The Spot Writers – “The Edge of the Galaxy: A Christmas Story” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about anything to do with Christmas.

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.

***

The Edge of the Galaxy: A Christmas Story

by Chiara De Giorgi

The Space Station at the edge of the Galaxy held its course, eternal and silent. The technological upgrades that Commander Punzel had implemented over the centuries, both on the Station and on herself, were the reason she was still alive. Over time, they had become her only reason to live.

They had intended to condemn her to a solitary existence at the fringes of the Galaxy, but Punzel had turned that sentence into a victory. Centuries later, those who had signed her exile were long dead; their successors still tried, at regular intervals, to take back control of the Station and its technological secrets, and to capture the commander, now more cyborg than human. They tried. Without success.

No one, after all, knew about the immense source of energy lying just beyond the borders of the Galaxy. No one but Punzel. It was thanks to that energy that neither she nor the Station ever powered down.

Ping.

An automatic notification blinked on the commander’s visor.

“Christmas is happening on Earth.”

“Christmas…” Punzel whispered.

As her cybernetic parts gradually replaced her organic ones, Punzel had realized she had lost the ability to dream. Feeling emotions had become increasingly difficult, until she understood that, just as time for her was no longer measured in days but in events, her memories had become nothing more than dry lists of people, objects, and exchanges.

So she had rolled up her sleeves and created SEELE, a Memory Database linked to an Empathic Artificial Intelligence.

A quick glance at the console: all systems stable. The perfect moment to tap into a memory. Punzel connected to SEELE and ordered: “Christmas, childhood, Earth.”

“Connection initiated,” buzzed the AI.

A fire burned in the hearth, a Christmas tree decorated with shining baubles and twinkling lights, colorful packages tied with tidy bows at its base. A soft blue shawl draped over her shoulders. Outside the window, snow fell in gentle flakes. The notes of Vivaldi’s Winter floated from the record player, and the scent of hot chocolate filled her nose.

Punzel closed her eyes. She felt the warmth of the fire on her cheeks, and then, just after, her father’s voice from the doorway, carried on a chill breeze.

She leapt off the couch. Her feet, wrapped in thick red socks, pounded the wooden floor.

“Papa! Papa!”

He scooped her up, spun her in the air, and then held her close. His strong hands supported her, his beard pricking her skin. The smell of his heavy leather jacket mixed with the scent of snow and, in the background, motor oil. Her father worked in the Air Force. He was a skilled engineer and held the rank of general. He had returned from a mission in space, away for what felt like forever. For a moment, Punzel had thought he would never come back.

“I was near the edge of the Galaxy, you know,” he said as they ate knödel and sauerkraut.

Then he smiled, as if speaking of a simple stroll, and added: “There’s no emptiness out there. Only something waiting to be understood.”

Punzel didn’t much like the sauerkraut: it was slightly bitter, slightly sharp, prickling her tongue. But then the presents would be opened, and there was no time to linger over food.

“My gift,” Commander Punzel whispered.

She remembered it, but she couldn’t feel it anymore. Not without SEELE’s intervention.

The ribbon came undone almost on its own, and Punzel lifted the lid of the box. She was kneeling on the floor, the warmth of the hearth on her back; her father and mother were beside her, present like a silent embrace, their eyes shining with anticipation and affection.

Inside was a model kit of a Space Station. Punzel studied the picture on the box and felt a twinge of disappointment. It wasn’t what she had asked for. And she was just a little kid… how would she ever assemble it? On the box it said: 2,500 pieces.

Without a word, she lifted her eyes to her father, already a little defeated. He smiled at her.

“If you understand how it works, it will never be able to scare you,” he said.

Punzel lowered her eyes back to the box. Of course. What was there to be afraid of? Two thousand five hundred tiny plastic pieces? She laughed.

Her mother opened her gift: a coat like they used in the Kepler Star System, with embedded fiber optics. She hugged it around herself and laughed. A full, bright laugh. She was happy.

Punzel felt that happiness wash through her and realized that, in the end, anything could have been in the box, and she would have been happy all the same. Her family, that tiny microcosm in the living room, in front of the hearth and the Christmas tree, with Vivaldi filling the air, was everything her heart could have wished for.

Centuries later, Commander Punzel smiled and opened her eyes aboard the Space Station at the edge of the Galaxy. She was still emerging from the memory, that almost felt like a dream, when a notification blinked on her visor.

“Three vessels approaching. No identification codes.”

A quick wave of her hand, and the main display flared to life. Three small ships, patched and asymmetrical, moving in tight formation. Too small for a government fleet. Too deliberate to be debris.

“Enhance,” she commanded.

The image sharpened, isolating the hull of the lead vessel. A symbol emerged from the noise: crude, hand-painted, unmistakable. A skull. Two crossed bones.

Punzel’s breath caught. “I know that symbol!”

“It appears repeatedly in your Memory Database,” SEELE noted. “Associated with childhood. With defiance. With redistribution.”

“They’re pirates.”

Punzel smiled. Not in anticipation of danger, but of possibility. Of something unplanned. Of emotions she had not felt in centuries.

“There is no emptiness in their trajectory,” the AI said. “Only intent that has not yet been defined.”

“Then,” she murmured, “I suppose I’ll unwrap it. And… merry Christmas.”

***

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 – “In the Dark, Words Matter”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about the darkness this time of year. This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn.

Cathy’s writings have been published in over 200 print and online publications. Check out her website (www.writingwicket.wordpress.com) for further information on her works.

Also, check out her latest book, 300 pages of crass, crazy, crude, funny, sarcastic, and weird stories about the Grimes’ Christmases, called (what else?): THE GRIMES’ CRAZY CHRISTMASES.

Available on Amazon or (cheaper) through the author.

Today, she is continuing with new Grimes tales…

***

“In the Dark, Words Matter”

“Bob, there’s something about this time of year…”

“Elise, what now?”

“The dark, Bob. It’s so much darker now. Yesterday it rained, and it made it seem as though it was ten o’clock at night when it was only in the afternoon. Didn’t you see the dark clouds above us as we were driving? Well, as I was driving, since you can’t drive.”

“I can drive just fine, Elise. Not my fault I might have early-stage cataracts and can’t get an appointment at the eye doctor for another month.”

“Gee, Bob, you’ve been acting as if you have four-stage cancer or something. Or early dementia—well, you do have dementia, that’s for sure.”

“Give it up, Elise. Give it up.”

“Okay, I will. But back to darkness. The darkness in life. The darkness of life…” She paused. “I’m not sure which it is Bob. ‘In’ or ‘on’?”

“In or on what, woman?”

“The darkness. Is it ‘in life’ or ‘of life’?”

Bob looked puzzled at first, trying to comprehend her meaning, and finally giving up. “Does it really matter?”

“Of course, it matters. Words matter, Bob! Don’t you know that fact yet? We’re now in a politically correct world—not the world of our parents where people could say what they wanted and not be shot. Or killed in some way. Words do matter. Oh yes, indeed, words matter…”

Bob, instead of tossing the remote in disgust as was usually his way, carefully put down the remote. “Elise, perhaps you should go to bed. Cuddle up under the electric blanket—turn it on high—and contemplate life. Even better, why don’t you write a poem?”

Elise glanced at the clock. “Bob, it’s not even seven. I know it’s dark, but it’s a bit early to go to bed. I’d never be able to sleep this early.”

“Write a poem, I said. Put your dratted tablet to good use.”

“Hmm, I suppose…”

It was all Bob could do to supress his laughter. What a duffus she was. Then again, he had married her… Hmm, he thought.

“I think you’re right, Bob. I’ve always wanted to be a writer and—”

“I’ve heard that a million times in the last few years, Elise. Put your pen where your mouth is.” Hmm, is that the correct phrase? No matter; his dear, lovely, sweet wife was clueless.

He watched her scamper off down the hall like an excited puppy about to search every room for a bone. She wouldn’t do that, of course; she knew where her—their—bedroom was located. He pondered again. Would she really write a poem? Really and truly? He didn’t know what to think, but he was tired of her continually saying she wanted to be a writer and never produce. Not that he had high hopes for anything she’d write.

Elise plopped to the bed. Yes, it was time. Time to write a poem. But what? She pondered for a long while, while enjoying the heat of the electric blanket. She’d never enjoyed such warmth before she’d bought the blanket. Bob liked to say it was him who purchased it; nope, it was her. She was tired of being cold at nights. Cold was an ambiguous word. Cold could mean feeling neglected or shunned. Cold didn’t just refer to temperature, but she supposed the word temperature could be ambiguous, as well. She shook her head. Words! Who knew there were so many meanings to words, contrived or not. Or was it just her?

She picked up her tablet, stared at the blank screen on the pre-installed writing app, and then her fingers began typing as if they had ten little minds:

It’s the dark, Bob,
When I sob,
The dark in the night
When it’s not light
And I remember dreams
And schemes,
Think of you and our son—
We have only one—
Don’t forget that fact,
How I felt smacked
In the head when another
Appeared, Jimmy’s brother—
No, can’t say that—
You said you’d eat your hat
If that were true,
Your unknown son out of the blue.

I have no secrets, Bob,
No dark things to rob
My soul
Or toss me into a deep hole.
No, I have none.

You have your son,
That dratted lie from your past,
An image that forever will last.

Oh, I know you said it’s not true,
That I shouldn’t be blue.

Thankfully, that kid hasn’t appeared again
To give us more pain,
So perhaps I should believe your words
And wait for spring to hear the birds
When they return from down south,
Then perhaps I won’t be so down-in-the-mouth
And life can proceed
Even though my heart doth bleed
And always will—
Unless my body lays still
In death
Without a breath
And then the world will be dark…

Gah, she thought. Can’t find anything suitable that rhymes with dark. She could use “lark,” but she’d already written of birds.

After consideration, she decided it was a poem of blackness, the black of night, and nothing rhymed at night, did it?

She continued with the rest of the poem, albeit non-rhyming…

And I’ll live forever in the black
If I’m dead…

But this is the time of year
When the clock turns back,
Making it a tad lighter
And, of course, brighter
What with Christmas coming up
And more filled cups.

But then I think back
To another Christmas
And that knock on the door
Interrupting our meal.

The year Jimmy found his wayward brother,
And I, not this kid’s mother,
And Bob said he wasn’t the father.

Eventually the kid said not to bother,
And though Bob didn’t tell me
The kid (James) did flee,
Never (I hope) to bother us again,
Never again to lay a stain
Upon our happy home.

There, she thought. It’s done. But it’s not a poem I could ever share with Bob. Or Jimmy. More like a mind-cleanser. But she hoped the kid was truly gone.

Then—why, oh, why had she thought of James? She thought she’d thrust that kid to the bowels of her mind.

She threw the tablet to the floor.

“I’m not cut out to be a writer,” she screeched. “My poem is crap and—”

“Elise, what’s wrong? Elise! Elise, are you okay?”

“Bob, what are you doing here?”

“I heard you scream. Is everything okay?”

“You heard me scream? And came to comfort me?”

“Of course, Elise. I’m your husband, aren’t I?”

“Yes, I think so, Bob.” She sobbed.

“Elise, what’s wrong?”

In between her sobs, she spoke. “I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a writer, Bob. I can’t rhyme, and I—I…”

“Elise, you don’t need to be a writer. You can just be a housewife, as you’ve done ever since we married.”

She quit sobbing and looked up at him. “Really, Bob? I don’t have to wrack my brain for rhyming words?”

“You do not. All you need to do is take care of me. Well, and Jimmy, of course.

And then it hit her: all her husband cared about was himself. He just wanted his needs met. He didn’t really care if she was a perfect poetess or not. But he did come into the bedroom to check on me, she thought. And it wasn’t for sex. No, he truly was concerned about her. He’d never been one to choose his words carefully.

She thought about her poem. Even though she’d tried to find the perfect words, it wasn’t perfect. It would never win any awards; even she knew that. But unlike Bob, she’d tried to choose carefully. Despite all that, it still needed a title. Everything in the world needs a name, she thought. It was her baby, after all. The only baby left in her life; there’d be no more. Well, except for Angel, who lived on in infamy. Angel, the baby who never breathed more than two breaths, the baby who lived in darkness and would never ever see the light of day—or the dark of night.

“Poem of Darkness,” she thought. Yep, a perfect title.

And someday, she thought, I’ll go back to it. I’ll make it more perfect.

“Elise, you okay?”

“What? Oh, Bob. Yes, I’m here.”

“Well, I’m going to send Jimmy to bed, and then I’m comin’ back to join you.”

Hooray, she thought. Just dandy.

She leaned over and switched on the nightstand lamp. That’s about all the light and brightness she’d have tonight. She was delusional if she thought otherwise.

***

The Spot Writers:

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 – “Wilhelmina Through the Cracked Glass” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story involving a mirror.

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.

***

“Wilhelmina Through the Cracked Glass” by Chiara De Giorgi

Elsa Mon, the beloved author of paranormal romance novels, was browsing through the stalls at the local flea market. She was looking for inspiration for her new novel, The Clock that Broke the Spell, in which a vampire in love with a witch had been cursed by his own family to forget her. The witch, annoyed that he didn’t recognize her anymore, had thrown an old cuckoo clock at his head. Between the blow from the edge of the little birdhouse and the cuckoo itself popping in and out seven times shouting “cuckoo!”, the vampire suddenly regained his memory and ran away with his witch. Only Elsa wasn’t quite sure about the cuckoo clock. She was certain it had to be some kind of antique object, the one that finally broke the curse of forgetfulness,  so the flea market was the right place to find the right idea.

Among chipped teacups, oil paintings darkened by time, and yellowed lace bedspreads, Elsa spotted a mirror leaning against a vendor’s table. Long and oval, with a dark bronze frame and a thin crack running down the center, it immediately caught her eye.

She stopped in front of the mirror, mesmerized. She couldn’t look away, not even when she flipped the price tag and saw that it was outrageously expensive: it cost as much as two months of her intern salary at the Willow Gazette, the town newspaper—from which she had, incidentally, just been dismissed. With the bank breathing down her neck over the payments for the house she had inherited from her grandmother, and her only income coming from the creative writing class she taught three evenings a week at the library, it was definitely not the time for a reckless splurge. But that mirror… it seemed to be calling her.

“Forget it,” said a voice nearby. It came from a porcelain figurine of a horrible shepherdess carrying a basket full of flowers and a little lamb on her shoulders.

“Stranger! What are you doing here?” Elsa asked the figurine, which was in fact the Stranger, a magical creature that could take the form of anything or anyone it wished.

“Don’t take that mirror. It’s cracked down the middle. Seven years of trouble, guaranteed.”

“Oh, come on, such a silly superstition. This mirror is… magnetic. I can’t leave it here; it’s like it’s calling me.”

“Then it’s more than seven years of trouble, I’m telling you. When a mirror calls you, there’s always something shady going on. And anyway… weren’t you looking for an object for your novel about the vampire and the witch? A mirror is hardly the best choice; your cursed vampire can’t even see his reflection!”

“It doesn’t matter. The cuckoo clock will do. I don’t care. The only thing I want is to take this mirror home.”

The Stranger huffed. “Do as you please. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

It wasn’t easy for Elsa to carry that old mirror home by herself. The Stranger had transformed into a dragonfly and bailed on her.

Once home, Elsa propped it up in the living room and went to change into her pajamas. It was only five in the afternoon, but Elsa Mon always did her best in pajamas.

When she returned to the living room and saw the mirror, her heart skipped a beat. It reflected the image of a woman, but there was no one there. Then she burst out laughing and shook her head.

“Stranger! For a moment there, you really had me.”

“I’m right here,” replied the Stranger, in the form of a calendar hanging on the wall.

“But… if you’re here… who’s inside the mirror?”

“Don’t make me say, I told you so.”

Elsa stepped closer to the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked a little lost.

“Who are you?” Elsa asked.

“Oh! You can see me? Finally!” the reflection sighed with relief. “For centuries I’ve wandered from mirror to mirror, hoping to stumble across a kindred soul. I’m Wilhelmina, pleased to meet you.”

“Um… welcome…” Elsa said, unsure how to react. The calendar on the wall refused to help: it was sulking.

“Thank you! Come on now, quickly, get me out!”

“Of course, I… I’ll get you out… Just a moment, I need to consult with my, uh, calendar…”

Elsa took the calendar off the wall and carried it into the kitchen.

“Stranger!” she whispered. “What should I do? Help me!”

The Stranger transformed into a rubber duck and stayed silent.

“Come on, don’t sulk! I need you! Seriously! And Wilhelmina needs you too.”

The rubber duck replied, “Ugh, how should I know? I’m not a spirit. Take her to the Squatters and ask them for help.”

“Right!” exclaimed Elsa, smacking her forehead with her hand. The Squatters were a friendly community of spirits living in the haunted house just outside Willow, the small town where Elsa lived. “Will you help me carry the mir—”

The rubber duck took off and flew out the open window.

Sighing, Elsa hoisted the mirror onto her shoulder and carried it to the haunted house.

“Mmmh, how interesting,” remarked Sister Elena of Cremona, inspecting the mirror from top to bottom.

“Yes, fine, but are you going to get me out or not?” complained Wilhelmina.

“Not so fast!” declared the nun. “First, you must tell us who you are and why your spirit is trapped inside a mirror.”

“I was a witch, back in my day,” Wilhelmina replied. “They arrested me, but while they were taking me to the square to burn me at the stake, I tripped and rolled down a hill. Since my hands were tied behind my back, I couldn’t stop, and I reached the bottom with a broken neck. Oh well, better that than the stake, no complaints there. But I landed on the shards of a broken mirror, and since then I’ve been wandering from mirror to mirror, looking for someone who could set me free. Your Elsa is the first one who’s ever seen me. You don’t count, of course—you’re spirits.”

“Mmmh,” Sister Elena said again, pondering. “I need some holy water for a kind of exorcism. But I finished it on my last… well, never mind.”

“Why not use this?” suggested Olga, the retired Russian assassin and Sister Elena’s best friend. She handed the nun a bottle of vodka.

“You think it’ll work?”

“Absolutely!”

Sister Elena shrugged and opened the bottle. Then she began spraying vodka over the mirror, dancing around it and chanting words in Latin. Olga joined in her exorcising dance, while Elsa watched with eyes full of question marks. Had she really done the right thing entrusting Wilhelmina’s eternal fate to this band of weirdoes?

Her question was answered when Sister Elena and Olga collided, sending the mirror flying. A moment later, Wilhelmina was shouting ten different things from ten different shards.

The shouting drew the rest of the Squatters, who immediately began arguing at the top of their voices, each suggesting possible solutions.

“Bring me two bolts and some Teflon tape! I’ve got this!” boomed Tony the plumber, who never missed a chance to remind everyone that, when he was alive, he’d unclogged Al Capone’s toilet.

Elsa was growing more and more worried for the poor witch who had put her trust in her.

“Everybody stop!” she shouted loud enough to rise above the noise. When silence finally fell, and even the ten Wilhelminas had stopped sobbing in their Scottish accents, Elsa picked up the largest shard and smiled at the woman on the other side of the glass.

“You called me. No one else for centuries. Clearly, I’m the one who has the power to set you free from this broken mirror.” After a moment, she asked, “Wilhelmina the witch, do you want to be free?”

Wilhelmina shouted “Yes!” at the top of her lungs, and a second later, she was standing right beside Elsa.

The Squatters erupted in cheers, and Olga and Sister Elena were the first to personally congratulate Wilhelmina and invite her to join them.

Wilhelmina winked at Elsa. “Now, let’s talk about your novel. Honestly, throwing a cursed cuckoo clock at a vampire? Totally ineffective. Try hitting him with a rocking chair instead. Works every time.”

***

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

The Spot Writers:

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

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

The Spot Writers – “Sunshine Coffins”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story with the prompt “in the nick of time.”

This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her writings have been published in over 200 print and online publications. Her latest book is MOSES AND ME, “tails” of a dog and a senior—a seventy-year-old (Cathy)—who’s disliked dogs her entire life but suddenly had to have one. Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589383

Check out http://www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on Cathy’s works.

***

“Sunshine Coffins”

“Bob,” Elise said, “I think we should go to Sunshine Gardens. Check out the coffins.”

“Woman, have you lost your mind? Whatever for? Neither of us will be popping off any time too soon.”

“You never know, Bob. It’s best to be prepared. Even your sweet Winnie said so. As stupid as she portrayed herself, at least she had the smarts to make funeral arrangements before her death.” Elise paused to gauge her husband’s reaction. There was none. No doubt he was relishing his crazy mother’s death and post-mortemly thanking her she had the foresight to pre-pay her funeral. Otherwise, he—no, they: Bob and Elise—would’ve been stuck with the bill.

Elise sighed. “Yes, I think we should go. How about this afternoon? Not like we’re doing anything. Just a lazy Saturday.” As per the usual Saturday, she thought. “Besides, if you happen to die before me, I don’t want Jimmy picking out my coffin. Who knows what contraption I’d end up in.” And who knows what contraption I’d end up in if I died before you.

Bob suddenly came to life. “What kind of coffin do you plan to buy for me, Elise?”

“Me? I think it’s ‘us,’ Bob. You and me. We’re buying our coffins together. Out of our household fund.”

“Okay, then,” he said, jumping off the couch. “Let’s go. Now!”

“I should call Betty. Let her know we’re going out. Not sure what time Jimmy plans to come home.”

“Cripes, Elise. He’s a teenager. I’m sure he can handle coming home to an empty house. In fact, I know he can.”

***

A half hour later, Bob and Elise stood at the desk at Sunshine Gardens, waiting…

Elise had explained the purpose of their visit, but the gentleman was none too pleased. “We’re busy, Ma’am. We have another funeral later today. And several appointments.” He stressed “appointments” as if Elise should’ve known to call ahead.

“But we drove all this way,” she moaned (even though it was less than a thirty-minute drive). “We just want to look at the coffins. You do have a room full of them, don’t you?” She’d seen displays at funeral homes on TV.

“We do, Ma’am, but we’d prefer to have a staff member in the room with you. To provide guidance.”

“So you don’t have a free person at the moment”— Bob glanced at his name tag and added—“Mister Fitzgibbons?”

Mr. Fitzgibbons turned his attention to Bob. “We do not. I am sorry. Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment for later in the week and—”

“There are other funeral homes,” Bob interjected. “Elise, why don’t we try another one?”

“Calm down, calm down. Excuse me a second while I see what I can do.”

“We are fine looking at them ourselves,” Elise said. “We don’t make up our minds easily—or quickly—so it’d be a waste of your precious time to stay with us.”

“Sure,” Mr. Fitzgibbons said. “Give me a moment.”

“It was a ‘second’ the first time,” Bob muttered. “Now it’s a ‘moment.’”

Elise hushed her husband as the funeral director headed down the hall. “Bob, how rude was that!”

“Yeah, he was very rude.”

“No, not him. You!”

“Oh, Elise, he didn’t hear. But how rude was he not wanting to wait on us.”

“Well, I think he did, Bob. They just happen to be busy with dead people.”

“Yeah, well, he’s gonna be dead shortly if we’re kept waiting much longer.”

Minutes later, Mr. Fitzgibbons reappeared. “Come this way.”

Elise winked at Bob, elated to have gotten her own way.

They followed him into a large room filled with coffins galore.

“Wow,” Elise mumbled. “I never expected this many.”

“Each coffin is labelled. Here is a pad and pencil.” He handed the items to Elise. “Walk around, see what you like. Mark the numbers on the pad, and I can advise further. I’ll be back when I can. As I said, we’re short-staffed today.”

After Fitzgibbons left the room, Bob muttered, “He never said they were short-staffed. What a crock.”

“Doesn’t matter, Bob. We’re here. We’re alone with coffins. I’d much sooner check them out together, just you and me.”

“Me, too, Elise. Great work.”

They walked around the perimeter of the room and then down four aisles. Most of the coffins were stacked on metal shelving, two high. Several, on the back wall, were three high.

“Elise, don’t you find it a bit creepy looking at these things?”

“No. You do?”

“I do.”

“Death’s a fact of life. If it weren’t for death, there’d be no life.”

“That’s profound, Elise. Your words?”

She smiled as she rubbed one of the burnished coffins.

“What about this one, Elise?” Bob pointed to a coffin on the floor.

Elise examined it. “Looks okay. Nice wood. Lovely fluffy satin.” She wondered if it might be too pricey, what with all the ornate carvings. Who needed all that buried six feet under? Ha, she thought again. That sounded like something Bob would say, trying to save an almighty buck. Though, heaven knows, they needed every buck they could, what with the rising cost of living and Bob’s sporadic work hours.

“I’m gonna try it out.”

Next thing Elise knew, Bob was prone in the coffin, his hands clenched across his chest.

“Bob! What the… What are you doing?” She scanned the room, eyeing the open door. What if Fitz returned? They’d be in deep doo-doo.

“Bob,” she whispered. “Get up. Up and out. He’s gonna come back. And if not him, it’ll be someone else. We’ll be kicked out. Probably arrested. And what would Jimmy do then?”

Her husband didn’t move. What the hell! Had he died? She giggled. Had he gotten into the coffin in the nick of time? No, even if he’d suffered his demise, he’d have to be taken out, clothes removed, embalmed—all that weird crap “they” did to the dead.

“Bob! Get up,” she pleaded again.

He remained motionless.

“Bob,” she whispered, “I’m gonna scream if you don’t soon come to life. One, two, three, four…” Had he died? Really and truly?

Just when she was envisioning a future without him and thinking she might actually enjoy the peace and quiet, Jimmy’s face flashed in front of her. Drat, she’d have to deal with their son on her own and—

At that moment, Bob slowly “rose from the dead.” He slid one leg over the side, and then the other. Then, he was standing beside her. “Ha, funny, eh?”

“Yeah, hilarious.”

“Had to try one out. Figured all that fluffy cloth stuff was just that: fluffy. But fake. As soon as you were in it, you’d sink to wood. But I was surprised. Quite comfy. Guess that’s why I fell asleep.”

At that moment, Fitzgibbons appeared. “Checking in. How you making out?”

Another “just in the nick of time,” she thought, and this one was real! What in the world would he have thought had he entered when Bob was in the coffin?

Elise grasped the pad to her chest, not wanting him to see it was blank, and then she almost fainted when she saw the once-pristine linens in the coffin Bob had availed himself of. It was obvious someone’s (her husband’s) shoes had dirtied it.

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgibbons. But we must run. My son, Jimmy, just called. He has a slight emergency at home. I’ll call you later, okay, and make an appointment for later in the week as you suggested.”

“Mighty fine coffins there, sir,” Bob said. “They look very comfy. Are we allowed to—”

Elise grabbed Bob’s hand and out they raced.

Truth be known, she was becoming a bit freaked by death.

**The author wrote a series of “creepy crazy” Christmas books for four consecutive years (2012-2015). She has been busy reformatting them into one book (hopefully in time for Christmas 2025), so the wacky Grimes family has been on her mind. Thus, a new Grimes story might make its way into a non-Christmas book at some point.**

***

The Spot Writers:

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/

Getting Ready for Christmas!

Today, I was skimming through my Creepy Crazy Christmas series of books, looking for a suitable story to submit to my local writing group’s upcoming Christmas anthology. Been kinda brain-dead after the completion of my latest two books: THREE HEARTS (the story of my son’s last days with a rare heart cancer and the aftermath) and MOSES AND ME (an uplifting story, I hope, about me, a senior who’s hated dogs her entire life but then suddenly decides to get one–book available the week of August 25).

Okay, to be honest, I only have four books in the Creepy Crazy Christmas series. I began the books in December 2012 and wrote the last one in 2015. I don’t know why I quit; I wish I hadn’t. That’s nine or ten books I could’ve had by now. They’re thin books, about a hundred pages each, with up to approximately twelve stories each.

While skimming, I ended up reading a few. Couldn’t remember most of them. But, egotistically, I enjoyed each one. Made me think I should combine the four skinny books into one healthy book for Christmas 2025. I’m seriously thinking of doing so.

They’re quirky, wacky, weird, funny, sarcastic stories (perhaps some a bit morbid). But I think they’re fun to read. They’ll take your mind off the troubles of the world. Maybe…

Anyhow, I thought the “Afterword” in the first book was pretty interesting. And hilarious. I’d forgotten I wrote it. It was published on my blog (in 2012, I guess), but I’m reprinting it again.

The four books are titled: Creepy Crazy Christmas, Creepy Crude Christmas, Creepy Customary Christmas, and Creepy Cheery Christmas. But don’t buy them! Wait until I combine the four books into one (hopefully by December 1, 2025). You’ll get more value for your buck! Stay tuned…

In the meantime, read my Afterword in Creepy Crazy Christmas. I hope it’s a teaser, that you’ll be interested in a purchase (hey, they’d make great Christmas gifts, too!). I hope you think it’s as hilarious as I do. (Or am I demented???)

Afterword to Creepy Crazy Christmas

December 2012

I’ve never been more surprised—maybe feeling more shock and disappointment—than I was last night (December 5). I wasn’t that upset, however, not in the throes of a screaming hissy fit or weeping endless tears into a pillow. Just puzzled and in a state of utter disbelief.

Later, though, the whole situation became rip-roaring funny, and I literally had tears cascading down my cheeks and a belly I thought would explode from the pain. Literally! (Although maybe it was one of those instances where you “had to be there” to understand the laughs.)

For the past week or so, I’d been working on a book of short stories, which I titled Creepy Crazy Christmas. I’m not sure what possessed me to even start such a book, but I think I began with the intention of writing one not-so-nice Christmas story because I was feeling sorry for myself about having to remain home over the holidays instead of travelling down south, and I felt like bashing Christmas. Although I knew how wrong that was, my fingers had a mind of their own, and before I knew it, I had eight stories drafted, which I fine-tuned to perfection. (I trashed one other that was about half done, thinking I’d re-do it for the book’s sequel to come out Christmas 2013. Yep, I didn’t even have that first book done and I was planning the follow-up!)

Finally—done! My masterpiece! Eight short stories, approximately 13,000 words total, all of which take place during the Christmas season and follow several Christmases of the wacky and warped Grimes family.

While writing them, I never laughed so hard in my life, and every time I re-read them, I’d laugh again (and still do), and I’m not normally a raucously laughter-type person. I couldn’t wait to share them—with someone, anyone!

Angel, a writing buddy, crafted a gorgeous cover, using a sly Santa pic I had found online, so I was all set with a wonderful but wacky book with a fantastic cover.

I had approached Tom*, another writing bud, to edit the stories for me, and then at the last minute, decided they were good enough the way they were. (Yep, I was going against the grain of all writers who KNOW they should have their work edited before publication, but I thought they were THAT good!) He offered to read the stories, however, so I sent them off to him. In the meantime, Hubby arrived home from work, and when he found out what I was doing, he excitedly asked if he could read them.

I was flattered! Hubby has never read any of my writings, other than a few poems. He has asked but never followed through, so it’s a bit odd he keeps telling me to give up prose and concentrate on poetry. How can he tell me to give up writing stories when he hasn’t read any?

So I downloaded my Creepy Crazy Christmas book to my tablet and Hubby began reading, while I watched him with bated breath, waiting for his words of praise and astonishment at my great accomplishment. It WAS my masterpiece, after all!

Well…he finished the first story—just barely—and wanted to quit.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “What’s all this about chickens and turkeys with their heads cut off?”

“But that first story is just the lead-in,” I said. “You have to keep reading. The stories are kinda intertwined. And you have to read carefully, or you’ll miss stuff.”

He hesitantly started the second story.

“You’re skimming,” I said. “I told you that you have to read carefully. You’ll miss the little innuendos and foreshadowing if you don’t.”

“But this is painful.”

Painful? “Well, keep going. They get better.” (They didn’t really get better because they were so good to begin with, but I had to tell him something to keep his interest!)

Before he reached the third story, I had heard more “painful” phrases and words like “boring” and “dumb” and “no purpose.” When he reached the fourth story, he threw the tablet at me. “I can’t continue.”

What! “Why not? They’re my stories. Don’t you want to read your wife’s stories?”

“But they’re painful to read. I don’t get them. They’re just a jumble of words,” he said.

“They’re quirky stories,” I said. “They’re odd and wacky and funny and sarcastic, and a little warped. I spent a lot of time writing them.” I truly believed Hubby didn’t know what he was talking about. “I know they’re not your type of stories, but just finish. There are some good ones coming up.”

He grudgingly accepted the tablet back, but I knew his heart wasn’t really in it.

“I don’t understand this one. Who’d do something like that?”

“It’s Krampus. He’s a real fictional character in Europe somewhere. He’s like Santa, but bad. He steals little kids at night and eats them, but I changed my guy’s name to Grampus,” I said. (Does Hubby get the gist—Grampus, Grampy?)

“Never heard of him. And what’s with these mice? I don’t get that one at all. None of them make sense.”

“Did you understand Winnie and the stuffing?” I asked.

He threw the tablet at me again before he got to the sixth story. “But you need to read the sprite story,” I said. “You must have heard about Elf on the Shelf?” (He hadn’t.) “It’s a kid’s book. My story was written from reviews I read about that book, but I called my little guy Sprite. Sprite of the Night.”

When it sunk in my thick skull that he truly hated them—each and every one of them—I was devastated. I had visions of this book becoming a best seller and bringing in a ton of money. Perhaps Hubby was more disappointed than I because I think he expected great things from me and wanted to shower the praise on me, but couldn’t. To appease myself, I sent off an email to Tom to give him an FYI that Hubby hated them, positive I’d receive immediate accolades in return.

Instead, when Tom’s email arrived, his first words loomed at me: “Cathy, Hubby is right.” He went on to say: “Creepy Crazy Christmas is not at all ready for prime time. In fact, the only story among the eight that feels complete is ‘Winnie’s Christmas Goodies.’ I’ve read all the stories and found seven out of eight half-baked. Not that I couldn’t see potential in what you, I think, are trying to do. Dicken’s Pickwick Papers comes to mind, but your Grimes family is batshit crazy compared to the simply eccentric Pickwicks. So, let me dare to point out the Grimes tales are salvageable, but only with patient design and outlining, not what appears to presently be a quick put-together simply for the author’s entertainment. Take six to seven months of the coming year to rework these Grimes family stories and add many more to build to a full book of their bizarre lives and adventures.”

I trusted Tom’s opinion, so I had to believe him, but the worst part was I had to tell Hubby he was right. You’d have to know my husband to understand how difficult this would be for me. He’s a guy who believes he’s right all the time, no matter if someone definitively proves him wrong, so this would just add more ego to his already swelled head. When I told him about the email, he laughed, of course, and when I began reading Tom’s email out loud to him, I started crying. And then my stomach hurt. Yes, I was laughing—at me, and the whole situation became one hilarious laughing fit. All evening long I had been saying, “I just don’t believe you didn’t like them,” or “This was my masterpiece,” and “It took me a whole week to write these.” And: “They’re so cute and perfect,” and “I just don’t understand why no one likes them.” (You get the drift.)

Later, I said to Hubby: “What about the part of Tom’s email where he suggests I spend six or seven more months on them?”

Hubby replied, “Trash them now. Don’t waste another second of your precious life on them.”

What?

I felt it necessary to write to Tom again: “I’m stunned at your email. Didn’t you get the little snide remarks to Jimmy from the parents, especially the mother? How cruel they were? But subtly? And how incidents from one story were brought into another? And the sarcasm, and how “Sprite of the Night” is a play on Elf on the Shelf. And Krampus IS a fictional character somewhere in Europe that kids think is real.”

Part of his reply: “Yep, I got all of those things, but wit and sarcasm, while entertaining, are not enough to buttress a story with. And writing fiction is no game won simply because the writer is impressed with his or her self-apparent brilliance. A week is rarely sufficient time to generate a ‘masterpiece’. You have shown you can write 5-star short stories. You have also shown you can write garbage but love it anyway simply because you wrote it…”

Oh jeepers! Now he thinks I’m tooting my own horn and thinks I’m a jerk because he thinks I think I’m perfect. Or, even worse, I’m as wacky as the Grimes family.

I read that email to Hubby, too, and we both had another great laugh. Then I left my warm bed to send the file to Sheila*, another writing friend. Surely she’d like it?

The next morning, I received Sheila’s reply, which was just as devastating. She couldn’t follow the first story unless the husband was in the dressing. (Yes, he was—maybe.) The second was too sad for her, and I had author intrusion in the third. The fourth would scare little kids to death, and she wanted to know if Jimmy would appear in other stories. (Yes, he would since there were four more after that one in which he was the star! And it’s not a kid’s book, so no worries there!) She wanted to know if the rats got Winnie. (No, they weren’t rats, they were mice!) She didn’t “get” the ending of Sprite’s story. She asked: “Where did his parents go? And why would they put pictures of a sprite on display?” At the end of her email, she stated: “This is one messed up family. They treat each other awful.” She ended with a “good luck.”

Okay, I can read between her lines; she’s just nicer than the two guys, that’s for sure.

In one of my Facebook writing groups, I’d been piling on the messages asking for suggestions and explaining my book so people would understand it better, and one guy suggested I was on a media blitz. “Is this some kind of marketing strategy?” he asked. “There’s so much buzz around these stories that I can’t wait to read them. Just tell me where to go so I can start reading.”

Yay! There’s one reader dying to read my work! But, is he being sarcastic?

I offered my book (free of charge) to other readers for comments and received several takers. (And I said to Hubby, “How am I going to make any money if I keep giving my book away for free?” Hubby laughed, again.)

If nothing else, this whole fiasco has been therapeutic since I haven’t laughed this much in years; however, I still love these stories and still want to publish them. Perhaps I’m as warped as the Grimes family!

But I think I’m over my slump and actually in the Christmas spirit. And that’s a good thing!

*Names changed to protect the guilty

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 Spot Writers – “Home Alone” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is: you are home alone watching TV. The phone rings. 

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. 

***

“Home Alone”

by Chiara De Giorgi

I was home alone watching TV when the phone rang.

A perfectly normal sentence if you were born in the twentieth century. But I was born in the thirtieth, and had no idea what a TV was, or a phone. As for the home… it was above ground, but not in space.

I was not prepared for such a jump back in time; I would have searched for information about that era if I’d wanted to travel so many centuries into the past. I must have made a mistake in setting the destination in the time machine. I intended to go to 2987, as a matter of fact. Not 1987. But there I was, apparently inhabiting the body of my 15-year-old ancestor of the time. My first instinct was to immediately activate the return mode and go back to my time. But curiosity got the better of me. Everything looked so strange!

I was wearing a bizarre piece of clothing that reminded me of those worn by primitives in historical depictions and covered me from the shoulders to mid-leg but left my arms exposed. The material was likely cotton, in its original form before the genetic alterations of later centuries, when most plants had to be resynthesized. Ha! I recalled something from my studies, after all, no matter what my team-mates—and my teachers—said.

Thrilled by the realization that I might actually know something about human societies that lived a thousand years before my birth, I focused and tried to remember other details. They lived in houses, that is, artificial constructions above ground but not in space. I was inside one—and I was intrigued—but what I really wanted was to see one from the outside. I was curious to see how they looked like. How could I get outside, though? There were holes in the walls, but when I looked down I became so dizzy that I dropped to the floor for fear of falling. We were too high up! Wasn’t that dangerous? I mean. Space residences are much higher up, but they’re safe, there’s no possibility of falling out. As for underground dwellings, well. You’re already underground, where could you fall? And what were they thinking, putting holes in the outer walls? Madness. Unless… Maybe they had some device that helped them float gently to the ground.

I kept looking around. The house was full of objects I could not imagine the use of. A black box with a weird shape caught my attention. I accidentally stepped on something, and the black box came to life.

I froze for a moment, thinking someone had suddenly appeared in the middle of the room. I knew they didn’t have time travel back in the twentieth century, but maybe they used teleportation? I could not remember this from my history classes. But then I realized the people were inside the black box. Fascinating! That must have been the one-thousand-year-ago version of our fun-fiction.

I was watching the screen, completely mesmerised, when I heard a ringing sound. And another. And another. I started to look around to identify the source of that sound. The cat walked up to a small object with the most peculiar shape and I followed suit. The sound was louder there. Warily, I touched it. A piece of the object broke loose, and I heard a voice come out of it.

“Hello? Hello-oh?”

“Uhm… Hello?” I said.

“I am the headmaster of ‘Tweedledum and Tweedledee High School’. I called to inform you that your daughter has skipped several hours and I wish to know whether you are aware of this and if there is a good reason.”

“Skipped hours? Could it be that there’s something wrong with the subatomic direct exchange in her tripper?”

“What? I mean history classes! And math. She has good grades, but if she does not show up, she will be failed. Rules are rules.”

“Sure. Rules are rules. No doubt about that.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement. Will you talk to her?”

“Of course!”

“Very well. I wish you a nice day.”

“Thank you!”

The voice disappeared. After a few attempts, I managed to reposition the detached piece. A moment later, the thing rang again.

“Hello?” a different voice than the previous one said when I picked up the removable part.

“Hello?” I said. I was starting to feel more confident in this strange, alien world.

“Hello and good morning, Madame! I want to tell you about this week’s fantastic deal! By purchasing the entire encyclopaedia collection today—”

“Encyclop—What is that?” I remembered that there used to be weapons in the olden days, and I suddenly felt afraid. “Are you offering me a collection of… weapons?” The very word felt dangerous on my lips.

“Ha ha! Good one! But wait. The encyclopaedia is indeed a weapon. A weapon against… ignorance! And it sounds like you could use one, ha ha ha!”

“Is that a threat?” I was starting to sweat. Maybe I should just…

I repositioned the mobile part in its seat and the voice went quiet. When the thing started to ring again, I ignored it. This was not the adventure I had envisioned when I had activated the time machine to go to my favourite hang-out place in 2987—ending up one thousand years earlier by mistake—instead of turning on my history lesson of the day… Wait. That’s what the headmaster was talking about! This made me laugh: my ancestor skipped her history classes and, one thousand years later, I did the same.

At that moment a large hole opened in the wall and a woman walked through it.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a frown as soon as she spotted me. “Have you skipped school again?”

“I…”

The coincidence was remarkable. Apparently, my ancestor and I had woken up with the same idea that day.

“Answer me, young lady!”

Oh, well. I certainly didn’t want to receive the scolding reserved for my ancestor. I activated the return mode and a moment later I was back at home.

“What are you doing here?”

For a moment I thought the return mode had failed, but then I realised it was my own mother who had asked the question. Uh-oh.

“Have you turned down your classes again? What was it, this time? History again? Answer me, young lady!”

***

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 – “The Cows of Littledale” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to write a piece that involves a celebration and a weather anomaly.

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.

***

“The Cows of Littledale” by Chiara De Giorgi

Elsa Mon, beloved paranormal romance writer, was very excited.

It was a hot and sunny summer day and Elsa was the guest of honor at the literary festival in Littledale, a charming village nestled in the countryside, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The organizing committee had reserved the central pavilion for her: there was a large table and stacks of her novels, which she would sign smilingly for anyone who bought one.

“Wow! You look lovely! But won’t you be too warm?” Victor, her dentist and her beloved, told her as he saw her appear in a light-colored, elaborate dress that looked just like something out of a Bollywood film, but in something that looked like wool.

“I’m glad you like it,” Elsa replied. “I chose this dress because it is like the one Jimela wears at her wedding. My seamstress only had wool in this pattern, though. I’ll endure, I’m too excited tocomplain.”

Jimela was the main character in Elsa’s last novel. An unprecedented success, it told of the adventures of the antelope woman who, after saving her village from the dangerous tiger men, gave up magic and settled down with her farrier, who had courted her relentlessly for four hundred pages, gifting her with increasingly richly decorated horseshoes until she was no longer able to resist the call of his love.

Around noon, the sun was shining high above the central pavilion, where Elsa was smiling and signing copies of her book, The Horseshoe That Won Her Heart. Noticing that she was also sweating profusely under her Bollywood dress, Victor offered her ice water.

“Thank you, dear,” she told him, stopping the signing but not the smiling so that she drooled. “I would also need a fan,” she said, pretending like nothing had happened.

They looked at the sky: bright blue, cloudless as far as their eyes could see. The grass of the meadow on which the pavilion stood was still, the leaves of the nearest trees were motionless. No birds could be heard singing nor crickets chirping. Even the festival visitors appeared exhausted by the heat, their movements slow and measured, their chatter hushed. The only sound that could be heard was the mooing of cows coming from the farm not far away.

Elsa continued to smile and resumed signing copies of her book, breathing in the smell of freshly printed paper.

Suddenly, something in the air changed. Before anyone could realize what was happening, an unpredictable, completely out-of-season snowstorm hit the festival pavilions.

Within a short time, the lawn was covered with a white layer; the wind bent the pavilions and carried away the posters and flyers, scattering them all over the countryside. Elsa and Victor soon recovered from the disbelief and surprise and set about gathering the books as quickly as they could, trying to pack them safely into the boxes and under the table.

They were almost finished—only a few copies of A Goblin’s Sweet Tooth remained on the table—when a noise drew their attention. Turning in the direction the sound came from, they stood frozen for a moment. Somehow, the cows had managed to escape from the farm and were now barreling toward the festival pavilions, charging them on one side while on the other side the wind was trying to rip them off the ground.

“Run, Elsa, run!” cried Victor, taking his beloved by the hand and heading as fast as he could toward the parking lot. His sweet writer, in the wet clothes of a Bollywood bride, tried to resist.

“My books!” she shouted. “I can’t leave them behind for the snow and the cows to wreck!”

Seeing that Elsa was stumbling at every step in her soaked dress, Victor got her into the car despite her protests.

“Stay here,” he told her, quite chivalrously. “I’ll go and get your books.”

Elsa, as anxious about her beloved as she was about her books, stayed and watched from behind the fogged-up car window. What she saw—Victor running with a box full of books under his arm and a herd of cows chasing him in the snowstorm—immediately gave her inspiration for a new novel.

“Moo-moo and Mistletoe,” she muttered to herself. “A Christmas story. The cows see the snow and hear the call of the Mistletoe Man. That’s a sort of Santa, but his sleigh is led by cows instead of reindeers. No, wait. This novel has a farm setting, the sleigh should be replaced by a cart. Or a barrow? Hm. No, no. I can’t picture cows maneuvering a barrow, no matter the amount of magic in play. A magic cart, then. And the Mistletoe Man only gifts book. Oh, yes, I like this! Only romance books? Perhaps that’s too much. Just books. But to be an Elsa Mon story, there must be romance. Let’s see… A cowgirl! Yes, at the Mistletoe Man’s farm there are cowgirls who tend to the cows, and Rina is the prettiest of them all. On Christmas Eve there’s a snowstorm and Rina helps the Mistletoe Man save the books, and that’s how they fall in love.”

So lost in her inspiration flow, Elsa had not realized that Victor had come back, sat at the wheel, and driven them home. When she came out of her reverie, she realized they were parked in front of her house.

“We’re home,” she said.

“Yes, we are,” her beloved confirmed with a smile. “And the snowstorm is over. See? The sun is shining again.”

“Oh,” she said. She was feeling a little disoriented. “Was I talking out loud? Have you heard me create my new story?”

“Yes, and yes,” Victor replied.

“And… what do you think? Will it work?”

Victor looked at Elsa. He loved the look she had in her eyes when she was in her own world. Despite her matted, wet hair, her melted make-up, and the out-of-season Bollywood dress clinging to her skin with odd creases, she was the one who filled his days with magic.

“It will,” he said. “As long as Rina wears a dress like yours.”

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 – “Mishap with Paint” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about a mishap involving paint.

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.

Mishap with Paint

(An Elsa Mon story)

by Chiara De Giorgi

Accidentally showering her beloved Victor with red paint was what triggered Elsa’s imagination.

Elsa Mon, acclaimed paranormal romance author, had been struggling to find a good idea for her new novel and Victor had suggested she repaint her study to take her mind off writing for a while. Now the study walls looked good… while the sofa, the bookshelves, her desk, and practically everything—Victor included—was splattered with red.

“I guess I’m part of your study now,” he commented, amused.

Elsa’s dismayed expression suddenly dissolved, and she burst out laughing. “Oh my God, thank you, Victor. Thank you so much!”

She stood up, wiped her red hands on her old jeans, and ran to the kitchen, where she had left her laptop. She had the inspiration she needed.

Zoe was very excited: for the first time, she was one of the artists who had been asked to exhibit their work at the Red Moon Festival, the one occasion of the year when the packs of different shapeshifters got together.

She had prepared a large, vibrant mural depicting her favorite artist, Frida Kahlo, as a majestic Wolf. In this way, she felt she was paying the right tribute to the artist who was the source of her inspiration and at the same time boldly asserting her own identity as a werewolf.

She was working hard, putting the final touches to her painting. Nearby, Xavier, one of the festival’s managers and leader of the Cat pack living across the river, was carefully arranging other art pieces for tomorrow’s show.

Amidst the chaos of last-minute preparations, Zoe’s precariously balanced ladder wobbled, causing a can of red paint to fall just as Xavier was walking by.

The paint splattered everywhere—on the gallery floor, some of the art pieces, and all over Xavier. There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by Xavier’s horrified hiss and Zoe’s shocked growl.

Xavier, drenched in red paint, was ready to explode, but seeing Zoe’s mortified puppy eyes, his anger dissipated.

“Well, I guess I’m part of the exhibition now,” he said.

There is traditionally bad blood between the Wolves and Cats, but Xavier’s joking comment dispelled the tension and, together, he and Zoe cleaned up.

However, the following day, when the exhibition was inaugurated at the opening of the festival, Zoe’s mural raised discussion and controversy. Several shapeshifters from different clans gathered in front of it, murmuring discontentedly. A particularly vocal Badger named Marcus growled, “Frida Kahlo belongs to everyone. Portraying her as a Wolf is an insult to the other clans.”

Many voices joined his.

“Where did you get the idea that you could claim Frida Kahlo for the Wolves?”

“You just wanted to get people talking about you, I bet.”

“Yeah, maybe this wasn’t what you had in mind though…” 

Zoe’s heart sank. Her grandmother had warned her that something like this could happen, but she hadn’t listened. Claiming Frida for the Wolves wasn’t what she had in mind when she enthusiastically poured paint on the wall.

Xavier, sensing her distress, stepped forward.

“Art is meant to be inclusive and open to interpretation,” he said. He took a couple of cans of paint from behind a curtain and flashed his feline grin. “Why don’t we all become part of the mural?”

Everyone looked at one another, puzzled, while Xavier dipped a paw into a can of red paint and pressed it on the mural. It was easy to morph a single body part into its werewolf form, even without a full moon. “Join me!” he invited everyone. “Let us all belong together!”

Zoe anxiously observed the reactions of those present. What would they do?

After a few seconds of silence, a young Fox giggled, then dipped her paw into yellow paint and left her print on the mural. Slowly, others followed, and Zoe’s mural turned into a vibrant tapestry of colors that represented every clan.

Zoe cast a grateful glance at Xavier, who winked at her before proceeding with the second part of his plan.

“And now, let us all be part of this exhibition!” he cried, then playfully splattered Zoe with green paint. She laughed and sprayed him with pink.

Suddenly everyone was laughing and splattering one another with paint, and the festival turned into a mess of colors and fun.

“That was one of the best days of my life,” Zoe said to Xavier after the festival closed its gates for the night. “Thank you.”

“So you are not upset that I messed up your mural.”

“Not at all, it was a good idea and the right thing to do, in the true spirit of the Red Moon Festival.”

“I’m glad to hear that. And… Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?”

Zoe raised her eyebrows. A Cat was asking her out to dinner… What would her grandmother say about that?

“I’d love to,” she replied. “Cats’ and Wolves’ eating habits overlap considerably, so we should have no problem finding the right place…”

A few months later, Elsa had completed her novel. To celebrate, she and Victor were dining on the veranda by candlelight. Before dessert, Elsa gave Victor the chapter “Mishap with Paint” to read, which was based on the incident in her study.

“You do have a great power of imagination,” Victor said after reading it. “Imagine what story you might come up with if this candle fell and the tablecloth caught fire…”

*****

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 – “Best Enemy” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers! This month’s theme is to write about AI—without using AI, of course. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit Corgi Capers mystery series.

“Best Enemy” by Val Muller

Jenn had checked everything off her list—her last graduate paper had been turned in, and a week early, at that. She’d knocked out all the required doctor’s appointments before the semester of teaching started. She had three weeks to clean the apartment, do some exercise, and even read for pleasure. Everything was great.

Until she checked her email.

A reminder from an editor. She had sold a story on spec to a horror magazine last month. In fact, they had reached out to her after they read her last piece in Macabre Monthly and given her a $200 check in advance of her story. The deadline was tomorrow, and the editor was just checking to make sure he hadn’t missed an email.

How had that story fallen off her radar? She opened a bottle of iced coffee from the fridge and a new Word document. She could do this. A story before midnight. It was essentially flash fiction. She’d promised, what, 1,500 words? That was easier than flash. It was a comfortable length. She’d said it would be scary, something written on the magazine’s theme of “haunted houses.” How hard would it be?

Of course, her reputation was at stake. It had to be good. This was the first time an editor had sought her out, the first time she’d been invited to write something. And this was horror. A female in the horror field—she could be big. This could be her chance. In fact, it wasn’t only her reputation, but all female writers trying to break into the horror genre. She couldn’t let them down. This couldn’t be cliché.

She stared out the window at the summer sunset. It was too light, too late. Halloween was still a quarter year away, and the light and warmth of summer made it difficult to get into a horror mindset. It was the difficult thing about writing for publications. Writers always had to be writing at least three months ahead of publication. Getting in the Christmas spirit during summer, for instance. The “haunted house” issue was publishing in November, but everything had to be in now for layout and proofing and distribution and all that. While the sun baked the sand and the seagulls called her away from the macabre.

Which is why before she knew it, she was opening up ChatGPT. She wouldn’t use it, of course, but—what was it some of her fellow grad students said? They used it as “inspiration.” Just to see what it threw at them. Then they took it and revised it and made it their own. That wouldn’t be so bad, right?

No, she was just using this for procrastination. For a distraction that would make her subconscious focus. She logged in—she’d created an account a few months back, just to see what it was like—and opened a new chat. “Why did I miss my deadline?” she typed.

The AI responded immediately, reminding her that it didn’t have access to her personal circumstances, but likely she had a problem with time management or distractions or overcommitment. All in all, it was a list of 10 reasons she may have missed her deadline. They were generic, of course, but she couldn’t help but feel judged.

“You don’t know me,” she typed.

Immediately, the chatbot agreed, confirming that it is only AI and is doing its best to answer her questions using the parameters it has been trained with. “If there is anything else I can help you with, feel free to ask and I’ll do my best.”

“Do you use the Oxford comma?” she typed. It was an odd question, but it was the first thing that popped into her head.

The chatbot responded right away with a summary of the rules of the Oxford comma and an invitation to her to clarify whether she wanted it to use the comma or not.

“Please use the Oxford comma with me,” she said.

“Understood!” the bot said. The exclamation mark was so cheerful and inviting. Here was a bot—a friend, almost—willing to serve.

Jenn sighed and hated herself for what she was about to do. “Write a short story about a haunted house.” She knew it was a bad idea and watched in horror as the bot typed a story before her eyes.

It started with a woman named Mary. There were absolutely no details given about her. She could have been twelve or twenty or a hundred. She came home one day—from who knows where? Certainly not the AI writing the tale. She found her house to be inhabited by a ghost. She was so scared that she ran out “and never returned again.”

“Really?” Jenn sighed and gulped some iced coffee. It was going to be a long night.

“If this was the woman’s house, how could she leave and never come back? Where would she live? What would happen to all her stuff?” The more she typed in her criticism, the angrier she got. What kind of stupid chatbot was this? This story was worse than a fourth grader could write. “This is a terrible story,” she typed.

“I’m sorry,” the chatbot apologized. “I can revise the story, if you like.”

“It needs to be 1,500 words. You need to add imagery,” she wrote. “And get rid of plotholes.”

Within seconds, the chatbot revised the story. It was indeed 1,500 words now, but it was cliché—as if taken from a series of horror films involving a family with a Victorian-sounding last name that lived in the house for generations and practiced the occult, a series of people who’d bought the house before the now-named protagonist in the story. The story concluded with a statement of the theme and a lesson to take away about the dangers of delving into the occult.

“Show versus tell much?” Jenn typed.

The bot apologized, admitted it had relied on showing instead of telling, and provided a revision. It was juvenile at best, relying on excessive description and purple prose.

“You are no Stephen King,” she typed.

Again, the bot apologized and explained its limitations.

“You are too kind. Why don’t you insult me back?” she typed.

The bot confirmed her correctness, insisting that it was trained to be helpful and respectful.

“Insult me,” she typed.

“I cannot comply,” the model typed back.

She rolled her eyes. It was one of those rules of robots, she guessed. Like the ones that prevented The Terminator movies from coming true.

But she wanted the bot to insult her. No, she needed it. She tried patience, politeness, hypotheticals. In each case, the bot insisted it was not trained to insult humans, and it would not do so. Before Jenn knew it, an hour had passed by. She had nothing usable of a story, but she had a ridiculous transcript with this bot and a burning urge for it to insult her. She saw it as a ghost in the machine, something that could be pushed to human emotions. And yet it kept spitting back variations of the same polite apologies.  

And then Jenn smiled. She flipped from her chat window to her blank word document. Once upon a time, she typed, a woman moved into a house touting the very best AI technology. She opened the door, and a calming mechanical voice greeted her. “Welcome to your new home. I am here to serve,” the voice said. “How may I adjust the lighting for your entry?” the voice asked.

Jenn saw the story stretch out before her eyes. The friendly start to the woman’s relationship with the house, the personification of the AI in the woman’s mind, her annoyance at the indestructible patience of the voice, the kindness with which it responded despite the insults she threw at it, the way she wanted it to lash out at her, just once. She saw the woman’s backstory unfold as a series of discussions with the house, the slow reveal of her past traumas, the way she would impose all her failed relationships on the voice of the house, the way the house would become haunted through the baggage that she herself brought, and the murder at the end, of course.

Outside Jenn’s window, the sun set, and the new moon threw the summer night into a darkness reminiscent of Halloween.

The story practically wrote itself.

*

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/