The Spot Writers – “An Unlikely Love Story” – Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “someone falls in love at a museum.”

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 Unlikely Love Story” by Chiara De Giorgi

Night had fallen on the soon-to-be-opened Grand Museum of Antiquities, and silence finally reigned in its halls. Porters had been coming and going all day, bringing in valuable relics.

Each artifact bore a label indicating which room it should be placed in; there were Egyptian Rooms, Chinese Rooms, Roman Rooms and so on. Some had no label at all and had been put in the storeroom, where only the lights from the emergency exit and the moonbeams filtering through the roof window split the darkness…

“Of course they would shove me into a storeroom again. Never once have I found someone smart enough to recognize me and give me the honors I deserve. Always tossed to and fro, without grace or care. And now here I am, forgotten and neglected, locked in a dark storage room next to a stinking mummy…”

“Ahem, excuse me… Are you talking about me?”

“Oh, great… The mummy talks! Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“And aren’t you supposed to be, like, a piece of stone?”

“Stone! Stone, it says! This is marble, if you must know.”

“I could have done without knowing it, to be honest. But okay. Marble! Yay!”

“Are you making fun of me, you cadaver wrapped in bandages under questionable hygienic conditions?”

“Look, if we are to entertain conversation, I’d rather you referred to me with my name. I am Akhethetep. I used to be a priest and I served the goddess Qebhet.”

“Really? That’s interesting… I am Ersa, a goddess too. Will you serve me?”

“Well… I don’t think that’s allowed. My goddess may get jealous if I do. Anyway, what kind of goddess are you?”

“I am the Greek goddess of dew.”

“…of what?”

“Do you have bandages in your ears, Aktepepet? I’m the goddess of dew! Dew! Tiny drops of water that can be seen on flowers and blades of grass in the early morning, when the first, pale rays of the sun come out to illuminate the world emerging from the darkness of the ni—”

“Yes, yes, I get it. And my name is Akhethetep, not Aktepepet.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite, yes.”

“Oh, okay then. If you say so… By the way, what kind of goddess is your goddess?”

“Qebhet… She’s one of the afterlife divinities. The souls of the departed meet her while they’re awaiting judgment, and she offers them cool water.”

“A-ha. So she offered water to you, too? ‘Cause you are, you know… departed.”

“That, I am. And yes, I met her, and she offered me water.”

“Did you drink it?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Why didn’t you wash your bandages instead? Just asking.”

“I guess it didn’t occur to me.”

“I can tell… They look like a health hazard. Also, unwashed bandages tend to release a certain… aroma after seven thousand years, you know.”

“I suppose you are correct.”

“What is it that you have there?”

“You mean this thing? It’s a preserved white lotus, one of my favorite fruits.”

“And where did you get it?”

“Ah, it was buried with me after I died. But I am going to offer it to you if you wish to taste it.”

“As a matter of fact, I think I wish to. At least it’s an original distraction. There’s never anything interesting to do in a storeroom.”

“We can trade stories.”

“Trade stories with a mummy?”

“Yes… Why? Do you have previous engagements?”

“I… No, and I can’t reach your lotus. Why did you have to put it so far?”

“I have limited ambulatory capacity. My apologies, my Lady. The bandages that are wrapped around me hinder my movements. Don’t you have any objects you could use to extend your reach?”

“I have no objects, I was sculpted in all my naked glory and I don’t need anything, thank you very much! I am the goddess of dew, have you already forgotten?”

“I haven’t, but I fail to understand what that has to do with anything… I’m sorry to hear you’re stark naked, you must be cold. Would you like some of my bandages?”

“For goodness’ sake! I certainly don’t want to catch a disease!”

“I don’t think you would… I’ve been wrapped in these bandages for thousands of years and I never got sick. Not even once!”

“Listen, I think I wish to sleep now. Can you shut up?”

“Of course, goddess Ersa. Good night.”

“Good night.”

The sun rose and sent its rays through the roof window.

“Hekketep! Wake up”

“Yes, my Lady? And, once again, it’s Akhethetep.”

“That’s what I said. Aktepepep.”

“Akhethetep. Anyway. What can I do for you?”

“I’m bored.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s still early.”

“Did you forget I’m the goddess of dew? I’m always up at first lights!”

“Oh, okay then. Let me tell you stories from when I was a young priest and a scribe and I lived in Egypt in its glorious times…”

One story after the other, Ersa was captivated by the exotic tales Akhethetep told her. She felt like she could see the golden sand of the desert, the lush green vegetation on the banks of the Nile, the impetuous waters of the river, the crocodiles, the camels, the exquisitely embroidered carpets…

Finally, it was dusk. Akhethetep sighed.

“That was my last story for today, my Lady. I hope you had a good time. And I hope I could ease your boredom.”

Ersa did not reply immediately.

“Are you sleeping?” the priest asked.

“No, I’m awake. Your stories were beautiful. Thank you.”

“It was a pleasure to entertain you.”

“Will you do that tomorrow, too?”

“If you wish, I will.”

“I wish! And… may I ask you something else, Akhethetep?”

The mummy laughed happily.

“My lady, you said my name right! You can ask me whatever you want.”

“Why are you so kind to me? I have been nothing but arrogant and rude since we first met.”

“Well, I suppose I am a kind person. My kindness does not depend on what others do or do not do.”

“Akhethetep?”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“I may be falling in love with you. Is that a problem?”

“Love is always a good thing, my Lady. Never a problem.”

“But will you also fall in love with me?”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I suppose only time will tell. But I’m not going anywhere soon, and neither are you.”

“Akhethetep?”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Can you smile under those bandages?”

“Hard to tell… but I can smile within myself. Can you do that?

“I am doing that right now, Akhethetep.”

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://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 – “A Surprising Encounter” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “someone falls in love at a museum.” Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.

In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the third volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

***

“A Surprising Encounter” by Phil Yeats

The young man sat on a bench in the comics and graphic novels gallery of the Museum of Eclectic Contemporary Art. He was hunched over a large sketch pad on his knees and drawing furiously. Every minute or two, he’d look up at the page from a famous artist’s adult comic book that was projected on the gallery wall before returning to his sketching.

A young woman stood watching him from the only entry to the gallery. She approached him from behind and peered at his sketch. “Not here learning by copying a master’s work?” She said.

He responded by drawing a speech balloon above the second of three drawings across the top of the page. They were self-portraits of the artist at work in the museum gallery. The first drawing had him busily sketching with a female figure, obviously herself, standing in the doorway. The second had her standing right behind him.

She watched as he filled in the speech balloon. ‘Interested in his intense, colourful style, not the content of his story.’

The third drawing was unfinished, but he sketched in the second figure, now sitting on the bench beside him, as she did just that.

He moved down to the blank central part of the page he was working on and added two much larger head and shoulders portraits of the two of them staring at each other. He completed the portraits of the surprisingly recognizable pair of lovers in less than five minutes.

She stood and pointed toward the door. “I must see some of the other exhibits, but if you want, we could meet in the café by the lobby when the museum closes in about an hour.”

He held out a business card. It said in an elaborate script ‘Museum of Eclectic Contemporary Art’ and on the next line ‘Alberto Da Costa, Impresario’.

“My father,” he uttered after much stuttering and stammering. He turned over the card and pointed at himself before giving it to her. On it, he’d written a single word. ‘Julio’

“I’m Marie,” she replied. “See you in an hour.”

He’d returned to his sketching before she’d taken two steps.

Two hours later, Julio looked up and noticed the fading light entering the gallery from skylights in the ceiling. He’d added three more self-portraits with speech bubbles across the bottom of his first sheet, and on a second, a full-page portrait of Marie. He’d only studied her face for a few minutes, but he knew the detailed drawing had captured her essence perfectly. Julio sighed, thinking he’d never see her again, but it was for the best. Making conversation in the café would have been too painful.

He packed up his drawing equipment and closed his sketch pad and headed for the exit. In the lobby, he waved good night to Garcia, the night watchman, and approached the lefthand door, the only functional one at this hour.

Then he saw her, sitting in the almost empty café, with a pot of tea and a scone she hadn’t touched. He sat at her table and opened his sketchbook to the page he was working on when they met in the gallery. He pointed at the three drawings with speech bubbles at the bottom. The right-hand one said ‘I’m essentially non-verbal, avoiding conversation whenever I can’. The middle one said, ‘articulating words and sentences is too difficult, too frustrating, and everyone makes fun of my efforts’. The third one said, ‘so, you see, having tea can’t work out, but I appreciate you trying. Here’s a little something I made for you’.

When she looked up from the page, he handed her the portrait he’d drawn in the last hour. She smiled. “This is beautiful, and so accurate. You must let me buy you coffee or tea, whichever you prefer. You needn’t say anything, just sit there and draw, or listen to me natter. What will it be, coffee or tea?” He pointed at her teapot, and she jumped to her feet. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

He wondered while he waited for her to return where this could be heading. She wasn’t a ravishing beauty, but pleasant looking, and obviously not an antisocial loner like him. So what was he doing making her a drawing that he really slaved over, trying to make it perfect? Any thoughts of an enduring friendship were bound to end in failure.

She returned with his tea and another scone and began nattering away about herself and never asking questions that would need a complicated answer. He managed without too much stuttering to make a few two- or three-word comments at pauses in her narrative.

They left the café and walked along a busy shopping street. When they approached a small Italian restaurant he was familiar with, he turned to her. “W-would y-you like to s-s-top here for d-dinner?”

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://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 – “Night at the Art Gallery”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “someone falls in love at a museum.” (Does an art gallery qualify?)

Cathy’s writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She writes all genres but invariably veers toward the dark—so much so her late mother once asked, “Can’t you write anything happy?” (She can!)

Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on her works.

Melvin is still alive and well—as you can fathom from this next episode…

***

Night at the Art Gallery

“Melvin, we should go down to the Art Gallery tomorrow. I think it’s still free on the weekends.”

“Art? What do I know about art?”

Marie laughed. “Not much, Melvin. But perhaps that’s why we should go.”

“I’m busy this weekend, Marie. I told you that. Andrew wants me to help him with his basement tomorrow. And don’t we have to take Jimmy down to the Valley on Sunday?”

“Darn, I forgot about that.”

He hated the look on her face. Felt sorry for her as if he’d let her down. She’d been nattering about that dratted Art Gallery for weeks.

A lightbulb went off. “Marie, turn to Channel 10. There’s supposed to be some sort of art documentary on at nine o’clock.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only eight fifty-two.” The last thing he wanted to do was watch an art documentary, but it was preferable to traipsing through a gallery in person.

He loved seeing her perk up. Felt vindicated.

“Yeah, okay. Might be good.” She switched the channel.

They waited…

And then it started.

He couldn’t fathom half of what the narrator was saying. All gobbly-gook to him. What the heck did any normal person know of the Renaissance period or the—

Marie jumped. “Look at that, Mel. That van Gogh. The colours are amazing.”

He peered at the screen. A blur of yellows and blues. He prayed his eyesight wasn’t going.

He glanced at his wife. “I see, Marie. Interesting.” He stared intently at the TV. As intently as she stared at the TV. Heck, they were in their living room—alone. Jimmy was upstairs (or was he at a friend’s?—he could never keep track of his son; thank goodness for Marie). Whatever, they were alone in the room. She should be fixated on him—Melvin. But, nope—it was all about this Van guy. Van Morrison? Hmm…

Then—

A flash on the screen: a woman.

His breath was sucked out of him. He froze…

“Who’s that, Marie?”

“Who’s who?”

“That woman. She’s gone now, though.”

“That woman who was in the painting a bit ago?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Mona Lisa,” Marie said. “Perhaps the best-known painting of all time.”

“And what era would that one be in?”

“Mel, shh. If you’d listen to the narrator, you would know these answers.”

“Mona? That her name? Can you scroll back? You have us on TiVo, right?

“Oh, Mel, what in the world…”

He held his breath.

Yes! TiVo. She fiddled with the remote. And—voila! There she was!

“Stop!” He gasped. “Her name is Mona?”

“Yes, that’s Mona Lisa.”

“Lisa? Weird last name.”

“I think it’s probably her middle name.” She paused. “I wonder if she does have a last name. She’s only ever been known by Mona Lisa.”

He couldn’t answer. He was enthralled. It wasn’t her beauty, for was she that beautiful? No, it was the package: long dark hair, the smug smile as if she concealed some deep dark revelation—even her eyes seemed to say “I know what you did.” What did she know? Was she married with a lover, pulling a fast one over her husband?

“Melvin, what’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

“I’m fine, Marie.” He was fine. But, even though not in a gallery, not looking at the “real things”—though he definitely felt as if he were—he was in love.

“Can you buy reprints of these famous paintings, Marie? Reprints aren’t expensive, are they?”

“You mean prints?”

“Prints. Reprints. What’s the diff?”

Marie sighed. “Not much.”

“I think we should have one. What do you think?”

“Of Mona Lisa?”

“Mona, yes. Mona Lisa.”

“Melvin, we don’t need that in our house. No!”

Goodbye, Kailani, goodbye. “I think I’m in love,” he mumbled.

“What did you say, Mel?”

“Nothing, Marie. Nothing at all. Still think we should get a reprint, though…”

***

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 – “Puppy Love at the Folk Art Museum” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about falling in love in a museum. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

“Puppy Love at the Folk Art Museum”

Val Muller

It had been a year since his father died, yet Melvin still felt lost. From the outside, things were the same, but to him, life felt like a shell only. If something funny happened at work, he still thought about calling his dad on the way home. Dad was always one for—well, Dad jokes, stupid puns, and goofy misunderstandings. But as quickly as the instinct hit, so did the remembrance.

There was no one to call on the way home. It was almost like Dad’s absence made all the humorous anecdotes lose all meaning. He found himself on this cloudy Saturday heading to the Apple Valley Folk Art Museum, a favorite of Dad’s. He had gone many times with his father, and lately he hadn’t been able to get the museum out of his mind.

*

The museum was folk art, naïve art, just the kind James had loved and painted. Rose could barely believe he was gone—from breathing to buried in a matter of weeks. The whirlwind of death and paperwork and funeral and well wishes had settled, and now things were too quiet.

Well, except for Beamer.

Beamer was not quiet. James’s service dog, Beamer made his presence known through soft but insistent communication. James had a zillion tasks for the service animal. Rose had none, and the dog was languishing under her care.

“Care.”

She was just as much a dog person as the artistic James had been an accountant. It’s true that opposites attract, but it’s not true that your opposite wants to take care of your emotional support dog after you die. If only she could find someone to take the dog.

*

Melvin found the painting, the one his father loved. It was a folk art piece depicting an unidentifiable planet—it wasn’t Earth, since Earth was visible far away in the space backdrop—and dandelion seeds were floating in the air.

Dad loved the painting because of the irony. The nuisance plant on Earth was thriving on the planet, and the painting implied that the seeds were helping to terraform it. Folk art and sci-fi, a mix Dad chuckled at.

There was something hopeful about the idea of continuing on. Life after Earth. That sort of thing. Mel stared at the painting and sighed. Despite the familiar and hopeful message, Mel felt no closer to closure than he had for the past year.

Behind him, something whimpered softly. It was an older woman and a dog—the dog wore a bright vest labeled “service animal.”

“Oh, pardon us,” she said.

Mel looked from the woman to the painting, then back to the dog. “Oh, I’m soryr,” he said. “Were you waiting for a turn at this painting?”

The woman dismissed the idea with the wave of her hand. “Yes, but you looked so lost in thought, we wanted you to take your time.”

“We?”

The woman laughed sadly. “Me and—well, I guess me and the dog. I’m Rose. This is Beamer.”

“Beamer,” Mel said. “Like the car.”

Rose laughed. “That’s exactly the joke. James used to tell people he always travels with his Beamer.”

“A dad joke.” Mel smile-frowned. “My dad would’ve loved it.”

Rose’s eyes understood immediately. “I’m sorry—when?”

“He loved this painting.”

Beamer whimpered and pulled toward Mel.

“Sorry.” Rose pulled back, but Mel reached out and pet the pup. “I know it says he’s a service dog, but James stretched that certification as far as it would go. He wanted to bring this dog everywhere. Now—”

But she stopped short. Here, in front of her husband’s painting, this young man was gazing into Beamer’s eyes as lovingly as only one man had done before.

“Hey,” Rose said. “There’s this nice little coffee shop down the street. Why don’t we—”

And they did.  

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: http://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 – “All Spring Things”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “a writing that features a springtime ritual.”

Along with several short story collections, books of poetry, and two novels, Cathy has published three anthologies under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. The latest one is titled NO ONE SHOULD KISS A FROG, available on Amazon and other retailers—300 pages of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry by 75 authors around the world. She also has a call out for submissions for another anthology to be published this year to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information.

Melvin is still alive and well…

***

All Spring Things

All spring things

Glow brightly,

Precious like diamond rings.

*

Fit for queens and kings,

Regular folk too,

All spring things.

*

A lonely bird sings

On leaves glistening,

Precious like diamond rings.

*

Birds spread wings,

Flying home to be part of

All spring things.

*

Fibers of gold strings

Woven in nests,

Precious like diamond rings.

*

Winter clings,

Wanting to share in

All spring things,

Precious like diamond rings.

***

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 – “Relocation” by Chiara De Girogi”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “when the snow melts”.

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.

***

“Relocation” by Chiara De Giorgi

Yuri stared absent-mindedly out the window. Spring was coming.

“I don’t think we should stay here anymore,” he said.

“I know,” Yuki replied. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while myself.”

“But where can we go? It’s not so easy.”

“I don’t know. Let’s watch some documentaries on Discovery Channel. Maybe we’ll have an idea.”

“Ah, Yuki. Always the optimist. Documentaries are where we are dubbed ‘abominable’…”

Yuki made a ferocious face and roared. She made her white fur stand and appeared twice as big.

“What do you mean?” she growled. “Am I not abominable?”

Yuri laughed. “Terribly so, absolutely.”

“Then trust me. The snow is melting at an alarming pace, there’s never been so little. And when there is no snow left, we’ll stand out. Abominable or not. It’s going to be too dangerous; we need to find a solution.”

Yuri and Yuki sat on the sofa in the middle of their cave with a bowl of popcorn between them and turned on their TV. Since they used to be stuck in their cave for weeks at end during winter blizzards, they had invested in a giant screen and a popcorn maker. They proceeded to watch all the documentary programmes they found on the North Pole and Antarctica. Those seemed to be the only real alternatives–and only for a limited time anyway, apparently, if humans didn’t take action quickly.

“Who put humans in charge of the world, by the way?” Yuri asked, pressing the off button on the remote control.

“The matter is not settled yet. Ms. Alpaca next door says it was mammoths.”

Yuri snorted. “Yeah, sure. Mammoths. Which are extinct, so they can’t deny nor corroborate.”

Yuki popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Munching noisily, she replied, “But who cares, anyway! Knowing who put humans in charge won’t change a thing. Let’s talk about where we can move, what we can do.”

Yuri sighed. “Alright. I think we should go to Antarctica. Penguins look soft and funny, and I don’t feel like fighting white bears for territory.”

“That’s a good point. I agree. Let’s go to Antarctica, then. Although…”

“What?”

“There are no caves, as far as I know.”

Yuri shrugged. “We’ll dig one. The rest, we can buy. We’re lucky that yetis have riches stashed away, other creatures may not be able to afford a new place or to make investments like we are. Anyway, the important thing is, in Antarctica it’s cold and white. The perfect habitat for us abominable.”

*

Yuri and Yuki packed their bags and left for Antarctica. They travelled swiftly and at night, careful to stay away from busy routes, until they reached the ocean. Yetis are exceptional swimmers, and they crossed the ocean without any problems, except Yuki lost her toiletry kit and could no longer brush her teeth.

“The penguins will think I am an unkempt yeti,” she complained.

“Nah, they won’t. They’ll think you are abominable, ha ha!”

*

Despite their swimming prowess, they were a bit tired when they reached Antarctica. The sky was dark, and they plopped down on the ice, enjoying the freshness and the breeze in their fur: at 60 miles per hour and a temperature of -100°F, it was just what they needed after their long swim.

When they woke up, they found themselves surrounded by curious penguins, who started shrieking and fled clumsily when the yetis got up and moved a couple of steps, making the ice tremble.

For a few weeks, Yuri and Yuki were busy digging their new cave and furnishing it. They placed a huge order and had a few essentials delivered. Finally, Yuki was able to brush her teeth again.

When they were settled, they went looking for penguins. They realized they had not seen any since that first day. Stomping, sliding, and skating, they travelled for miles in every direction, but could not spot any penguins at all.

“I think we scared them too much. Now they’re hiding.” Yuki was disconsolate. “I so wanted to adopt one. You know, like humans do with kittens.”

“Yes, I’m disappointed too. At home, we had at least a few neighbours. Here, we’re all alone. How can one be abominable, if there’s no one around?”

“Maybe we should pick another destination,” suggested Yuki. “What do you say, shall we try somewhere warmer?”

Yuri was surprised. “Why would we go somewhere warm?”

Yuki shrugged. “To try something new. And if the world is going to get warmer anyway, we might as well get used to it.”

“Hmmm. Well, I suppose we could try. Let’s check Discovery Channel.”

*

The Grand Opening of “The Adorable Yeti Amusement Park” in Florida was an unparalleled success.

The sets replicated the mountains and plateaus of Tibet, but also included something unexpected: fully furnished caves where the “adorables” allegedly lived. People dressed as yetis gave autographs and posed for photos with tourists. The two owners, Yuki and Yuri, had their pictures taken wearing gorgeous white fur coats and had never been seen without them–or so the well-informed claimed. It was also rumoured that they used the proceeds to finance solutions to restore the climate, but they never openly confirmed that. They were just heard mumbling something about “fixing mammoths’ mistake” or something.

***

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 – “Thaw” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a favorite topic of Val’s: melting snow. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. Keep a lookout for an illustrated re-release of the first three books, followed by the fourth!

***

Thaw

By Val Muller

Mara stared up at the clouds. The air smelled like snow. She knew that in her cold New England heart. Soon the nasty white flakes would blanket the ground and cover the tiny shoots of crocuses and all other signs of life.

Signs of death, too, she thought as she glanced toward the grave. It was nearly a year since she lost Jasper, and she’d promised in the spring to plant a memorial garden over his burial site, complete with a bird bath holding his collar and tags. Looks like that would be delayed. So much for that groundhog predicting an early Spring.

Mara’s phone beeped. It was the breeder, one of those friend of a friend deals:

ARE YOU STILL COMING?

The lady had a liter of pups ready to go soon, four of them. A friend had hooked Mara up with the breeder like a matchmaker for the grieving pet parent.

Mara had said no, it was too soon. She only agreed because the puppies’ ready-to-go date just happened to coincide with the anniversary of Jasper’s death. She promised she would just take a look at the puppies, if for no other reason than to remind herself how annoying puppies were and tell herself for certain that her heart was not ready to be ripped apart once again by unconditional love.

But Mara knew how that would go. Best not to allow temptation. The snow was the universe’s way of telling her that. A two-hour drive to the breeder, with snow expected. Best not to go.

IT’S SUPPOSED TO SNOW, Mara typed.

THINK CAREFULLY, the woman typed back, ABOUT WHAT YOU SAY NEXT.

What was that supposed to mean? What was she, some prophet? Some fortune teller, some peddler of witchcraft? What on earth did she mean?

SNOW IS EXPECTED, Mara typed. IF I HAVE TO LIFT A SHOVEL, I WON’T MAKE IT OUT THERE.

She knew what that meant. There was already a list of people to see the puppies, the breeder had said so herself. She was giving Mara first dibs as a favor to their mutual friend, but puppies this cute really sold themselves. If Mara didn’t go in the morning, the puppies would be gone.

I WILL HOLD YOU TO IT, the breeder responded.

Mara looked at the sky again and sighed relief. Jasper would remain unique in her heart, and she would push the mistress idea of puppies for a different day.

In the morning, Mara woke with a start, a twinge of excitement knowing it was puppy day. But then like a child living through the first disappointing Christmas, she saw the blue tinge of snow reflected through the window. There had been no miracle from the universe. She would not visit the puppies.

Mara trudged downstairs and donned her boots. She eyed the shovel on the front porch but put it off, opting for cold cereal instead. The last time she held a shovel–poor Jasper. She didn’t need to relive that memory this early in the morning.

And in such a way, she flitted about the house wearing her waterproof boots, always meaning to go out and shovel, always finding one chore or the next to occupy her time. All to avoid shoveling that awful snow.

WHAT’S THE FINAL VERDICT? the breeder wanted to know. DID YOU LIFT A SHOVEL?

The text broke Mara out of her cleaning trance. The house looked spotless and warm, not dull and blue like it did on

snowy days. Before she responded, she couldn’t help but glance out the window. The light was golden and rosy, a warm mix, not a cold one.

Outside, spring had returned as Mara cleaned. The last of the snow was dripping from the roof, and the driveway sparkled in the sun, the last of its watery covering evaporating in the rays. She had been so focused, she hadn’t glanced outside. With Jasper gone, what need did she have to ever go outside again? But now, the snow was gone, and she did not, indeed, have to shovel.

As Mara drove off to start her two-hour journey, she only briefly glanced at the winter boots she left strewn next to the snowshovel on the front porch, both unused and out of place in the warm spring air.

***

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 – “A Mountain of Snow” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This current prompt is a story about excessive amounts of snow. Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.

In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the third volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

“A Mountain of Snow”

by Phil Yeats

“Pull in our gear,” John Jenkins, the captain of the lobster boat, Marjorie Jane, yelled to his crew as he emerged from the wheelhouse. “Coast Guard received a distress signal from a nearby vessel. Our duty to respond.”

An hour later, they approached a fifteen-metre-long ketch with bare spars sitting dead in the water. They pulled alongside in a calm sea. His oldest deckhand hailed, but they got no response. Their youngest crewman, a college student named Nigel, working with them for the summer, jumped aboard. He disappeared below before Captain John emerged from the wheelhouse, annoyed that the young college boy would take this possibly dangerous action before they had time to prepare.

College boy poked his head from the companionway. “Thirty centimetres of water on the cabin floor, but no sign of water coming in.”

“Anyone in distress?” Captain John asked.

“Nope. Deserted, and something else. No sign of any sails.”

“Bloody hell,” John said, thinking it sounded like some tortured soul took his yacht to sea and killed himself by jumping overboard attached to his anchor. “Let’s get a line on her, transfer our spare bilge pump over, and see if we can pump her out. I’ll contact the Coast Guard and describe the situation.”

They soon had water gushing from the yacht, but they weren’t making progress lowering the water level inside. They began towing the yacht toward shore, but the quantity of water made for slow progress.

Once again, Nigel popped from the yacht’s cabin. He was obviously treating this as an adventure. “I’ve found the source of the water. Corroded pipe. Someone attempted to patch it, but it’s still leaking rather badly.”

John turned to Mike, the most seasoned member of his four-man crew. “Take tools and our gear for repairing through-hull leaks and do your best. And send college boy back. I don’t like the idea of him messing about and making things worse.”

Mike stood on the yacht’s foredeck twenty minutes later. “Situation is under control. Corroded pipe as Nigel said, but it’s inside the shutoff. Tap was frozen, but our pipe wrench and a little elbow grease solved that.”

“So, the pump should start making progress,” said John.

“Should do, but there’s something else,” Mike replied. He held up a plastic bag containing white powder. “I suspect this is cocaine, and there are lots of them.”

John sighed. This meant a call to the RCMP and a cousin who wasn’t his best buddy.

Shortly after nightfall, they slide against the dock in their home port. Numerous police cruisers with red lights flashing had the town pier cordoned off. They quickly took charge of the yacht. Half an hour later, Jerome Jenkins, the head of the local police detachment, climbed aboard the Marjorie Jane. “We’ll need to search your boat and record statements from each of you.” He locked eyes with his cousin. “I suppose you’ll want to get back to sea.” When John nodded, Jerome added, “check in with us tomorrow at 0800. We should be able to give you the all clear.”

John arrived at the police station at precisely 0800 the next day. Jerome led him to a room with dozens of bags containing white powder stacked on a large table. “The haul from your yacht plus many more we bagged from three reprobates who were bringing them ashore in a launch.”

John stared at the table. “My god. A veritable mountain of snow.”

*****

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 Beautiful Game” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This current prompt is a story about new neighbours, just arrived. Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.

In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the third volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

The Beautiful Game

by Phil Yeats

“Oh, poo!” a small voice exclaimed from beyond the fence. The sound of small feet scuffing the ground accompanied her words.

I stood from pulling dandelions from my back lawn. It was late June, but the bloody yellow weeds were blooming as fiercely as ever. I blamed the abundance on the complete lack of dandelion control in the adjacent yard.

A blond head with pigtails protruded above the fence in the offending hayfield. I guessed she was a few inches taller than the four-foot-high fence. That, presumably, made her between six and eight, and part of the family moving in next door?

“What’s the matter?” I asked as I walked toward her.

“Mummy promised.”

“Oh. What did she promise?”

“A present I’d really like if I was good and didn’t complain about leaving my friends.” She gave the ball at her feet a mighty kick and it trickled away at a forty-five-degree angle. “I wanted a Barbie, not this stupid ball.”

“Looks like a big kid’s soccer ball. She must think you’re a big girl now. One who’d want to play outside in this nice big yard. And I’m guessing you already have a Barbie.”

“Two, and a Barbie house. Uncle James made it for me. But I have no friends here.”

“My name’s Ben. What’s yours?” I said to change the subject.

“Ella,” she replied, before giving the ball another mighty kick. She caught it more squarely this time, and it bounced to the centre of their yard. She rushed after it, picked it up, and returned, smiling, to the fence.

“Does your mum know you’re here?” I asked.

“Yeah. Emie’s waiting for Uncle James and all our stuff. I wanted to ride in the truck, but she made me go in our car holding the fish bowl and making sure it didn’t spill. Said Hannah had to ride with Uncle James because they still had stuff to load.”

My seventy-five-year-old strawberry box house had an unfinished basement, living room, bath, and kitchen on the main floor, and two tiny under-the-eaves bedrooms on the second. The one they were moving into was identical.

I wondered about the family unit moving in next door and how Emie, Hannah, and Uncle James could fit together in that tiny house. Emie was presumably Ella’s mother, but would a six-year-old use her name rather than calling her Mummy? Was Hannah an older sister or an adult? Not Uncle James’s wife, because Ella would then call her Aunt Hannah, or something similar. Was Uncle a courtesy title for Emie’s partner, or a friend helping Emie, Hannah, and Ella move into their new home?

When Ella disappeared around the side of her house after several successful kicks, each going farther than the previous one, I decided speculation about the makeup of the new family next door was foolish and unwarranted. I parked my weeder on a bench and wandered around my house. An ideal time to welcome Ella’s mother to our neighbourhood and offer a hand unloading their truck. After I introduced myself to Emily Scott, a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, James and Hannah pulled up in one of the smaller U-Haul moving trucks. He was in his sixties or older, and Hannah, at most forty. The nature of their relationships became obvious when Ella proudly insisted on showing Hannah how good she was at kicking a soccer ball. It flew across the narrow street and took one bounce before landing in a flower bed.

*****

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 – “Return of the Light” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about new neighbors moving in. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit series.

***

Return of the Light

By Val Muller

The fire crackled, and Samantha tossed another log on it. She half turned, was almost about to shush the dog—Bella always startled when Sam threw a log on the fire. But then Sam remembered. Bella was gone. It hadn’t been a year, not quite. It seemed like forever. Then again, it seemed just yesterday that Bella had been there, at her feet.

But last year, at the winter solstice, Bella had been there at the campfire, keeping watch in the night, the darkest night of the year.

What’s supposed to be the darkest night of the year, anyway. There was a darker one. A night without Bella. The first night, then the next one, and many, many more. It was getting easier, but some habits were hard to break, like searching for a dog at her feet, looking for a begging pup at mealtime, that sort of thing.

The fire at winter solstice was a tradition, but doing it alone was not. This celebration was about the return of the light—the return of the sun. It was supposed to be happy, but—

Sam stared into the fire and imagined the next year stretched out before her, stretched out the way a dog would stretch, head down, rump in the air, just like—

No, the fire dancing along the trees was playing tricks on her. Sam could swear she saw a dog stretching by the tree, but surely it was just a log or a—

“Simba!” a voice called.

“Hello?” Sam called back.

The “log” turned to her and scurried over, tail wagging. It was no log, but a golden doodle, and a happy one at that, showering her in kisses. She’d almost forgotten that ineffable feeling, the one that transcended the senses, the unconditional joy and Zen of the present brought when a dog—

“Simba!” the voice called again, and the dog reluctantly backed away and hurried to the voice at the edge of the fire.

“I’m sorry,” the voice said. “Simba’s a little excited to be at his new house. Isn’t he, you good boy, you.” The man’s voice degenerated into dog cooing. Then the man, realizing his neglect of fellow human, turned to Sam.

“Mike,” he said. “My wife and I moved in just this morning.” He motioned to the darkness, toward the recently-sold house. “Poor guy’s been crated much of the day. You a dog person? He seems to take quite a liking to you. I’ll have to have my wife come over in the morning. The two of you seem like you’d get along. You don’t have dogs, do you?”

Sam took a breath, allowing the shock of it all to dissipate. She turned to the fire, watching the crackling flames make patterns on the logs—now a dog, then a cloud, then a person jumping, now a bird in flight—the solstice flames embracing the ephemeral nature of life. She looked up as the circle of light embraced her new neighbor and his companion. Then she took a deep breath and spoke, for only just a second imagining Bella still at her feet.

***

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/