.

My mother didn’t fare as well. In fact, she fared very badly, falling into a psychological black hole she appeared incapable of escaping.

My little sister decided she must devote the summer after she finished her second year at the local community college caring for our mother. I offered to help by moving home and finding a job in the local area.

My decision left me with a decent job but little free time because our mother refused to accept any outside help in the house or grounds. I was stuck maintaining our extensive grounds to her exacting standards. It was a frustrating responsibility that occupied my free days in decent weather. I coveted rainy ones, the rainier the better, as my chance to escape.

Friday, July thirteenth, I woke to rain pelting off my window. “Great!” I announced to the walls before leaping from my bed.

I rushed through breakfast and arrived at the sailing club as the wind died down. Damn, I shook my fist at the grey skies and misty drizzle. Don’t you dare clear.

Half an hour later I pushed Boondoggle into the lake, jumped aboard, and hauled in the sheet. We shot ahead, propelled by a breeze that might produce an exciting sail. I bore off as I pushed out on the trapeze wire hoping to coax her onto a plane, but there wasn’t enough wind.

Three hours later, I abandoned hope of finding more wind. The rain had increased, but the wind had dropped to a pleasant breeze. I tacked and headed for the club.

I’d beat across most of the lake when I spotted another sail, the only one I’d seen all morning, in the distance near a lee shore. The sail dropped, leaving the boat bobbling in the lumpy waves produced by the overnight wind.

As I headed toward the apparently disabled craft, I noticed a figure struggling to control the flapping sailcloth.

“You okay?” I yelled as I approached the boat.

She tried to rise but quickly dropped back into the boat as it rocked violently. “I’m fine, but the centreboard broke, so I, like, can’t control anything. It just slides sideways.”

I came alongside and grabbed her gunwale. I released my sheet and Boondoggle slowed. My momentum turned us onto a better trajectory, one that should clear the uncomfortably close rocks. “Anyone with you?” I asked.

“No, alone, like you are, and I was doing fine until the stupid board broke.”

I sighed, thankful she’d been alone in the small two-person dinghy. “Help me hold the boats apart, and I’ll ease us away from the rocks. Then we can figure something out.”

After pushing aside sailcloth strewn over the bottom of her cockpit, she slid to the rail. She produced a bumper on a lanyard and dropped it between the boats before grabbing my shroud. She smiled, “Got it.”

I was impressed. She may have been metres from crashing onto mean looking rocks, but she had her wits about her. I pulled in enough sheet to establish forward momentum without causing Boondoggle to heel, and we eased away from the shore. After putting some distance between us and the rocks, I let the sheet out, and we coasted to a stop.

“Where’s home?” I asked.

She pointed across the lake to somewhere near the sailing club. The club was three kilometres away and upwind, but the shore we’d pulled away from was rugged and swampy without good road access.

I decided we should tow her boat across the lake, but we’d never keep them side by side without damaging one or both. We’d tow hers behind mine.

A few minutes later, she had everything in her boat secured and a painter joining her bow to my stern. She crawled into Boondoggle, and we set off.

The rain stopped, and the sun emerged. She stripped off her wet-weather gear and a dripping wet sweater.

I offered her a dry sweater I had in a sealed storage locker. She pulled it over her head. A few seconds later, her blouse emerged from under the oversized sweater. Her hands emerged from the sleeves, and she settled down beside me on the windward deck.

“Much better now,” she said smiling.

“You went in when the board broke?”

“Yeah. It broke while I was beating toward home. I fell over to windward and ended up hanging onto the rail. I thought I was already soaking wet, but I was much colder after I got back on board.”

“But the boat didn’t capsize?”

She shook her head. “I climbed over the stern, and it was about half full of water. I bailed it out and tried to resume sailing, but I couldn’t do anything. We slid sideways toward those rocks.”

The slow beat home towing another boat provided time to get acquainted. I’d discovered a feisty young woman one year younger than me who would also go sailing alone on a gloomy, rainy day when sensible people stayed indoors.

*****

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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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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