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The Spot Writers – “The Horologist” By Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “new years.” This week’s post comes to us from Val Muller, who wrote the following poem—on the theme of time—in memory of her father-in-law, who passed unexpectedly earlier this month.

 

The Horologist

By Val Muller

 

He was a warden of time,

Counting seconds, days, minutes, hours

With meticulous care.

His favorite color, green, is the hue of life and growth—

Like the internal ticking, the motion of movements and springs,

The eternal return of summers and springs

Even after the darkest winter—the color of forever.

 

A custodian of time, he measured days, minutes, hours,

Shepherding every ticking second

The way he protected his wife, his son, his loved ones.

He wound movements and restored clock faces,

Made memories and left smiles etched on cheeks.

He fixed hour hands and held frightened ones,

Restoring resonating chimes in the silence.

 

A steward of timepieces, he counted minutes, hours, and years.

He fixed broken clasps

And applied bandages to wounded knees.

He replaced scratched crystals and drained batteries,

Nursed his wife to health and helped his son allay fears.

He kept the right pace, luminous paint glowing on watch faces

And his luminous smile glowing through the years.

 

A warden of time, he counted days, hours, years,

Mechanical wonders keeping pace through the silence,

Making sense of Time, too great for our understanding.

He knows eternity now, but the gears he built remain,

His ticking wonders, luminous hands pointing our way

And the incandescence of his memory shining in every sunset

And the chimes of his clocks sounding a bit like forever.

 

The Spot Writers—our members:

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

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

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

http://www.kathylprice.com

 

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The Spot Writers – “Magic in a Gallery” by RC Bonitz

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about a statue.

Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.

Magic in a Gallery

 It wasn’t much of a gallery, an old barn remodeled and restored, sitting by the roadside with a sign out front. David Redmond Francis. Nothing but the name. Will figured the guy was either famous, pompous, or just plain promoting.

He’d driven by a hundred times on his route, always too busy to stop, but today he had some time. And a sudden growing curiosity. He pulled into the tiny parking lot and got out of his car.

The barn had partitions breaking up the space, separating rooms of sculptures one from another. Will wasn’t much for sculpture, but this guy Francis created interesting stuff. Will ambled through the first two rooms and turned a corner. And stopped.

A marble statue of a life sized woman stood on a pedestal at the center of the room. She took his breath away. Beautiful, elegant, glowing with life, she stunned his very soul. Supple muscles, faultless skin and an oh so lively face. He stood there, rooted to the spot, entranced and staring. The sculptor loved this woman; his love was there for all to see. Will shivered. He couldn’t fall in love with a statue, but she was working magic on his heart.

“She’s not for sale,” a woman’s voice said behind him.  

He didn’t turn. “She’s beautiful. Incredible.”

“She was his masterpiece. He never did another human figure.”

“When was she done? Carved or chiseled or whatever you call it.”

The woman laughed, a soft throaty laugh. “1989.”

He almost turned to face her, but the woman on the pedestal kept him hypnotized. “She must be about fifty now, the model I mean.”

“Fifty one.”

He gasped. “You know her?”

“She’s my mother,” the woman murmured.

He spun around- and stared. Dark hair and sparkling eyes, she wore a sleeveless dress, but her skin was smooth as glass, her body as elegant, her face as lovely as the sculpture. She was his statue come alive.

“You…” he trailed off, speechless.

“They say I look like her,” she said, then extended her hand. “I’m Kate. Kate Francis.”

With a nod he took her hand, warm and electric. “Will Dupont. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She smiled. “The pleasure is all mine.”

 ***

The Spot Writers- our members.

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller

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

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

http://www.kathylprice.com

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The Spot Writers – “The Wedding” by RC Bonitz

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to: use these five words: facts, solved, attention, airplane, bubbles.

 Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.  

 

The Wedding

 

The facts are simple. A bird flew right into my airplane windshield, shattered the darn thing, and spattered bubbles of his blood all over the place. Including the cockpit, me, and my rented tuxedo.

Bad enough he almost made me crash, but I’m on my way to a wedding and I’m running late. And it’s my wife’s cousin’s wedding, Sissy, who tells me off every time I see her. And my wife takes her side too. Oh crap.

Wind is whistling through the broken glass, spewing blood and feathers in my face. It takes my full attention just to keep this thing in the air- have to get ground under the wheels right quick. There’s an airport off to my left, small, with no control tower and a grass strip. I put down there and taxi to a stop near the one old rusty lonesome hangar. The place looks deserted.

I must look like I’ve been in a fight. Can’t go to the wedding like this. And how can I get there from here? Damn.

An engine roars behind me, out on the runway. Somebody doing touch and go landings. Got an idea, grab my radio as he takes off again.

“Cessna doing touch and goes at Shiloh strip. Come in please.”

“This is the Cessna. Are you the guy that just landed?” a sultry female voice says.

“That’s me. I have an emergency. Can you give me a ride to Portland?”

“If you buy the gas. Over.”

“Be glad to. Over.”

Wonderful, problem solved. Well, almost. My benefactor circles, lands and taxi’s over to where I am now standing beside my plane. She cuts the engine and pops out of the cockpit, grinning from ear to ear. Red hair and freckles, with a big smile, I’d guess she’s about twenty-five. The smile becomes a frown when she gets a look at me.

“Geez, did you have a fight with a vampire?” Then she spots the goose or duck or whatever it is sticking out of my windscreen. “Wow, you’re lucky you got down all right.”

“Sam Winters,” I say, offering my hand.” I’m on my way to a wedding.”

She gives me a firm handshake. “You can’t go to a wedding looking like that. I’m Aileen Boyle.”

“I have to. I’m going to be late.”

Aileen jerks her head, wanting me to follow as she heads off to the hangar. “There’s a men’s store about three miles from here. You can buy some new clothes. Wash up inside first though.”

It seems I’m in the hands of a bossy woman. If I want that ride to Portland, I guess I’m buying new clothes.

Which is exactly what happens. I wash up, buy new duds in a store she takes me too, change in the dressing room, and off we go, back to the airport where we take off in her Cessna. Twenty minutes later, engine roaring, we’re over Portland and she cuts back and descends.

“Where’s your car?” she asks as we taxi toward the parking lot.

“The silver SUV by the gate. How much do I owe you?”

“Make it twenty for the gas.”

She cuts the engine and we climb out. I take three twenties from my wallet.

“That’s too much,” she says quickly.

“You have to fly back and besides, you’re a life saver.”

She accepts the money and wraps her arms around me in a big hug. Man, she smells good.

“Good luck,” she says and climbs back into the plane.

 Fifteen minutes later I’m parking at the church as the bride and groom go dashing through a shower of rice and confetti. My wife spots me and strides across the yard to meet me, a frown creasing her brow.

“Where have you been? Where’s your tux?”

I tell her the story, every bit of it. Except one tiny little detail at the end. She’s very sympathetic and concerned. Until she leans over to kiss me. She stops, sniffs, sniffs again, scowls. “You smell like perfume. What did you do with that woman?”

Uh oh.

 ***

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

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

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

http://www.kathylprice.com

 

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The Spot Writers – “Bad, Bad Jimmy” by Cathy MacKenzie

Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. The prompt this time is to use the first line of a nursery rhyme or story as the first line. (Some of you may recognize Jimmy from the Grimes family!)

Cathy’s most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/329083

http://www.amazon.com/Between-These-Pages-ebook/dp/B00DP3RDOA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1372780978&sr=1-1&keywords=Between+These+Pages

(Watch for her next book of short stories, out soon!)

  

Bad, Bad Jimmy

 

“Little Jack Horner sat in the corner…”  The rhyme reverberated around six-year-old Jimmy.

Fascinated, the child stared at the corner. The wall bent unnecessarily, for why did the wall have to crease into two walls? He imagined how Jack Horner felt staring at a similar crimp. What was it with parents making kids face a corner? What could be more boring? But he figured that was probably the reason for the punishment—to make kids more bored than they already were. And he was bored. Too bored.

When Jimmy was bored, he got into mischief. He almost felt it was his duty to do so. What else did he have to do? His toys were boring. His room was boring. And, of course, what was he made of? Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails. No wonder he was bad. His parents continually chastising and nagging as if he were a grizzled, henpecked husband didn’t help his frame of mind.

Silently, he mouthed stories while pictures flashed before him: three profane pigs blowing down houses, three brainsick bears stealing porridge, a goosey girl dressed in red whose granny was eaten by a big bad wolf. The horror stories confused him. He was a kid, for Christ’s sake! Why did everyone read crazy tales to him? Why was his bookshelf filled with monsters and demons and why did things go bump in the night? And Christmas and Easter—what was it with green elves and obese bearded men and rabbits pretending to be santas doling out coloured eggs? He shuddered and folded his arms in an attempt to quell the tremors. His shivers grew bigger and bigger until he felt he’d explode. He imagined body parts and guts splattering around the room.  His mother would kill him if he dirtied the furniture, although his father would care only about his new recliner. Jimmy snickered. None of that would matter to him, not if he burst like an overblown water balloon. He’d be dead—unless he came back to haunt the living.

Jimmy gave up thinking of situations that would never come to pass. He squirmed so he could look around. His parents were gone. Probably up in the bedroom, he thought. Doing what? He didn’t want to dwell on that. He quit breathing while he listened. Silence. Dare he get up?

Yes, he could. When he heard his parents return, he could sneak back to his punishment place. He snickered. It was so easy to fool his mother and father, especially his mother. He relished in doing so. As often as he could.

When Jimmy snuck into the kitchen, his stomach growled. “I’m hungry,” he mumbled. Mean mother doesn’t feed me. After glancing at the clock, he spied the pie on the table. The crust, evenly browned and mounded high over an abundance of fresh fruit, lured him closer.

Little Jack Horner

Glad to be away from the corner, though standing before a forbidden pie, Jimmy snickered again. He knew full well it wasn’t full of plums. Who would make a plum pie? Not his mother, that’s for sure. Who’d eat a plum pie? Not him; not his father. Stupid, silly nursery rhyme.

He stuck out his thumb. Hmmm, he thought. Should I? No, who would do such an airheaded thing? Besides which, his mother would kill him if he helped himself to an uncut pie. But that luscious fruit that lay beneath the crust! Sweet, syrupy, succulent. He needed a taste.

Soundlessly, he opened the cutlery drawer and withdrew a sharp knife and fork. He listened. Nothing. Salivating, he moved toward the pie. His tongue swished around the inside of his mouth, searching and seeking sweetness. Saliva drooled from his lips. Just one bite. But how did one take a bite of pie without leaving damning evidence?

Jimmy pulled out a chair and kneeled on it. He inserted the knife between the glass pie pan and the bottom crust, slightly lifting the crimped edge. Carefully, he dug the fork into the back of the crust. Jimmy ignored his drool dropping on the pie, concentrating instead on not breaking the top crust.

Almost there, he thought, as the fork entered the fruity goodness. What kind? What kind? His stomach emitted a huge growl. Apple? Blueberry? At that moment, the crimped edging broke apart and the top crust cracked as if someone walked across a semi-frozen pond. Purple juice seeped through the furrow.

Jimmy’s stomach sank, his hunger pangs forgotten. The room swirled.

“Jimmy!” A voice bellowed.

Startled, the boy turned around to see his mother looming from the doorway. He stared at her for a second before turning back to the pie. The damage was already done. He’d be punished no matter what happened next. He jabbed the fork into the middle of the pie and pulled out a hunk of delectable goodness. Half of it dropped on top of the crust, the other half managed to complete the journey to his mouth.

“Get back to the corner,” his mother shrieked. “Bad, bad boy!”

Jimmy dropped the fork and screamed, “But I want pie.”

Facing the corner again, Jimmy sucked the traces of blueberry syrup from his fingers. Words reverberated around him: “What a good boy am I!”

 

 

***

 

The Spot Writers—our members.
RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

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

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

(website in progress)

 

 

 

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 Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. The prompt this time is to use three of the following words in the story: ridicule, laugh, spellbound, following, letter.

Cathy’s most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/329083

http://www.amazon.com/Between-These-Pages-ebook/dp/B00DP3RDOA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1372780978&sr=1-1&keywords=Between+These+Pages

 

The Letter

The letter arrived in the mail on June 7. The addressee, a bit disconcerting, jarred Mildred to attention, and she swiped at a tear. She stared at the tan envelope, noting the missing return address and non-existent stamp. She supposed the mail slipped undetected through the scanner. How else could it have made it to her box? One needed a key to open it. She cringed. Days of home delivery were long gone. Streets lined with mailboxes and red arrows pointing up or down made her feel warm and cozy, like living in a Norman Rockwell painting. Oh, for the good old days, she thought. But what the heck. Life moves on. Not like I’m old like my mother or grandmothers, rest their souls. Mildred felt it necessary to add “rest their souls.” She had heard that phrase so many times it was ingrained in her head.

She slammed the door of the mailbox and returned to her car. She threw the several pieces of mail on the passenger seat, ensuring the mailbox key went into her purse. She had lost the key once, only to have Ted, her husband, discover it on the driver’s seat. She wasn’t sure how it landed there. Probably slipped to her lap instead of in her purse or she forgot it was in her hand and let it drop between her legs. Luckily the key hadn’t been lost, or she would’ve had a hassle obtaining a replacement, and, most certainly, it wouldn’t have been an easy feat. Nor cheap. There’d be a fee, for sure. Canada Post wouldn’t give anything away.

Drat passing time and bills and mysteries, she thought, as she drove away. Mildred squinted into the sunlight. What was that ahead? A truck? A moving van? Why was it coming toward her, invading her lane? Where was the white dividing line? Despite sunglasses, the glare blinded her. What the dickens!

Mildred braked—just in time. So did the vehicle ahead, the one careening toward her. She glanced into the rear view mirror to see a van looming. She felt hemmed in, jammed between metal monstrosities, when all she wanted was to return home, plonk into her rocker, sip a cuppa. She rolled her tongue across her lips, tasting the tea she had leisurely sipped that morning—the English tea she loved so well—though she felt the blister on her tongue. And the bubble forming on her lip. I drank it too fast, she thought. Didn’t let it cool enough. Patience wasn’t one of her virtues.

Spellbound, she stared out the windshield. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She simply stopped at the community mailboxes, returned to her car, and drove. Minding her own business, for when did she ever interfere with other’s lives. Never, that’s when. And heck, if the sun happened to blind her, what could she do? And who told those vehicles to follow or drive toward her. No, she was right; they were wrong. Besides, she was in her nineties. Didn’t seniors deserve extra consideration?

A young man peered into her car. Mildred rolled down the window. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re driving too fast, lady.”

“Me?” Mildred looked around.

“Yes, you.”

“I’m just driving home. Need my afternoon tea, you know. And, lookie here.” Mildred produced the mystery letter. “Look at this. A mystery.”

“Mystery? You almost killed me.”

“I did not.”

“You did. Perhaps you’re too old to be driving.” The young man glared at her. “When’s the last time you had a driver’s test?”

“Driver’s test? Me?”

“Yes. You. You’re the problem. You seniors are always the problem. “

“Sonny, watch your tongue. I’m a fine, upstanding citizen.”

“Yeah, right. Kill someone and see what happens to you then.”

“I didn’t kill anyone. I was minding my own business until you arrived.” Mildred paused. “Did I show you my mystery letter?”

The man glared at her. “I don’t care about your letter. I just want to ensure the roads are safe. They’re not safe with you on them, ma’am.”

Mildred opened her mouth, then thought better of it. She could ridicule him all she wanted, but what good would that do? He’d continue to glare, daring her to proceed with her tirade. No, she’d be the good person. She’d shut up.

“I have to go. My tea is waiting.” Mildred rolled up the window. The man, brandishing his arms, sauntered back to his car.

Mildred until the vehicles dispersed. She didn’t want to be accused of any further disturbance. Once alone, she admitted she was, perhaps, too old to drive. But she didn’t want to give up her “wheels,” as the youngsters referred to vehicles. What would she do? There was no public transportation in her residential area. She’d be stuck at home, bored and lonely. No, she couldn’t give up her car. She’d have to be more careful in the future. Her livelihood depended upon it. She didn’t want to wither away like some decrepit old soul without a life.

She drove into the driveway of her small bungalow, grabbed her purse and the mail from the seat, and entered the house. After she put on the kettle, she stared at the mysterious, non-descript envelope. She should toss it in the trash. If someone wasn’t decent enough to affix a return address, she shouldn’t have to waste time opening it. She rationalized a missing return address was the same as a private or blocked number on the telephone. She ignored those phone calls, just as she should ignore unknown envelopes. What if they contained anthrax or another legal powder? What right did people have to disguise themselves, hide behind blocked numbers and missing return addresses? If someone couldn’t announce his or her presence, so be it.

Despite strong feelings of retaliation, she felt pulled toward the plain envelope. Her long nail slid across the flap. She pulled out the paper. One sheet.

The paragraphs—blocks of letters—loomed before her. Though too many words and sentences blurred her eyes, several lifted from the page. The important ones. Estate of Mildred Simpson … tax return … unfiled … penalty … interest … outstanding amount….

Her face flushed, then turned white. What!

Mildred dropped the letter before racing to the mirror. Her face. Was that her? She flattened wayward hairs on the top of her head. I am alive. I’m alive. Dratted mail system. Dratted government. She greedily gulped a needed breath.

Mildred’s next thought was her driver’s license. Had it expired?

 

***

 

The Spot Writers- our members.
 RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 Val Muller

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

 Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 Melinda Elmore

http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

 

 

 

 

 

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The Spot Writers – “November 1957” by RC Bonitz

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt is to use three of the following words in the story: ridicule, laugh, spellbound, following, letter

 

Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.  

 

Next week’s story will be by Val Muller, author of FOR WHOM MY HEART BEATS ETERNAL, a sci-fi romance, and CORGI CAPERS: DECEIT ON DORSET DRIVE, a mystery novel for young readers.

 

November 1957

 

The letter came in the mail two weeks before Thanksgiving. He scanned it quickly and let out a whoop of joy. Wonderful letter, delightful letter. His friend Mac wanted to double date when he got home from college for Thanksgiving, Mac with Terry (they’d been an item for some time now) and he with Karin. She was willing to go out with him!

Karin had turned him down about three months ago. Of course, he’d asked her to the movies when she worked there. Fool. But apparently she’d forgiven or forgotten. Never mind a letter for his answer. He picked up the phone

Thanksgiving weekend, Saturday actually, Mac and Terry picked him up and then they picked up Karin. Now he’d met dozens of girls since he went to college, blind dates mostly. So, he should have been cool with Karin. But he wasn’t. They were both stiff and awkward in the backseat of Mac’s Chevy.

They had tickets to a square dance, presented by Terry’s Mom. But the hall was dark when they arrived, the dance scheduled for the following weekend. Oh crap, he thought, but Karin suggested they listen to records at her house.

Listen they did, and danced too, in the playroom in the basement undisturbed. He was oblivious to Mac and Terry, couldn’t tell you what they did or said. But Karin- he was spellbound, dancing, talking the whole night. And then, after a long slow dance, he knew. Sure as he was standing there with her, no doubt about it. He didn’t propose, not him. He made it a pronouncement.

“I’m going to marry you,” he said.

She stared at him, dumbstruck. But she didn’t pull away. She didn’t laugh or choke or ridicule him.

“Well?” he asked.

“You certainly are original.”

“I mean it.”

She smiled. “I know.”

“And?”

“I barely know you.”

He smiled. She hadn’t said no.

He’d just turned eighteen, she would in another month. They married a year later.

 

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

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

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Melinda Elmore

http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

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The Spot Writers – Chapter 28

This week’s chapter comes from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series for young detectives and For Whom My Heart Beats Eternal, a time travel trio. Find out more at www.valmuller.com and www.corgicapers.com

Next week’s post will come from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out her two books of poetry and three books of short stories available on Smashwords.

* * *

Chapter 28

Remy sat in the small break room, Sam’s coat wrapped around her shoulders like a blanket. The police officer who sat across from her had convinced her to press charges, and he was jotting down the last of her statement. Remy looked around the room dizzily. The fluorescent lighting seemed to shine right into her brain. It was nauseating. And she couldn’t stop shaking, either. As she snuggled into Dr. Sam’s coat, she wasn’t sure it was just a matter of the cold, either. In a matter of moments, she had been asked to recall her whole sordid history with Jeremy. She could barely believe that the man who now sat outside in handcuffs, the man with the rapidly-swelling chin and drunken scowl, was the same man she had once dreamed of dating. She shook her head: she had always been bad with first impressions. It explained her bad luck with dating.

“Anything else?” Officer Dunlap asked.

“What else could there be?” Remy sighed. “Mistaken love at first sight, drunken jealousy, grief turned to craziness at his mother’s funeral? And a stalker, to boot. I sure hope there’s nothing else.” She longed for a normal, boring life. She’d had enough drama for a while.

“Okay,” the officer said. “If we have any follow-up questions, we’ll be in touch. We’ll look into this Barbara person, too, but if she bothers you again, you should contact us.”

Remy  nodded and snuggled into the coat. Then a shadow darkened the doorway, and Remy looked up. It was Sam.

“I’ve decided to press charges, too,” he said. “The boy was trespassing on my property and endangering my clients—and my employees.” His eyes found Remy’s.

Officer Dunlap nodded. “We were just finishing up here. If you don’t have anything else to add to your statement, Ma’am, you can—”

“No, let her stay here,” Sam said. “We can talk in my office.”

The officer nodded and followed Dr. Sam out the door. A heartbeat later, Irene flew into the break room and sat down next to Remy.

“My goodness!” she squealed, grabbing Remy’s hands.

Remy raised an eyebrow. “Were you listening at the door?”

“What?” Irene asked.

“You came in here so soon after the cop left, you must have been listening at the door.”

“Not me,” Irene insisted. “Dr. Sam. He was listening in. He said even if you didn’t press charges, he was going to. He wanted to make sure you told the cops everything you knew. Said he didn’t want you to go easy on Jeremy. Said the punk doesn’t deserve it.” Irene squealed again. “Did you see him lay out that punch? I mean…”

Remy couldn’t help the smile in the corner of her mouth.

“Anyway, Dr. Sam asked me to come in and sit with you as soon as the cop left. Said he didn’t want you to be by yourself.”

“Why? I’m a big girl.”

“But look, you’re still shaking.” Irene picked up Remy’s arm and held it in front of Remy. As soon as she let go, Remy’s arm started shaking. Remy pulled it down, squeezing it into her torso to steady it.

“Probably just shock,” she said. “Jeremy scared me. I’ve never been threatened like that. The guy needs help.”

The two sat in silence for a while. Remy kept her face grim and unchanging. Though somewhere deep down was an infatuation about her new hero, she would not allow such an idea to flood her consciousness until she had recovered from the shock of the incident. But Irene was clearly replaying the heroic occurrence in her mind: every now and again, her face cracked into a smile, and the semblance of a blush even crept across her cheeks. Then her face would blanch again, and she stared out into the distance with Remy, only to smile again a few moments later.

“Do you have anyone you can spend the night with?” Irene asked finally. “Or maybe someone who can just sit with you until you go to bed tonight?”

Remy shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl, remember?”

“No,” Irene said. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight. I have plans, but I’m going to cancel them. I’ll come to your place and sit up with you for a while. We’ll order take-out, and…”

“I’m fine,” Remy insisted. “Don’t cancel your plans on my account. I’ll be fine alone. You go have fun.”

“Yes,” Dr. Sam said, coming into the break room. “Go fulfill your plans, Irene. I’ll take Remy home and make sure she’s okay. Irene, see if my last two appointments will be able to reschedule. I’ll stay open late on Thursday to accommodate them if they’re able.”

Irene scowled.

“I’ll pay you overtime,” Dr. Sam offered. “It’s not every day something like this happens. Closing the office is justified. Remember, overtime on Thursday.”

Irene’s scowl melted, and she left to make the appropriate phone calls.

Alone in the room with her protector, Remy couldn’t take her eyes off Dr. Sam. Suddenly, his coat was much too hot, and she felt her face flush. And adding to the growing heat in her heart was the fact that as she stared into his eyes, Dr. Sam Kendrick stared right back.

* * *

The Spot Writers- our members:

RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Deborah Dera
http://www.deborahdera.com

Jessica Degarmo
http://www.jessicadegarmo.com

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The Spot Writers – Chapter 27

Chapter 27 of Remy’s story comes to us from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART, A LITTLE BIT OF BLACKMAIL, and the recently released sequel A LITTLE BIT OF BABY. Find buy links at http://www.rcbonitz.com

Next week’s chapter will come from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series for young detectives and For Whom My Heart Beats Eternal, a time travel trio. Find out more at www.valmuller.com.

The Spot Writers’ blogs appear at the end of this story. Don’t forget to check them out.

***

 

Chapter 27

Remy did her best to remain calm and professional as the afternoon patients came and went, but it was hard. Dr. Sam tried to play it cool too, but his eyes twinkled every time he looked at her. He was clearly in a tizzy and her heart reacted, beating harder and faster as the day went along. Until four o’clock.

A patient entered the waiting room, Mrs. Timmons, a tiny ancient woman who’d been a regular patient for quite some time. Remy barely said hello when the door slammed wide open and Jeremy strutted in with a savage scowl on his face.

“There you are. You ignored my texts all day,” he growled.

“I’m working, Jeremy. I can’t deal with you now.” Remy said as calmly as she could.

“Like hell. Come with me. Now!” he barked as she took a step back.

“What’s wrong with you? Calm down,” she hissed, backing up against the wall.

“We need to get you fitted for a ring. I can’t wait any longer!”

His face had contorted into a mask of rage, and Remy trembled at the sight of him. Mrs. Timmons and Irene stared at him in petrified horror.

Remy took a deep breath and shook her head. “I can’t help you with Barbara. I’m not going to pretend we’re getting married.”

“Who’s pretending? Come on,” he roared and reached to grab her arm. He staggered and she realized he was drunk again.

“Please leave, Jeremy, or I’ll call the police,” she snapped, trying to sound strong and brave- and surprising herself by the fierce tone in her own voice.

He reached for her again and she heard the door to the inner office open.

“Get lost, jerk.”

The voice was Dr. Sam’s and it had a hard grating quality to it that drew Jeremy’s attention.

“Bug off, bud. This is between me and Remy,” Jeremy snarled.

“Sorry, wrong answer. Now get out of here before we call the police like the lady said,” Dr. Sam said, sounding totally cool but in control.

“Bug off,” Jeremy said again and stumbled forward to wrap his hand around Remy’s wrist.

He never closed his grip. Sam’s fist connected with his jaw and Jeremy collapsed in a heap at his feet.

Remy gasped. Jeremy groaned and rubbed his chin.

“Hooray!” cried Mrs. Timmons.

Sam brushed his other hand across his knuckles and grinned at Remy. “Sorry about that. I’m usually civilized.”

“You hit him,” Remy mumbled, unable to turn her eyes away from his.

“He was about to grab you. He might have hurt you.”

“I know,” Remy murmured. Her heart melted.

***

The Spot Writers- our members:

RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Deborah Dera
http://www.deborahdera.com

Jessica Degarmo
http://www.jessicadegarmo.com/

 

 

 

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The Spot Writers – Chapter 24

This week’s chapter comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out her two books of poetry and three books of short stories available on Smashwords, at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/camack.

 Next week’s chapter will be by Val Muller, author of the CORGI CAPERS, DECEIT ON DORSET DRIVE and newly-released, Halloween-themed CORGI CAPERS: THE SORCERESS OF STONEY BROOK, a mystery series for young detectives, as well as the sci-fi-time-travel-romance FOR WHOM MY HEART BEATS ETERNAL.

 The Spot Writers’ blogs appear at the end of this story. Don’t forget to check them out.

***

 Chapter 24

“Oh, Irene. He is not.”

“Remy, I wouldn’t lie to you. He is. Seriously. And I don’t think you get it.”

“Irene, stop.”

“Remy. Stop and smell the roses. I know you were out with him one night. And I know you had fun. If Jeremy weren’t around, you’d pay more attention to Sam. I know you would.”

“But, Irene. Jeremy aside, I thought you wanted him?”

“Me?” Irene laughed. “No, not me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Hey, I didn’t want to say anything. Sam knows, so I might as well tell you. I’m gay.”

Remy, stunned, stared at Irene. “You’re what?”

“Don’t look at me like I’m a freak or something.”

“No, it’s not that. Not that at all,” Remy said. “That’s your business. Just surprised.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve known since I was a child. Not something I broadcast.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. I understand completely. I really do. Like I said, I was just surprised. I had no idea. I thought you were married once?”

“Yeah, I was. A long time ago. Didn’t last. I wonder why.” Irene laughed. “I apologize, too, if I’ve been a bit difficult to get along with lately. It’s not you. I’ll do better. I promise.”

“No need to apologize,” Remy said. “We all go through rough patches every now and then.”

Remy wondered if Irene’s problem, or problems, had to do with her lover, if she even had one. She decided it would be rude to ask if she was involved with anyone. I’ll leave that for another conversation, she thought. Or wait till she volunteers.

“Okay, then. So, is it gonna be a busy day today?” Remy figured she needed to change the subject, get back to business.

“Oh, who knows in this place,” Irene said. “But, I’m telling you. Give Sam another look, okay? I’ve known him for several years, and he really is a nice guy. A really nice guy.”

“You mean you knew him before you started work here?”

“Yes. He’s an old family friend. He was looking for a new receptionist. So, the rest is history, as they say.”

Remy pondered Irene’s words for several seconds. “But, one shouldn’t mix business with pleasure is my philosophy.”

“Hey, you’re a good worker. You have lots of knowledge and all. You’d have no problem getting another job, if you needed to. But, I know you won’t have to. Give him a chance, okay? And now I’m shutting up. The rest is up to you. I’m done talking about it.”

Remy laughed. “Okay, then. No more discussion on Dr. Sam. You’ve made your point. Like you said, it’s up to me now.”

“Yes, back to work. But, remember, I did warn you about him. He’s on a tear.”

***

Even though the day began slowly, it turned busy before Remy had a chance to wonder too much about either Sam or Jeremy. Sam did seem to be upset about something, but Remy stayed out of his way unless it was absolutely necessary. With the office overflowing with patients, she didn’t have to worry about Sam loitering around the front desk, and she was grateful that Irene took the lead if something was needed of Sam so she didn’t have to deal with him.

Remy had brought her lunch, so when the opportunity presented itself, she retreated to the lunch room, grateful for time alone.

***

The Spot Writers- our members:

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller

http://www.valmuller.com/blog

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Deborah Dera

http://www.deborahdera.com

Jessica Degarmo

http://www.jessicadegarmo.com/

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