The Spot Writers – “The Week before Christmas for Mrs. Smith, a Frazzled Chemistry Teacher – by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write something about Christmas. Today’s tale comes to us from a frazzled teacher not of chemistry, who is a day late posting this due to all the holly, jolly merriment happening at school. If you know a teacher, treat them kindly this week!

***

“The Week Before Christmas for Mrs. Smith, a Frazzled Chemistry Teacher”

By Val Muller

In the week before Christmas,
The teachers were frazzled:
The students were restless,
Expecting to be dazzled
By fun holiday lessons
And fun holiday snacks,
Not pestered by essays
And quizzes and facts.

But Mrs. Smith taught chem,
And they had an exam
That would take the whole class–
That was her plan.
Holly and jolly
Were not quite her drift,
And all that sugary spirit
Left her a bit miffed.

Holiday dress-up days
Demanding her brain–
Hopes of organization
Flushed down the drain
With last-minute gifts
For her own kids’ teachers,
Then dashing to pep rallies
To monitor the bleachers.

They made it through Monday,
And all that entailed,
Made it to Tuesday,
And then even sailed
To Wednesday, bemused,
But their red and green used
By Thursday, when the hue
Turned to holiday blues.

By Friday the piles of laundry were tall,
The whole family went through red, green, and all
Of the Santa hats, reindeer socks, jingles bells, too–
And what could this poor frazzled teacher do?

It was PJ day, but what could she wear?
She looked in the mirror and said,
“Frankly, I don’t care!”
Her Grinch shirt was stained
With some sauce from her toddler–
Her green pants were missing,
So why even bother?

As she looked out the window
And saw it was pouring,
The toddler was angry,
The boy was still snoring.
How would she make it this morning,
She wondered,
Without losing her temper
Or causing a blunder?

At first she put on
A pair of black Christmas PJs,
But she just couldn’t see wearing them
Throughout the entire day.
So she went back upstairs,
Put a finger on her nose,
And said, “not today, Satan, because, I suppose–
Today is the day I’ll wear just what I want,”
And just like the Grinch in reverse,
Her heart shrunk.

She put away red socks, her green socks, her hats–
She brought out the blue jeans and a black hoodie and laughed.
There was the happiness that had been missing all week,
The true Christmas spirit when things had looked bleak.

As she pulled her comfy dark hoodie around tight,
She said, “Happy break to all! My break starts tonight!”
Then she headed to school with a mischievous grin
And couldn’t wait for her chemistry test to begin.

***

The Spot Writers–Our Members:

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

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/

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

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

The Spot Writers–Our Members:

The Spot Writers – “Reflection” by Val Muller

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month is to write a story involving a mirror. This week it is Val Muller’s turn.

***

“Reflection” by Val Mulller

The guitar twang echoes in the house, shaking the picture frames. I shake my head to the lyrics. Something about heartbreak and loneliness or a pickup truck or boots. That’s all they’re ever about.

“It’s not true,” Evan would say if he weren’t up in his room, blasting country music. It’s all he’s loved from the first time he heard it playing at Steak House of Texas one vacation. Of course, we live nowhere near Texas, and country music’s not so big here. I detest it. So of course, he loves it.

The chords grow louder, then quieter. He must have stepped out of his room, then closed the door again. But of course he didn’t cut the music.

I think back to me in high school. All goth, all metal. Everyone I know wanted to be either a guitarist or a drummer. But country? We would rather have been dead than to have listened to–

“Dad.”

I startle, turn and stand. Evan is there, waiting for me to notice him. It’s not like I don’t live with the kid. I see him everyday. But I swear he grew a foot since the last time he went up to his room.

“Dad?”

He stands wearing one of my old flannels, but it is buttoned and tucked, not the grunge style I used to wear.

“Dad?”

I shake myself to attention. “Evan.”

He looks sheepish. It is money. I know the look. I lived the look as a teenager.

“I was wondering…”

“How much?” I sigh.

“It’s for a movie. Me and–“

I fight back a smile. “Are you taking Jess?”

Before he answers, time freezes. I look at him like I am looking at myself in a mirror. I was him, decades ago. My flannel hung defiantly from my sleeves, buttons uncuffed. Ripped jeans and Doc Martens where his fit jeans and cowboy boots stand. And where I stand? It was my father, always in a button-down, half the time wearing a tie, always ready to pull out a wallet from the pants the wallet had worn thin.

In Evan’s embarrassed smirk, I see my own pride in having a

date, my shame in asking Dad for money, my embarrassment at letting him into my love life.

“Yeah, Jess is coming,” he says, looking up while bowing his head. I know he hopes I don’t ask any more.

“Be careful,” I hear my dad say as I hand my son the bills.  I know they say every generation is bad, but I know we were truly worse than Evan and his pals. They are more naive, but they are good at heart.

He reaches for the money, and in the mirror image I see my own hand snatching the money from my dad, glad I have made it past the Inquisition of two questions.

Evan goes upstairs. The music grows loud briefly as he opens his door, then quiets again. I sit back on the couch. I am reading the news on my phone, but I cross my right leg over my left, the way my father did when he read the paper. I look at my reflection in the glass cover of the fireplace.

“Thanks, dad,” I whisper.

***

The Spot Writers–Our Members:

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

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/

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

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

 ***

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 – “An Odd Friendship” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “nick of time.”

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.

***

An Odd Friendship

by Chiara De Giorgi

When she was alive, Sister Elena of Cremona was a Catholic nun. She lived with other nuns in a convent, where they tended a vegetable garden, made jams and herbal liqueurs to sell to pilgrims, and ran a childcare center during summer when school was out.

On the last day of her life, while descending the stairs, she stepped on a piece of bread and jam that had fallen there the day before. She slipped and reached the ground floor in an instant, but with a broken neck. She didn’t realize what had happened, so she kept on thinking she was alive for quite some time, and when she finally got it into her head that she had passed away, she had no idea where to go. She eventually joined a friendly community of spirits in an abandoned house in the charming village of Willow. They self-ironically called themselves “the Squatters.”

Anyway, this isn’t the story of her life, nor of her death. Neither is it about the slice of bread and jam that caused her untimely demise. This story begins when a virtual reality arcade opened at Willow…

Sister Elena stumbled upon it one evening while wandering the village streets looking for someone or something to bless, and she was immediately entranced. Fascinated by the bright neon lights and chrome finishes of the VR units inside the arcade, she went in to take a look around.

After giving the popcorn machine a quick blessing (“May anyone who eats this popcorn never gain weight”), she tried on the headset of a vacant unit.

She was instantly thrown into a scene straight out of an adventure book: pointed, towering rocks rising out of a blue mist, rope bridges stretched between them, vultures circling high above, where the sky was purple and black with patches of light.

When a massive troll suddenly attacked her, Sister Elena reacted on instinct, striking a lethal blow before she even realized she was wielding a sword. The troll’s head rolled and tumbled off the bridge, disappearing into the fog, while the troll’s body slumped onto the bridge, causing it to sway dangerously. One of the ropes holding it broke, and Sister Elena leapt from one bridge to another with the agility of a ninja and climbed onto a rock.

Shocked by what had happened and, above all, by her own unexpected skills, she took off the VR headset and stared at it for several minutes.

Unbeknownst to the other Squatters, Sister Elena began to visit the arcade regularly. Her adventures became more and more daring, and her incredible skills soon earned her top spots in the player rankings.

Olga, the retired Russian assassin who had joined the squatters after being forcibly passed away by a poison-laced vodka, noticed that the nun seemed increasingly absent-minded and had deep dark circles under her eyes (as much as a departed spirit can have dark circles under her eyes, but Sister Elena apparently really did).

So she followed her one evening when she went out “to bless the streets of Willow.” That’s what she said every night, but Olga had the feeling that something was amiss. Perhaps Sister Elena had a lover? It wouldn’t bother Olga’s conscience, but perhaps it bothered Sister Elena’s, which was why she was keeping it a secret.

But Olga’s training as an assassin did not allow her to take anything for granted, so she followed the nun until she saw her enter the arcade. She watched her put on the headset and, to her utter surprise, saw her perform incredible acrobatics.

Look at the little nun, she said to herself. Maybe it’s true that they train them to become ninja warriors!

Olga waited for Sister Elena to finish the session, then approached her. The nun looked sad and worried. What was going on? What mystery lay behind this whole business?

“These adventures make me feel young, strong, and… more alive than ever. I’ve never felt this way before! I can’t stop, I’ve become addicted,” Sister Elena confessed, lowering her gaze in shame when Olga confronted her.

“And now…” she continued, “now I have to make a decision.”

Sister Elena explained to Olga that the entity that ruled the virtual world in which she now lived a secret life as a formidable adventurer had told her that she had become too powerful and that if she didn’t stop entering the virtual world, it would trap her there forever.

“I don’t understand what the tough decision is,” said Olga. “I don’t think being trapped in that world is what you want, is it?”

Sister Elena wrung her hands. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind that at all. The real problem is that the leader of the World of Rock would not allow me to continue my missions. She would imprison me forever. She’s the only one in the game who’s stronger than me, you know.” With another sigh, she added, “But, to be honest, I don’t know if I can stay away from the arcade!”

Olga placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you. I won’t let you get trapped in that virtual world.”

A few nights later, Olga realized that Sister Elena was nowhere to be found.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, and rushed outside.

When she reached the arcade, she saw the nun in her usual spot with the headset on. Instead of jumping and performing backflips, however, she was motionless and in an unnatural position. Afraid that she was too late, Olga hurried to her side and started calling her name and shaking her. Unfortunately, she got no response.

Increasingly worried, Olga didn’t know what to do. Having never tried one of those headsets, she didn’t know how VR adventures worked. She didn’t want Sister Elena to remain trapped there forever, though. She had grown fond of the pious nun, especially after discovering her very intriguing ninja side.

She ripped the headset off Sister Elena’s head, not knowing whether the gesture would save her or seal her fate. But she had to do something.

The nun recovered and threw her arms around her neck.

“You saved me!” she cried. “And in the nick of time… a few more seconds, and the leader of the virtual world would have trapped me there forever. She’d almost finished chanting the arcane spells to bind the ropes with which she’d tied me to one of the highest rocks. I would have had no chance of escape. Ever!”

Olga was somewhat embarrassed. Such displays of affection made her feel a little uncomfortable. 

“There, there,” she said. I didn’t do anything…”

“You saved my life!” cried Sister Elena. “Or, well, whatever it is we spirits have, anyway. I must thank you. I must do something for you. Ask me for anything!”

Olga thought for a moment, then a smile slowly spread across her face.

“You once told us about a certain herbal liqueur that you used to make with your fellow nuns,” she said. “Would you perhaps make me a bottle? I haven’t had a glass of vodka since I passed away, and I must say I miss it more than I could imagine.”

Sister Elena’s smile surpassed Olga’s.

“I can do better than that! I’ll show you where I keep my secret stash. There’s a hidden closet in the abandoned house that only I know about…”

The odd friendship between Olga the assassin and Sister Elena began that night, between a nearly disastrous ninja adventure and a huge drinking session (spirits can’t get drunk, in case you’re wondering).

***

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 – “Pirate Golf” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s post is to write a story that involves a tomato, a cloaked individual, and a missing shoe. This week’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

***

Pirate Golf by Val Muller

Hell hath no fury like a freshly-turned two-year-old missing a plush cow slipper. And thus Missy found herself at Pirate Dan’s Mystical Mini-Golf at 9:47 on a Wednesday. The two-year-old in question was asleep in his stroller, in the hotel, with James. The hope was that Missy and James had was that Missy could go to the golf course, locate the lost slipper, and return before James woke up. He’d fallen asleep while they walked back from dinner to their hotel at the beach, and they hoped to transfer him to his pac-n-play, but they knew that in the jostling, he would awaken, ask for his latest obsession (the cow slippers), and, finding one missing, would fly into a tantrum.

The mini golf course was half lit now, with only safety lights on, maybe for the custodial crew, and the animatronics still glowing, probably to attract tomorrow’s customers. The fence that divided the golf course from the parking lot was low enough to be jumpable. Missy wondered whether she should jump it. She could be arrested for breaking and entering, no? Or—entering, maybe? She wasn’t actually breaking anything. And if a police officer did show up, she could easily explain about the cow slipper. I mean, why else would she be there after hours, at a golf course? Surely any cops with kids of their own would understand.

But she was a full-grown adult. Jumping the fence was something a teenager would do. Instead, she craned her neck. Maybe she could see the cow slipper. At least if she saw it, she could jump the fence, grab it, and hurry away before the cops showed up. She visually traced the dyed-blue shallow river that ran through the golf course. It pirate-themed with dragons and mermaids and the like. The toddler had been fascinated by the blue water and had jumped into it like a puddle. Not only had Missy lost her golf ball in the stream while retrieving him, but somewhere along the way one of the cow slippers had gotten lost.

Now, if you’ve ever had a toddler like Benny, you knew that whatever the current fixation is—whether plush cow slippers or a stuffed duck or a polka-dot ribbon—it had to be around when the toddler demanded it.

“Can I help you?” a gruff voice asked. He was cloaked—a dark hoodie that seemed way too big for his frame. “This place is closed, you know.”

She couldn’t tell if his voice was angry or confused or something else. She was sure she didn’t look like a typical criminal. In fact, with his hood up, he looked more sinister than she did. But still, she was the one thinking about trespassing.

“I know, I—”

“Open at nine, close at nine,” he said. “You’re welcome to come back in the morning if you’re looking to play a round, or—”

She shook her head. “We were here earlier. I had a toddler with me. We lost a shoe.”

The hood came down and an old set of teeth smiled at her. Missy was so tired, she thought at first he was one of those skeletons from the pirate cave at Hole 9 come to life. But then she shook her head and came back to reality. It was an older gentleman wearing a Pirate Dan shirt. An employee.

“I know just the shoe. Come on, meet me at the front gate.”

He disappeared before she could respond, so she walked along the sidewalk to the other side of the golf course, where he waited at the gate. As she entered, a skeleton with glowing red eyes glared at her. A mermaid waved.

The man with the hoodie motioned her inside. She stepped through the gate. There were several empty picnic tables—she vaguely remembered sitting at one of them with Benny earlier today to give him some juice. Now, they were all empty except the one closest to the entrance. A small towel was spread out and a lunch box.

“Just enjoying my supper,” the man said. He held up a sandwich. “Tomato, mayo, white bread. A little basil, this time of year.” He said it like a question, to which she didn’t know the answer.

She shook her head.

“Not from around here,” he said. “Otherwise, you’d know. Now if you’ve never had one, I’m going to have to insist.”

The look on Missy’s face must have expressed her concern.

“Don’t worry. They’re not poisoned or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean, how would I have known someone would show up here looking for a shoe? It’s a cow slipper, by the way,” he told her. “I know because it was the subject of much speculation in the break room today. One of the young ones almost threw it out. I mean, it was saturated with blue water. But those of us who have ever had kids, we knew.”

He sliced a tomato, and the knife flashed across the table, presenting in about thirty seconds a tomato-mayo-basil sandwich on white bread. He left it in her hand and disappeared down the pirate tunnel.

He returned before she could convince herself to take a bite.

“I don’t usually work this late, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m here to deck out the place. Tomorrow is Craig’s 80^th birthday. I’m eight years behind him. I only hope I can make it to 80. Craig’s the one who drives the train.”

Missy remembered the train ride that took visitors around the golf course before dropping them off at the top of the structure. Then, they took a leisurely stroll down the “mountain” through the eighteen mini holes. She’d barely given the driver a thought, having been preoccupied with Benny and his quirks.

She looked around and only then noticed the banners and balloons. Happy Birthday, Craig and Octogenarian Club! It was quite an accomplishment, making it to 80.

She looked down, feeling a weight in her hand. The man had placed the slipper, clean and dry, into her hand. “I washed it and left it in the sun to dry. I knew some young child would be back for it.”

She smiled, then, and took a bite of the sandwich. She looked around once more, taking in the balloons, the banners, and the romanticized pirate and fantasy décor. She hoped she made it to eighty, and she hoped that when she did, she would be so full of youth and imagination and kindness. She realized she hadn’t asked the man his name, so she turned to do so.

The man was gone. The table was empty. Only a skeleton with glowing red eyes and a mermaid greeted her. They seemed to watch her as she left, clutching the slipper in one hand and taking another bite of the best-tasting sandwich she had ever eaten in a closed golf course at ten at night.

***

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 – “Howl” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “Halloween with a twist.” Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

***

Howl by Val Muller

The sun rose in rays cutting through the mist. Randy shook his fur and adjusted his shirt. It was finally here–Halloween. Tonight was his night to prove himself, to terrify small children and howl at the moon, to rustle through bushes and leaves, to claw at doorways.

If he did all that, maybe his dad would finally get off his case.

The werewolf academy was awarding only three red shirts this holiday, making the high award an elite honor most likely out of Randy’s league but definitely on his dad’s radar.

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with being a blue shirt,” Randy said at dinner just last week. He had been assigned to terrify a young brother and sister walking their dog after dark, but he really didn’t see the need to do such things. Besides, dogs were a little intimidating.

“No werewolf aspires to be a blue shirt.” His dad tore a piece of raw meat off the bone, letting the remnants clatter to his plate with a splat while he chewed. Then he rubbed his claws along his size XL red flannel shirt, still emblazoned with the werewolf academy patch and the year he earned it.

“Dad, it’s not the seventies anymore. Not everyone needs a red shirt. And even if I stay a green shirt, I–“

His dad growled at the very idea of Randy staying a green shirt. The wereboy lowered his head and munched on a piece of broccoli.

“Dang it, Randy, I’ve told you how many times. You have to eat your meat first. You think I’m gonna let you fill up on vegetables?”

Randy sighed. The whole week, dad had been like this. Criticizing his diet. Saying his teeth weren’t sharp enough, his fur not matted enough.

“You know, Matthew got groomed this weekend,” Randy had said. “All the kids at school seem to think his haircut looks nice and–” That set off Dad, of course. Next thing Randy knew, they were at the local dump finding musty discards to roll in.

“No son of mine is getting groomed, and certainly not this close to Halloween.”

Since then, they had hunted, clawed, lingered, and howled. But Randy still hadn’t found that drive, that urge to scare.

Now, Halloween morning, Randy was determined to put the issue to rest. If he could only just terrify someone, maybe instill in them some indigestion or the need for anti-anxiety

meds, maybe that would be enough for Dad.

Randy headed out of their foresty shed in search of victims. The first victim was a woman walking her dog. It was a little one, a chihuahua. But you know what they say about little dogs. Randy chose to stay on the opposite side of the street. He threw the woman a creepy look. Alright, it was more like a sideways smile, but still. Dad couldn’t say he didn’t try.

The woman gave a half wave and a sympathetic smile. “I like your costume,” she said. “Very scary.”

The way she said “scary,” Randy could tell she really didn’t think so.

Randy continued walking toward the town. Surely someone would be frightened. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his green flannel shirt to add that extra little look of dishevelment.

Soon, screeching tires and backup lights. “No. Way.” A voice called. Randy caught up to the truck that had stopped on the side of the road. The guy at the wheel looked pretty frantic. Maybe he would make an easy victim.

“Dude,” he said. “You look just like Freddy.”

“Freddy?”

“Yeah. He was our last werewolf. Something came up, though, and he can’t play the role tonight. We don’t have any

spare actors, and I’ve been racking my brain all morning. Want to make an easy couple of hundred bucks?”

“Hundred bucks?” Randy approached the car.

The man nodded. “I mean, your costume looks so good, it could be real.” He reached out and tugged Randy’s facial fur. “That’s some beard!”

“You’re not scared of me?”

The man laughed. “I run a haunted woods attraction for a living. I’m not scared, but I know hundreds of people who will be.”

Randy howled. “Sign me up.”

* * *

The early November sun gently lit the morning fog. Randy crunched on a celery stalk while Dad ate some marrow out of a freshly cracked deer bone.

Between bites, he looked at Randy and smiled. “So proud of you for earning the scariest character award at that haunted woods place you went to.”

“You’re not mad I only earned a blue shirt from the academy?” Randy smiled, hoping the whole red shirt thing was behind him.

Dad let out a playful growl. “You only earned a blue shirt for now. There’s always next year.”

Randy looked down at his “scariest character” medal and the way it gleamed in the sun. His chest swelled with pride, which he released in a long, eerie howl that even made his own skin crawl as his mind wandered to next Halloween.

***

The Spot Writers:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com Chiara De Giorgi: http

The Spotwriters – “Keyless in Winter” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about an excessive amount of snow. Today’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

***

Keyless in Winter

By Val Muller

It must have fallen when I went to get the mail. It must have fallen right there on the driveway. It might have even made a sound, but I was too busy with my teeth chattering and moaning about how much I hate the cold.

My palm tree keychain. Plink, on the frozen drive.

Yes, I see the irony. Palm tree swallowed by the cold death of winter. This certainly won’t help me to love winter any more or hate it any less.

So there I was, hurrying inside with the mail, in through the garage, past the car that still sits there in the garage, pointlessly sitting without a key. Ignorant to my impending problem, I went inside to my nice warm home. That’s when the heavens opened up and dumped several feet of snow on everything we are and everything we own.

Of course, it didn’t matter for the first three days. I didn’t even know I didn’t have my keys. But the office will be opening up again on Monday. And I still can’t find my keys. Old man Frank came over and plowed the driveway for me, made it so I didn’t ever have to leave the house. And I’m sure that’s where the problem is.

I checked my coat pocket, my car, I retraced my steps. The only possible place the keys could be is the driveway.

Was the driveway, rather. I’m sure Old Man Frank, in an attempt to help me, scraped up my key along with feet and feet of snow. But it’s not his fault. If I had been shoveling by hand, it may still have been lost. But there’s no way he would have seen it with the plow. And now it’s hidden among the mounds of snow lining my driveway.

People joke about a needle in a haystack, but at least you could set fire to the haystack and the needle will be there in the charred ashes. But you don’t need to find a needle to be able to start your car. How am I supposed to find my car key? What am I going to do? Wait until April to drive my car? Even if you could set fire to the snow, even if I could find a fire torch, it would melt those keys.

How will I tell my boss? This is the adult version of the pathetic “dog ate my homework” excuse. People with those types of excuses are not going places.

I called the dealership. That key is—get this, four hundred dollars. And as an added slap in the face: you have to be there, at the dealership, to pick it up.

This is the kind of thing they don’t teach you in school. They don’t tell you what to do if your car is parked uselessly in the garage and your keys are stuck in several feet of snow somewhere, maybe, hopefully, along the driveway, and you have to get into the office on Monday.

So for now I’m sitting by the fire, enjoying not the fallen snow or a cheesy holiday film. Instead, I’m researching how to hotwire my car so I can start it and get it to the dealership on Monday. When I fail that, I guess I’ll just call for a tow.

I don’t hate winter any less, and if this had happened in the summer—which it wouldn’t, because I would see the keys right away—I could just ride my bike to work. Only 154 days til summer. But who’s counting?

***

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 – “Pigeon Phobia” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The September prompt is to use these five words in a writing: carrot, lily, moustache, esophagus, pigeon.

This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, is available from her locally or on Amazon, to great reviews.

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

***

Pigeon Phobia by Cathy MacKenzie

The final time I visited Granny in her fourth-floor condo, I was ten. I didn’t know exactly how old she was then, but the brown spots on her hands, her stooped shoulders, and her grey, frizzy hair showed her years. For as long as I could remember, she sported a bit of a moustache, and the stubby hairs rubbed against my face whenever she kissed me.

She used to stand by the sliding door that opened onto the balcony and talk to Stella. “I see you, Stell” and “What are you doing, Stell?” were her usual questions. No one answered, of course.

I had never seen Stella standing on Granny’s balcony, never even met her as I far as I knew, nor did I know why Granny talked to this mysterious, invisible woman several times a day.

The pigeons were in full force, though, swooping down to the balcony. They pooped on the wicker furniture, on the side tables, and on the railing. I swear those beady eyes looked right into the living room. I eyed their scruffy feathers and scrawny beaks. So close, I could touch them.

One day, Granny stomped from the living room into the kitchen, yanked open the fridge, and pulled out a bag of carrots. I sensed what was coming and moved out of her way.

Yep, she hurled those carrots, one by one, with a strength a frail, elderly woman didn’t normally possess. “Get away, you dratted creatures,” she shrieked.

As hard as she threw, though, she didn’t hit any.

She gasped after yelling at the birds and covered her mouth. “Stell, I’m so sorry if I disturbed you. Go back to sleep.”

She turned from the door, and a sad face overtook her surprise at seeing me. “Sorry, Carmen. It’s those damned pigeons. How I hate them.”

“Can we go out to sit, Granny?”

“No, we cannot. Not with those dratted pigeons ruining everything. Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow we’ll go out.”

I was at Granny’s condo for six days that last time, but “tomorrow” never came. The pigeons continued their tirade, almost taunting her. She wouldn’t go outside with them perching on the railing as if they owned her balcony. “I dare you,” they seemed to say. “I dare you.”

I would have yelled “double dare” back, but that would have given the pigeons the attention they craved, and Granny wouldn’t have liked that.

Visits with Granny are as fresh in my mind as if they happened yesterday, but many years have passed. The pigeons aren’t as bad as they once were. Maybe they were never that bad. When one lights on the balcony, I shoo it away.

I hate the sunlight as much as Granny hated the pigeons. The afternoon glare hits the sliding door most days and highlights my age spots, similar to those that lined Granny’s hands and arms.

I have no grandchildren. No husband. No siblings.

But I have my memories.

I cough, remembering how Granny wheezed and hacked every few minutes. I had always thought her coughing a nervous habit, but she suffered bouts of heartburn and inflammation of the esophagus, so perhaps not.

I peer down from the fourth floor balcony. I can just barely see Granny’s headstone. “Hush now, Granny, the pigeons won’t hurt you anymore.” I cover my mouth and giggle. “Oh, Stell, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

If I lean over far enough, I can see Stella’s headstone, too.

Yesterday I visited Granny and left an orange lily, her favourite flower. I stopped by to say hello to Stell, too.

Strands of shoulder-length grey hair whip across my face. The wind whispers. Or is it Granny?

“Hush, Granny. Sleep tight.”

***

 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/

 

+++

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/].

+++

Oh, Dragonfly

(September 11, 2018: Eighteen Months)

Oh, Dragonfly

It soars
Up and down,
Over and across,
Swooping like a crow,
Soaring like an eagle,
Small,
Inconsequential,
Its shadow dark,
Larger on ground than in air.

Zooming over the glistening water,
Teeny wings unfolded,
Fluttering,
Almost scraping the water
And then coming toward me,
Wings spread like an airplane—
Or an angel.

Is it trying to catch my attention?
I watch,
Wait,
Wonder.

Even with grandchildren
Laughing, splashing, yelling,
It remains
Unfrightened,
Bold, soundless,
Flying in, flying out.

My vision blurs.
My throat constricts.

Could it be?

They say dragonflies are
A symbol of resurrection,
The deceased returning:
A fairy sprinkling dust
Or an angel planting kisses.

I watch you zoom by,
Disappearing for seconds,
Returning just as quickly
And landing on my knee—
A sign of good luck!

My son, is that you?

Oh, how you loved the pool,
The lounger you reclined upon
Rests in the same place.

I see you there,
Deep in thought,
Eyes closed,
Soaking up too much sun,
But I don’t admonish.

Not anymore.

No matter where you are:
Floating forever in eternity,
Twinkling with the stars,
Sleeping on the moon,
Dancing with the clouds,
Marvelling at mars,
Or returning to earth
If only for moments
As a fleeting dragonfly,
I’ll take what I can.

I’ll grasp every sign:
Every whisper,
Every breath,
Every touch.

Even if not you
I’ll pretend,
I’ll hold memories dear
To my chest,
At my breast,
Within my heart.

I sigh…
Oh, dragonfly,
Where have you gone?

I watch and wait.

You don’t return.

But that’s okay
For I’ll wake another morning,
I’ll search another day.

+++

In memory of my beloved, always missed son Matthew. Gone eighteen months today.

As Matt said numerous times the last too-short eight weeks of his life after we were given the diagnosis: “F*** cancer.” I echo his sentiments. (Can you imagine: two months from diagnosis to death!?)

I’ll miss you until my last breath.

 

+++

C.A. MacKenzie is the author of WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama with elements of thriller, suspense, mystery, romance, and family dynamics. Buy it on Amazon. Also available locally from the author and at other local retailers.

+++

Oh, My Gosh!

Earlier today I posted the blog piece I had written yesterday. Remember how I said we caught one of those dratted critters at least two weeks ago? Remember the “flakes” in my appliance cupboard?

Well, yikes!

I hate to say this, but my house is a mess. Truly, I haven’t cared about much since my son died last March in 2017 (sorry…I always find a way to add him into my stories). No excuse, I know (re the mess). Plus, we were in Mexico for two months this winter. Yes, another excuse.

So, Easter is this weekend and we have guests coming for dinner Sunday. (Okay, just family, but when I have “guests,” no matter who they are, I like to have a clean house.) So, I’ve been toiling the entire day, cleaning under the kitchen sink (no turds, thankfully!), as well as two of the bathrooms. I vacuumed, dusted, wiped baseboards. GAH! You name it.

Somewhere along the line, I tackled the kitchen, which is the cleanest room in my house cause I know about bugs and stuff, and how grease and grime and leftovers attract EVERYTHING under the sun. Nonchalantly, I swiped the cloth between the toaster oven and the unit that holds the wall oven and then decided to do a better job. So I moved out the toaster oven a tad.

And low and behold! Carrot ends. I was flabbergasted and sick to my stomach. Was there more? I hefted the oven off the counter. Sure enough. More carrot pieces.

Ever since returning from Mexico, Hubby has been “into” carrot juice. We bought a $200+ juicer and tons—and I mean tons—of veggies. Every Saturday, we replenish the supply. And every evening before bed, he washes his veggies and gets them ready for the next day. And the next morning he makes his juice. And every morning, I take apart the juicer, throw the pulp into the compost (I have tons already frozen for stews and sauces—more than we’ll ever use, thank you very much!), and wash the zillion plastic pieces. Quite frankly, I’m getting tired of that chore, but I do it every morning with love in my heart—without complaint.

And every night, I tell him: “Please take the veggie dregs to the compost bin before you come to bed.”

I thought he heeded my words, but obviously not. Does he ever listen to me? Thus, the dratted mice have been climbing to the counter and transporting carrot tops and bottoms behind the toaster oven. And to think I’ve been cooking and lingering in the kitchen, not realizing they were there! Some carrot hunks were bright orange, so the detective in me knew the invasion had been recent. Some were withered and dried, which meant the onslaught had been ongoing. But for how long? Probably ever since we bought the juicer!

Wasn’t stealing our peanuts and M&Ms enough????

I emailed pics to Hubby. Of course, he called me within minutes. “What are those pictures?” I had to explain. Several times! He thought it was a pic of the floor!!! REALLY????

He doesn’t understand that four plus four equals current mice!

So, we are still infested. Big time.

Where in the heck are they hiding?

I’m checking over my shoulders more than ever. Not even sure I can eat in this house again despite the fact I have turnip boiling and chicken roasting for dinner tonight.

Thing is, Hubby puts more than carrots in his juice. He uses turnips, parsnips, cabbage, celery, apples, and pears. It appears out of all those veggies/fruits, mice like carrots the best. All of those dregs were in the little compost container on the counter, yet all I’ve found (thus far) is carrots.

Am I going to find more bits and pieces elsewhere?

I need a drink!

A big one! Bigger than this…

The Spot Writers – “Death in the Family,” by Tom Robson

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The title of this piece is the prompt for this month and comes from Tom Robson, author of Written While I Still Remember, a Patchwork Memoir.

***

Death in the Family.

There is an irony in this prompt which requires me to publish a story, on line, on the occasion of my eightieth birthday. Achieving this milestone brings the reminder that death looms large. Yet I am the exception that proves the rule that the males on either side of my family tree don’t last too long in this life. Both grandfathers just made it to seventy. My father’s body succumbed, before he reached sixty, to the long term effects of wartime malaria and breathing in noxious substances working at an oil refinery. Uncles passed long before their spouses, while  many of the females lasted well into their eighties and even ninety. Perhaps I have inherited a preponderance of their genes.

More irony. At birth I was not expected to emerge without damage. Birthday minus one, through to delivery I had refused to somersault, seeming determined to be born feet first. In 1936, even at the prestigious St James Infirmary in Leeds, extended breech births to first time mothers were risky. Perhaps the fifteen minutes of fame that fate entitles us to, were the first minutes of my life when the medics saw that I was alive and apparently undamaged. My mother often told me that I cheated death when I was born.

I was never allowed to deal with death and loss as a child, teen and young adult. In consequence, funerals were alien experiences and occasions to be avoided.The first funeral I attended was my fathers, when I was 34, married and with a family of my own. My children did not attend their grandfather’s funeral.

To put this avoidance in perspective, I grew up in wartime Britain. Every day, death was in the news. Two uncles were taken. Conversation around their deaths excluded myself and my young cousins. But all three of us heard our grandfather’s ale-stimulated opinions of the U-boat attacks, the navy that refused to stop for survivors and the blame that could be attached to Churchill almost as much as Hitler. But he did not argue about our evacuation to the countryside after another son was killed in an air raid, before he even enlisted in the army.

After the war, there was a polio outbreak  where we lived. It took the lives of a few children but there was no gathering of schoolmates at the burial service. Fear  of contagion was more powerful than the need to grieve during  that particular summer vacation.

In my early years of teaching my best friend was killed in a car accident. I should have read the eulogy I prepared but I could not bring myself to attend the service and face friends and students at the school where we both taught.

The surprising consequence was that my stumbling excuse that I couldn’t deal with the ending to his life, was understood by many of our friends and colleagues. My generation of Brits kept ‘a stiff upper lip” but often it was because we avoided confronting death. Many understood. We were discouraged from being in the presence of its aftermath. We did not intimately know death. We did not confront it. We did not talk about it.

I was sixteen when my father’s mother was eighty. In her declining years she would spend time living with which ever of her children agreed to take care of her. She would live with one until it was agreed that another wanted her or felt guilty enough to take a turn. My father was her youngest and I was the youngest of her many grandchildren. We had been close in the war years when my mother and I spent time living with and helping her.

That winter of 1952-3 she came to the warmer south of England to live with us. I gave up my bedroom to sleep on a cot in the “front’ room; that vestige of Edwardian lifestyle which was only used when people who had to be impressed came to visit. This teenager quickly spoiled its pristine appearance.

We had our Christmas dinner at my nearby aunt and uncle’s house. In the evening we were joined by various family friends. My aunt and her mother were avid card players. The preferred game was Partner Whist. Aunt Mabel organized sixteen or twenty of her guest into two person, teams to compete for the 1952 Christmas Cup.I partnered my grandmother. This delighted both of us.

I am not sure whether we won because we were the only sober couple, the only pair who treated the game seriously or whether my aunt cooked the results. My grandmother was almost delirious, still talking about how well we had played as we took her home and persuaded her that it was way past her bedtime.

On Boxing Day morning, we let grandma sleep in. My uncle arrived on his bike about 11:00am. He was making his Boxing Day round of visits to friends and relatives, enjoying a drink at each stop. He would be sleeping at one of his visits when he could be persuaded that he was no longer capable of riding his bike to the next ‘pit stop’

As he arrived we could hear my grandmother moving around and I was eventually asked to tap on her door and tell her “Bert is here!”

I did this and when there was no reply I opened the door, assuming my hard-of-hearing grandma missed my too gentle knock.

Grandma was in an untidy heap on the floor, her dead body reflected in the mirror on the wardrobe door.

I cried for help in a voice strangled by sobs. My father came and ushered me out of the room, calling on my mother to look after me and for Bert to help him.

After the doctor visited and signed the document certifying that she had suffered a fatal heart attack, the undertaker had been called and my uncle sent home to comfort his wife, daughter of the deceased, I had to be attended to.

To this day I do not understand why I was removed from the presence of my grandmother and why I was left alone and unwelcome at her funeral. I vaguely recall a statement from one of my parents that “it was better if I stayed away. It was not…” ;and the rest of the reasoning has gone but it was something like”funerals are no  place for children!”

I was sixteen. I was trying to believe that I was no longer a child. I had spent many days and nights, of the six years my father was away at war, at his mother’s home in northern Leeds, where she would be taken, by train, to be buried. I did not realize then that I needed to say goodbye. I only knew I was sad and I wanted to be there.

Instead, one of the many calls that Boxing Day afternoon, on our new-to-us gadget, the telephone, was to my friend Pete’s mother, asking if I could stay with them for a few days. Less than four hours after her death I was delivered to the Appletons, sat down at their late lunch of Christmas left-overs and given my choice of playing pieces for the evening game of Monopoly.

There had been a death in the family. Someone I loved dearly had passed away. Why was I not invited to say goodbye?

My grandmother left a reminder. I love to play cards. The only thing I do left-handed is deal cards. The only thing my father did cack-handed was to deal cards. My right handed grandmother, who taught both of us to play, also dealt left handed. I’ve been reminded of grandma many times in the sixty five years since she left, when asked, “Why are you dealing  left handed?”

* * *

The Spot Writers – our members are:-

RC Bonitz:         rcbonitz.com

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

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

Tom Robson     https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com/