Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “excessive amounts of snow.”
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 in 2024, to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information.
Soon, Cathy will lay Melvin to rest… In fact, this might be the last tale…
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Beneath the Deep
“Want to go for a walk in the snow, Marie?”
“Not now, Melvin. I’m busy.”
Melvin smiled, secretly happy she said no. They’d been coupled in the house for the past two days. Coupled? He wasn’t sure that was an appropriate word. Reminded him of Gwyneth Paltrow’s quote “conscious uncoupling.” Had that been what he and Marie had been doing? Or was it more like “unconscious uncoupling.” No, more like caged in a chicken pen—chained to the metal fencing. Thankfully, William had been—still was!—at Adam’s, one of his few friends. Melvin wasn’t certain he could’ve remained sane with his son underfoot; bad enough putting up with Marie.
Twenty-five-plus centimetres of snow the previous day; ten the day prior to that. And more in the coming days. He was happy to wake to the sun streaming through the window after the last several bleakish days. He had to escape from the house, no matter if a storm still brewed.
But the afternoon was clear! The sky was blue, the sun still shone. The local meteorologist could be wrong. No one was perfect.
He wasn’t wasting a moment. Marie might change her mind. He hurriedly donned his knee-high rubber boots, jacket, touque, and leather-palmed mittens, slamming the door behind him. He breathed deeply, relishing freedom, and gulped the fresh cool air.
While trudging down the path to the lake, he closed his mind to Kailani—or tried to. Had no interest in her any longer. Plain and simple: she was a flirt. It had taken him long enough to figure that out. He detested fake people, real or imagined, and he still wasn’t certain if she was real or imaginary.
It was hard going. The snow was over three feet deep. His feet were already wet. Or were they just cold? No insulation in rubber boots. He sighed, continued.
The snow-covered lake stretched ahead of him, resembling a white-sand desert without the wind whipping the sand all over Hell’s creation. Not that Porters Lake was hell—well, it was after he took his daughters, he reconsidered. But today? No, today the gods are happy. Hallelujah,” he mumbled.
Despite the snow, he knew approximately where sand met water. Can’t outfox me, he thought. Mr. or Mrs. Porter would never take him as it had his daughters. He shook his head. Can’t go there. Cannot.
But he couldn’t help it. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the depths of the great big sea, lay his dearly beloved kin. He pictured Sophie and Penny, together for all eternity. Clutching each other’s hand as if trying to thwart death. They’d been close in life; they’d be close in death. That last thought gave him comfort.
He turned to head back to the house. And fell. Flat on top of the snow. Face-first. His first thought, despite no pain, was that he’d broken his legs as his feet seemed firmly planted in the snow.
No, he was fine.
He hauled himself up and shrugged the snow from his clothing. But—what was that? Something there. Something beneath the snow. A log? The occasional log washed ashore, so that wouldn’t be surprising.
He dug at the snow, thankful he’d worn his heavy mittens. Before long, he glimpsed colour. Pink. He kept at it, digging as if a dog desperate for a buried bone. And then, there it was: a swatch of pink. The fabric appeared to be that of a snowsuit. His youngest daughter’s favourite colour was pink. It was Penny, his deceased daughter. Had to be! Bile rose to his throat. He gripped his stomach, praying not to barf over her.
But then—reality hit him…
Penny had disappeared in the summer. She’d worn her pink bikini (one much too risqué for his liking), not her pink snowsuit.
What the hell…
He stood, albeit clumsily. Swatted at snow clinging to his jacket. Rubbed his mittened hands together to get rid of snow clumps. He wanted to drop to his knees, bow his head, and pray; wanted to stand stall, stretch his arms, scream.
Where was that elusive God or god?
He faced his demon: the hole he’d dug.
Nothing untoward there except white stuff that had surrounded him since he’d left the house.
He wasn’t cold. But his body quivered. Shivered and shook as if a scary Halloween prank. He must get home. To Marie. To William (whenever he returned from Adam’s).
He must walk away from the imagined Penny. Away from the pink. Away from his other deceased daughter, Sophie, and her favourite colour of purple; he was sure she’d appear next—or the colour purple.
Away from his nightmares… Away from the snow that threatened to smother him as if a bed of fluffy feathers…
He turned and headed home. Carefully trudged through the snow.
He stopped. Turned. Faced the lake.
What the hell—
The sandy beach stretched to the lake, which disappeared into the horizon. No pink. No purple. No bikinis or snowsuits.
“God, where are you? Are you there?” he screeched.
No, there’s no god, he thought. No god. No Sophie or Penny. Just me, Marie, and William.
No Kailani either. “How off my rocker could I have been?” he mumbled.
Did his Blue Origin exist? Oh, it must! Those summers of delight and disaster on the lake couldn’t all be imagined. If so, Sophie and Penny would be in the house waiting for him, along with his wife and son.
He turned and faced the Y in the trail. If he went right, he’d end up at the cabin, where his kayak (if real) was stored (could Kailani be there waiting?). Or he could veer left, up the hill to the house, where his ever-loving Marie and sweet son William (once he returned from Adam’s) waited.
“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost entered his head. How apropos, he thought, remembering back to his youth when the poem had been thrust upon the class.
***
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/
Writing Wicket 