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 – “The Red Duck” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is to write a story in which something red plays a role.

Today’s tale is from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

***

“The Red Duck” by Val Muller

It was the kind of week that leaves the house completely upheaved. A swim meet delayed to lightning. Getting home past eleven. A morning practice. An afternoon parade. Volunteer hours.

It seemed everywhere were pieces of summer. A garden trowel with hastily-planted tomatoes nearby. A wet towel left in the van. Waterguns draining on the back patio. A swim bag doubling as a parade bag, then a fireworks snack bag, then a swim bag again.

The scent of chlorine was everywhere. Sticky with sunscreen or chlorine or melted ice cream no matter how many showers.

And in the midst of it all, the red duck. The eldest had won the rubber duck at a swim meet, a demented looking thing. The toddler took one look, and it was love at first sight. The duck went everywhere with her. It was fed pieces of her lasagna at dinner. It went swimming with her and joined her

for bath time. It drank from her sippy cups befire she did. It cuddled with her at night.

She briefly loved the duck even more than her obsessive love of motorcycles and horses.

If it hadn’t been such a busy week, both parents would have been worried. Attachment to such an object was usually short-lived, but it was intense. And losing the object could have dire consequences. They all remembered what happened to Floppy around Easter. After Floppy’s unwilling mud bath, the toddler’s parents were horrified to learn that Floppy was not, in fact, machine washable.

They were as careful as they could be about losing the duck, but on Fourth of July week, with parades and fireworks for days, keeping the kids safe and accounted for was more important than a duck.

In some ways.

When they lost the duck at the July 3 fireworks, they knew they were in trouble. It was late, so they were able to get her to bed without the duck. They almost believed themselves when they told the sleepy toddler that the duck was safely packed in one of the fireworks bags, maybe the one that had all the snacks in it.

But in the morning when they unpacked from the fireworks, the duck was gone.

They called the park, but who would go out of their way to take a red rubber duck to a lost and found?

No one.

They went to the morning Fourth of July parade, and luckily the excitement kept the toddler distracted. But they knew it was only a matter of time.

For now, they rejoiced in the fact that the parade featured both motorcycles and horses, sending the toddler on a wave of adrenaline that they hoped would negate the disappearance of the duck.

Afterward the parade, the toddler wailed, shouting more horses, more motorcycles!. She fought against her car seat and railed against going home.

When she finally listened to her parents’ statements that the parade was over, she fell back to her demands for the duck.

Red duck! Red duck!

The tired parents looked at each other. No one knew where the swim team had gotten such weird rubber ducks for their prizes, but it sure wasn’t anywhere local.

Driving home, the demands turned to a sad moaning. The horses were gone. The motorcycles were gone. The parade

was over, and Red Duck was nowhere to be found.

They turned toward home, and that’s when they saw them. Four of the horses from the parade were walking down the street, their riders waving to pedestrians. The car passed the horses, then they found a safe place to pull over.

They pulled the toddler out of the seat and pointed to the horses behind them.”Horses,” they said.

The toddler squealed in delight. Thoughts of the missing duck were gone. Three of the horses passed by, their riders smiling at the toddler. The fourth stopped, noticing her excitement.

“You want to pet him?” the rider asked.

The toddler quieted and reached her hand out, suddenly timid but also determined. When her hand touched the horse, her face broke into a smile that stayed long after the horse rode away.

There were no cries for a lost duck after that. Instead, the car was filled with happy babbling–the toddlers own version of Independence Day fireworks.

***

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/

Daddy’s Remains

MacKenzie Publishing’s lastest publication is Daddy’s Remains by Sharon Nadja Zajdman.

DADDY’S REMAINS is the story of Abram Zajdman, who once lived and was buried twice. Born at the dawn of communist terror, Abram grew to manhood in pre-war Poland. Fleeing invading German forces, Abram’s escape into Stalin’s Soviet Union saved his life but cost him his innocence. A sojourn in postwar Paris began to restore his equilibrium. Along with thousands of stateless refugees, Abram immigrated to Canada in 1948 and found fulfilment in marriage to a loving and courageous woman.

Abram’s story is one of resilience, transcendence, joie de vivre, and legacy; the lives he touched, the children he left behind and what happened to them. It is also a tale of love. You can’t keep a good man down.

In DADDY’S REMAINS, Abram once more lives.

The book is available world-wide on Amazon.

Sharon Nadja Zajdman is a Canadian author. In 2022, she published the story collection The Memory Keeper (Bridgehouse Publishing, Manchester, England), as well as I Want You To Be Free (Hobart Books, Oxford, England), a memoir of her late mother, the pioneering Holocaust educator and activist Renata Skotnicka-Zajdman.

In 2022 and 2023, Zajdman’s work was selected for inclusion in the annual British anthology The Best of Café Lit. In 2021, Zajdman received an award from The Society of Authors Foundation in London, England.

Call for Submissions!

MacKenzie Publishing announces a call for its third anthology, with the title NO ONE SHOULD EVER KISS A FROG. Theme: “love gone wrong.”

I’m looking for poetry and short stories, not to exceed 3,000 words. One submission per person. Stories/poems can be happy or sad, any genre, but they have to relate in some way to “love gone wrong.”

There is no payment. Just fame! And, hopefully, fun!

I will edit accepted submissions and forward same to each submitter for his/her review prior to publication (summer 2023).

Your submission is an automatic acceptance of these terms.

Accepted authors will receive a PDF copy of the book.

Because there is no payment, I will accept previously published works as long as the rights have been returned. It would be nice for a notation giving credit to the previous publisher (often this is asked for by the previous publisher), but this isn’t mandatory. The onus is on you to ensure you can republish your work.

Deadline: May 31, 2023.

Email your work as a Word attachment to lovegonewronganthology@gmail.com. Add a bio of up to 100 words, with any promotional links you’d like to share. In the subject line of the email put: LOVE GONE WRONG.

If you’d like to check out the two previous anthologies, they’re on Amazon (and other retailers): OUT OF THE CAVE and TWO EYES OPEN.

The Spot Writers – “Pretty Things” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month, the task is to use the topic “pretty little things.” This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. She’s written hidden meanings into this poem—though likely no one will “get it.” She loves to compose rhyming poems even though rhyming poems are passé and her poems lame. Oh well…

Cathy’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone (18+), are available on Amazon. MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series, is scheduled for release in 2022/2023.

***

“Pretty Things” by Cathy MacKenzie

(1)

Oh, pretty things,

Everything life brings

Thrusts us into a role,

Most times in control,

Presenting all that’s fine—

Love, bonbons, wine—

Other times not to win

With lies that spin

And minds as hard

As a mirror shard.

(2)

Pretty things,

Each one clings,

Never letting go,

Though we dull the glow

When we stray

And chant and pray,

Stay, stay, do not leave,

We will grieve

What’s lost

Amid the horrid cost.

(3)

Pretty things,

Ding, dong—many dings—

Who’s at the door

Wanting more,

The monster man

With a plan

And words to spout,

Or the person without,

The quiet one

Who wants to run?

(4)

Pretty things

Are queens or kings,

Come from Hell or a cell,

Live for a spell,

Rugged, clean

Like a stalk of bean

Standing tall

Even when small,

But brave

Until tossed in its grave.

(5)

Pretty things,

Hear the pings?

What’s in store,

Hidden in the drawer,

Money, lies, hate?

Two bods that mate,

Hate, hate, love?

What will fit the glove?

Answers are never clear

In this life so dear.

(6)

Pretty things,

Bangles and rings

Shine bright

In the night

’Til day dawns

To numerous yawns,

Revealing a shine

That’s only a sign

Of sullied spots

And dirty dots.

(7)

Pretty things,

Everyone sings,

Not all that’s pretty glows,

Only God knows

The promises we make,

Ones we don’t break,

The secret ones

That weigh tons,

Plus those hidden,

Forever forbidden.

(8)

Pretty things,

Arms in slings,

Winds rage in a storm,

Taking away the warm,

Toppling all that’s good,

Everything that stood

Strong and brave

Until tossed into that grave,

Waiting for rebirth

Or dead forever on earth.

(9)

Pretty things

Fresh as seasonal springs

Are born, live, then die,

Shy or sly

They reach from Hell

To shake Heaven’s bell,

Souls

Stiff as poles

Filled with hate,

Still try to love and mate.

(10)

Pretty things,

Everyone stings,

Kiss, make up, forgive,

Or continue to live,

Exposed like glass

Or as invisible as gas,

Still can’t disappear

From this crowed sphere,

But hope remains

To re-warm frigid veins.

(11)

Pretty things,

Flimsy as strings,

So pretty in disguise

Though it hurts our eyes

To view the glare

Alongside the flair

Of glitter and gold,

For everything grows old,

And hearts still tarnish

Despite the varnish.

(12)

Pretty things,

See the swings?

Fun in the park

Where babes leave a mark

And adults wheel and deal,

Share and feel,

Ponder life

And strife,

Babes too young to know

Of winds to blow.

(13)

Pretty things,

Grow wings,

Fly far, far away,

There will be a better day

When you can thrive

And survive

And seize the gold prize,

Ignore the lies,

Don a happy face

And live in that new place.

(14)

Pretty things,

Too fast life zings,

Builds up walls,

Throws curveballs,

Muddle and exist,

Endure the fist,

Find strengths

No matter what lengths,

Live fine and strong,

You’ll never go wrong.

***

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://chiaradegior

My Heart Is Broken – It Needs Fixing

My book of poems (the first three years) memorializing my son Matthew, who died of a rare heart cancer on March 11, 2017, is now published.

 

The book is available on

Amazon

or from me.

I am donating all profits from the sale of this book to the Kenzieville Cemetery, Kenzieville, Pictou County, Nova Scotia, where Matthew is buried. Matthew’s GGGG grandparents, who emigrated from Scotland in 1803, are buried there, as well as several branches of the MacKenzie line. The cemetery is run by volunteers and is always in need of funds.

 

 

The Spot Writers – “Goodbye” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story about “Someone, not a stranger, standing on the edge of a precipice.”

Today’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series. You can learn more at www.CorgiCapers.com.

***

“Goodbye” by Val Muller

The wind whipped her hair. It whirled past her ears, crisp and brutal, just the way it would sound in a movie. In fact, that’s just how she felt—like one of those wives in a movie, the ones waiting at the top of the hill to catch a glimpse of her husband’s ship coming in after months at sea. The wife of a whaler, maybe. Or a colonial bride waiting for her lover to return from a jaunt to England.

But that wasn’t what she waited for, was it? Her toil was quite the opposite. No one was coming home. Certainly not Greg. How could he come home to her if he’d never been hers in the first place? Her brain itched with the questions.

Her hand twitched, eager to type them out, to allow the angst to flow through the keyboard onto the screen. She needed to create more words, words, words.

No. Dr. Moore told her she’d written enough.

She clutched the pages in her hand. They tattered in the wind, and her hand threatened to let go. The words were sentient, like little beetles dotting the page. Size 9, single spaced, beetles, confined in margins as wide as the printer would allow. She’d done what her therapist said, after all: She’d printed them out and deleted the files. All those months of journaling, hundreds of pages condensed into a hundred and ninety-seven double-sided pages. Each page a saga. Each page wrinkled and tear-stained. She’d read the whole manuscript—that’s what she called it now—once over before coming out here. She’d touched the words, surprised they didn’t stab her fingers as they’d done to her heart, spoken each one aloud. And then she’d driven here.

She had to let go, Dr. Moore said.

And so she’d driven here, to the overlook, the site of her one and only date with Greg.

It was only once, Dr. Moore had told her. One date didn’t constitute true love.

True love didn’t need any dates, she’d told him. True love was true love, and Greg was her true love, plain and simple. The problem was that Greg didn’t yet realize that it was true love. She’d gone to Dr. Moore to ask how to make Greg aware. How to wake him up, to make his heart sentient.

But Greg was married now. She’d had to admit that at her last session. She’d used her alternate account to view his Facebook page, as she did every day and when her insomnia hit, and her heart sank when she saw the big announcement. There it was, posted by his wife. She could barely think the words—his wife! His wife? That was her! It was supposed to be her. But it wasn’t her in the flowing white gown, arm strewn around Greg. Greg, so handsome in his midnight black tuxedo.

And the comments. People had the audacity to congratulate him. Congratulate him? On what? On finding the wrong woman? On taking a step away from true love? And some of the subtleties, asking about children? Babies? Those were supposed to be her babies!

The wind whisked her tears away as quickly as they could come. This type of thinking was not productive, Dr. Moore had said. She needed to move on.

Move on.

Move on.

She peered over the cliff. It was so far down. If she were a bird, she could leap and soar across the ocean, find a new continent and a new lover. But she wasn’t one.

The wind licked the first page of her journal, and she loosened her grip. It was the page describing the first time she saw him, walking into the deli at college. His eyes had caught her immediately, though he didn’t see her. He was like a supernova. How could she look away?

Dr. Moore said he was more like a black hole.

The beetles on the page protested. They did not like being trapped on the page. The wind called to them. They wanted to be free. Free, just like she should be, Dr. Moore had said.

The page loosened and hovered in the air in front of her. She caught only frantic phrases. “Eyes like stars.” “His name is Greg.” “He’s majoring in biology.” Then the page lost its battle with the wind and was whisked out into the air.

Its journey to the sea took eternities. She wanted to jump out after it, to rescue it from its watery fate. The wind seemed strong enough to hold her, after all. But she knew what Dr. Moore would say. That would not be healthy.

So she stood firmly at the precipice, watching the page fall impossibly far out to the sea. She could barely make it out in the glossy sun on the water as it finally hit.

She released the breath she’d been holding. With the exhalation, her grip loosened, and more pages took flight. One, two, ten, two dozen. More, more, more. The thirty pages written about the night Greg told her it just wasn’t working. Her musings about how wrong he was, how he could not possibly know it wasn’t working after just one date. Her frantic sonnets about his knit hat and how it fell over his brow. Her haikus about each beautiful curl on his head. His wife would never appreciate him with that level of detail: she didn’t deserve Greg.

All that beauty, captured in words, now flew out to sea like a flock of birds. They landed peacefully on the waves. Her fingers twitched, thinking of what to say about that, about her urge to follow them.

But that would not be healthy. She could hear Dr. Moore tell her so.

So instead, she sighed once into the wind and mouthed the words as she returned to her car to find a way to move on, somehow, with her life minus her soul mate. “Goodbye, Greg.”

***

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/

+++

C.A. MacKenzie is the author of (among other books) the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, avail

 

Twenty Months Gone

Dear Matt,

I dream of a babe in my arms,
A toddler asleep beside me,
Confusing yet familiar
As if a recurring vision
And with a start
I realize it’s you.

I suffer sharp jolts
Of sheer insanity,
Scenes of shrieks
And sobs
Of my new reality,
Twenty months gone and
Disbelief still grabs me,
Shocks me to my very core
And I cry fresh tears 
Identical to previous one.

I can’t stop these monthly poems—
These non-rhyming words spouting grief—
I write many others too,
All bringing me an odd comfort,
A smidgen of joy between pain
Even though my words read the same.

No new words exist for grief, 
No epiphanies or revelations,
For every day I pray the same:
To have you returned to me
As if a treasured object on loan.

But sanity slams me to the floor—
You’re gone forever,
Never really mind to hold,
For children become adults
And cleave to another,
But you’ll always be my boy.

Whether I’ll see you again
Is one of the world’s mysteries,
But if there’s a chance we meet again
The line to greet you will be endless,
Too many wanting to hold, hug, kiss,
But to see you again in flesh
I’d happily wait at line’s end.

You’ll always be my cherished child.

+++

C.A. MacKenzie is the author of the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers, including Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/.

Two Candles

I’m eating a Boston cream donut today.

Boston cream donuts: your favourite kind.

Since your death I’ve eaten too many,

Always an excuse to eat one—or two.

 

Too many excuses to drink and eat.

 

Today’s your birthday in Heaven at 38

Where you’ll continue to age,

But here on earth, forever 36.

Always 36.

 

In my solitude I insert candles in the donut,

Between my tears I light two wicks:

One for each birthday you’ve missed on earth.

 

 

I make a wish—a wish that’ll never come true—

And blow out flickering flames.

 

Happy birthday in Heaven, sweet son.

Happy birthday, Matthew, my cherubic babe.

My Son. My Grief. Eight Months Today.

I seem to be able to compartmentalize my life, not that it seems possible to do so. Although I don’t want to be around other people most days, when I am, I hold in my tears. People tell me I’m strong, but I’m not. I just don’t like sharing my grief with others and I hide it until I’m alone. People don’t understand. Unless you’ve lost a child, you’ll never understand. And I hope you (whoever is reading this) never lose a child.

I may smile, but it’s not a real smile. I may laugh, but it’s not a real laugh. Not like before. When he was here. My life seemed so simple then. All problems back then too minor. Why had I ever worried about “such and such”? Bigger issues would take over, when he died. Nothing back then could ever compare to now.

It’s a horrific horror story, losing a child. I never EVER imagined I’d lose one of my children. How could such a thing be possible? They were all healthy. Loss had never affected us. Sure, I lost grandparents. I was devastated at my parents’ deaths. But parents always predecease children.

No, not always. Not in my case. And that’s a rarity. Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children.

I’m so overwhelmed with grief over my son’s passing, eight months today, that I don’t know how I manage some days. I’m not in denial he’s gone. I know he’s gone.

Dead, funeralized, buried.

But I miss him. Every second of every day. He’s first on my mind when I wake in the mornings and last on my mind at nights. When I do sleep, that is. Sleeping pills have become my best friend, but they don’t always work, and those are horrific nights, when I cry and toss and turn and want to be somewhere else. Where, I don’t know. Where else is there to go?

I’m not suicidal. I’m not a believer in life after death. I’m not that far gone I’d kill myself to be with him. I have two other children. And grandchildren. And a husband. And I want to continue my life, such as it is. I still have goals and dreams. I still have trips I want to take, places I want to visit and explore. I have stories in my head. I have the book of my experience with my son’s last three months I want to write, which I’ve titled (in my head) “Three Hearts. My Truth as I See It.” Whether I can ever write it remains to be seen.

I have no desire to give up everything to—maybe—join him.

Of course, at the time, when he was given a death sentence, I would have given him my life. I’d have done that for any of my children. Or grandchidren. I’d prolong each of their lives, if I could.

My son was a kind soul, loving and giving. All he wanted was to live to see his children grow. During his last days, he cried many times over that. His tears weren’t for him; they were for his two girls, whom he dearly loved.

I’d have given my son my heart had I been able. So he could have lived.

That’s all he needed. A heart that wasn’t full of cancer.

But death doesn’t work that way.

Death takes who it wants, when it wants.

We can’t bargain with death.

Death.

Death is just death. There is nothing else once death shows its face.

Matthew, my son, I miss you so terribly. And I know how humbled you’d be to know how many grieve for you. Not just me, but the rest of your family, and your friends. Even your co-workers. So many people.

You were such a simple soul. You’d help a stranger in the street.

And, dear reader, I’m not eulogizing him as people do after a death. My son truly was a perfect person. He was honest, sincere. A hard worker. He loved life. He loved his two children more than anything, and had he been able, he would have given his life for either one. But he was never called to do that.

Death took him before he could.