The Spot Writers – “I Wish I Were” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

The task for this prompt is to write a story with a strong focus on one of the four elements: earth, air, wind, or fire. The element can be literal or metaphorical, such as a character with a fiery personality.

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is currently in Berlin, Germany, doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects. Her YA novel “Mi chiamo Elisa” was published in Italy by “Le Mezzelane Casa Editrice” in September 2020 and recently in Turkey with the title “Benim adım Elisa”. Her children’s book “Şebnem ve Schrödinger’in Kedisi” was just published in Turkey by Sia Kitap and in Italy with the title: “Chiara e il Gatto di Schrödinger”.

***

“I Wish I Were” by Chiara De Giorgi

If I were air…

I would be a strong wind, an impetuous gust. I would pick up one who, trapped by invisible borders, cannot move from their land. I would lift them up, I would carry them far away. I would take with us the scents from their home, so they’ll live forever in their memory. Then I would become a soft breeze and gently deposit them in a new place, offer them one last hug before letting go.

If I were water…

I would be a clear and placid pool, making everything green and serene and pleasant around me just by being there. I would become a wave in the ocean, to play with the dolphins and the seagulls that fly free in the sky. I would be a roaring torrent that carries downstream impurities and errors and leaves the mountain clean and intact.

If I were fire…

I would be the flame of a candle breaking through the darkness, burning the words of a spell, written on a slip of paper by a benevolent witch. I would carry her wish to heaven, I would hold her hopes with me. Then I would become a bonfire that crackles and spreads warmth, that melts the chill clutching a heart.

If I were earth…

I would be dark, rich, soft. I would cherish the seeds entrusted to me, I would nurture and nestle them, and I would rejoice to see them grow, strengthen, extend until they pierce the surface and rise to the sky. I would be proud of them, pleased with the part I played in their growth.

If I were…

But I’m just a little dreamer.

I cannot fly, quench, burn, nurture.

I can only dream and offer my dreams to others.

Thus, perhaps, I can do, be… all.

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Spot Writers – “Water, water, every where” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is: write a story in which an element (earth, air, water, fire) plays a major role (either literally or metaphorically).

This week’s story is written by Phil Yeats. Last fall, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. For information about these books, visit his website–https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

*****

“Water, water, every where…” by Phil Yeats

The wind howled. Sheets of rain lashed the windows. The morning weather forecast predicted strong winds and rain, at times heavy, for the next twenty-four hours. Total rainfall could exceed 500 millimetres with a seventy-five percent probability of the river flooding its banks.

After a quick breakfast, Ben collected his rain gear, including the hip waders he’d bought during a short-lived enthusiasm for fly-fishing. He donned his rain jacket and shoved his sou’wester on his head before grabbing his briefcase and the rest of his gear. He hurried down the path to his car and threw everything in the back seat.

Inside his car, he assessed the situation. He’d been in the rain for barely a minute, but his jeans and shoes were already soggy. From the driver’s seat, he could observe the houses built behind insubstantial berms on the river’s floodplain. Their main protection was the slightly elevated road that paralleled the river, but the river, swollen with the spring’s snow melt, was already lapping against its edge. Flooding was inevitable.

He switched on the electric motor and headed for work. He had one pressing task that should take three to four hours. After that, he could return to help his neighbours fend off the encroaching river waters.

His house was not in danger. He’d built it on a ridge, a geological oddity that protruded from the otherwise flat river valley. The place where he parked his car was eight metres above the road, and his two-bedroom house, six metres higher. No floodwaters could reach that high.

When he built it, everyone thought he was crazy. In their view, no one in his right mind would incur the extra expense associated with building on the few pieces of elevated land. The flood plan had served their ancestors well, and it provided good soil for the extensive gardens they were all proud of.

But his neighbours endured serious floods in three times in the last five years, and they appeared set for another. Climate change, he thought as he drove along the river’s edge. The neighbours refused to accept it, but it must be the cause.

The storm delayed Ben’s arrival and caused one annoying disruption after another. As a result, his three-hour task took seven. He finally stepped from his office into the unrelenting rain at three thirty. Ten minutes later, he encountered a police road block where he would normally turn onto River Road.

“Road’s impassible,” the officer said. “Strong current and one to two feet of water on the road.”

He was still twenty minutes from home. His only option was an inland route to the wilderness park behind his property. He could park his car in the wilderness area’s parking lot and hike in from there.

In the carpark he considered his choices. One option was the rugged wilderness path. It descended into a ravine and then climbed the inland side of his ridge. From the lookoff at the summit, he could scramble down to his house. Or he could take the gentler, downhill path to the floodplain. From there, he would face two hundred metres wading along River Road to his driveway. He had his hip waders but no hiking boots. River Road seemed like the better choice. He gathered his gear and trudged down that path.

When he reached River Road, he wondered if he’d made the wrong choice. He was standing in thirty centimetres of muddy water. If he wandered off the pavement, it would get rapidly deeper, and the current was quite strong.

He was gazing about, trying to get his bearings for his walk along an invisible road in a wide expanse of water, when he noticed a tiny figure perhaps fifty to seventy-five metres away. He or she was standing, waving furiously, on a tree stump. The roadside stump would provide a good guidepost, and the person who appeared to be a child obviously needed help.

As he got closer, Ben recognized the little girl by the bright blue frames of her thick-lensed glasses. They identified her as Emily, the seven- or eight-year-old daughter of Hannah Savage, a single mother living in an illegal granny suite attached to a riverside house.

Emily began jumping up and down, pointing ahead along the river as Ben approached. “I can hear her,” she wailed. “She’s up that way. We must find her.”

“Who?” he asked when he reached the stump.

“Missy. We have to find her. She’ll be really scared.” Emily was soaking wet and shivering, but it was obvious nothing but Missy mattered.

“Missy, a little black and white terrier?” Ben asked.

“Alone in all that water. She’ll be so scared.”

“You sure she’s out there?”

“I can hear her barking.”

“Okay. Hang on. Call her, then wait quietly. We need a sense of the direction.”

“Missy!” she yelled, then clamped her mouth shut.

A few seconds later, they heard high-pitched barking, and she pointed again. Ben nodded before turning so she could climb on his shoulders.

They set off slowly because he had to locate solid footing. They soon came to some forlorn-looking bushes sticking out of the water. Past them, they could see the place where his driveway emerged from the water. The black and white dog was scampering back and forth at the water’s edge, her tail wagging furiously.

They reached dry land, and Emily slithered off Ben’s shoulders. She picked up the bedraggled Jack Russell terrier and hugged her. Ben was by choice a solitary individual who always kept his distance from others, but the reunion of Missy and Emily brought a tear to his eye.

A few minutes later, out of the rain inside his house, Ben found an adult T-shirt for Emily and his largest, fluffiest towel. He chased her into his bathroom. Missy was right on her heels.

“Take off your wet clothes and throw them in the tub. Get nice and dry, including your hair,” he called from the hallway. “Then put on the T-shirt and come out. We’ll wrap you in a nice soft blanket and get a fire started. You’ll be warm and toasty in no time. I’ll contact your mum. She’ll be worried about you. We must let her know you’re safe.”

“And Missy. Tell her Missy’s safe, too.”

Ben retreated to his living room to get a fire started. It was the only way he could quickly warm his solar heated house. Emily was shivering and her lips were blue. He knew nothing about children, but those couldn’t be good signs. Getting her warm was his obvious priority, but the longer-term implications of his serendipitous rescue of the little girl and her dog were already weighing on his mind.

Hannah Savage was a friendly young woman. She was always upbeat despite having a minimum wage job, few prospects, and responsibility for her eight-year-old daughter. At twenty-four, she was a year younger than him, and she’d done a little flirting he didn’t respond to.

She and Emily must now be homeless. The floor of her glorified shed was at ground level. The muddy water inside must be fifty centimetres deep and the municipality was certain to condemn it. He’d have to offer them temporary refuge if she had nowhere else for them to live, but he wasn’t happy about it. A relationship was not in his plans. Not now, and probably at no time in the foreseeable future.

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Spot Writers – “The Concert” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

Catherine A. MacKenzie’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone novel (18+), are available on Amazon.

The task for this prompt is to write a story with a strong focus on one of the four elements: earth, air, wind, or fire. The element can be literal or metaphorical, such as a character with a fiery personality.

Cathy continues with her Melvin character. Once she’s written enough stories about him and his family, she’ll compile them into a cohesive novel [albeit a short one—a novella, maybe—as she figures she’s soon gonna become tired of Melvin and his plight(s), real or imagined].

Anyhow, Kailani lurks somewhere within air, earth, and wind. Will this be the episode she’ll return? Read to find out…

***

“The Concert”

Marie and I are having a quiet day. The kids are away at a week’s summer camp. Marie’s knitting, and I’m scrolling through Facebook on my cell when I almost jump out of the chair.

“Marie! Marie!”

“Melvin! What in the world—”

“They’re coming, Marie. They’re coming to Halifax!”

“Who’s coming? Aliens?”

“That’s too funny, Marie. No, it’s my favourite group: Earth, Wind & Fire. Can’t believe it!”

“What!”

Marie doesn’t exactly toss her knitting needles in the air at the news as I expected her to, but I hear excitement in her voice until—

“Thought they were all dead. Haven’t heard of them for eons.”

“Maurice White, the leader, died a few years ago, but they’ve been touring for years. Never had a chance to see them in person before. We gotta go.”

“Can’t believe they’re coming here. We never get any of the good groups.”

“They are! Believe it!”

She sighs. “Not my cuppa, Melvin. You go.”

“You just said they were a good group.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to see them.”

“Aw, Marie. Be a sport. I don’t wanna go alone.”

“Oh, Melvin, give me a break. You’re such a child.”

“Please, Marie? It’d be so much fun. We can make a night of it. Ship the kids off to your mother. We could stay at the Lord Nelson. Go to a fancy din.”

She stares at me for several long seconds. Pondering. Changing her mind, I hope. Reconsidering, at least.

“I could stay at the hotel while you’re gone. Maybe find a spa. Ooooh, a nice relaxing massage would be lovely.”

“Aw, Marie. No. I’m sure they’ll sing their number one hit ‘Shining Star.’ You love that song. We played it at our wedding, remember?”

“I can go on YouTube and listen to it anytime I want.”

“Not the same, Marie. Not the same.”

“Oh, let me think on it.” She screws up her face as only Marie can. “Nope, I’d prefer a massage.”

“Well, I’m gonna buy two tickets. I know you’ll change your mind when the big night comes. You book the restaurant and the hotel. I’ll do the rest.”

I buy two tickets through the site Facebook directed me to. A bit pricey at $145 U.S. each, but what the hell, right? We only live once. I won’t tell Marie the price. She’ll blow a gasket. The tickets are on my phone, so she’ll never know.

July seventh arrives. We check into the Lord Nelson at 3 p.m. sharp. Gotta get every second out of our stay. After unpacking, we stroll across the street to the Public Gardens. Marie oohs and aahs at every blooming flower.

“You’re being such a sport, Melvin. I know you’re not interested in flowers. So, you know what?”

“What?”

“I’ll go with you tonight. Seeing as how you have two tickets. Waste not, want not, right?”

I squeeze her hand. (Yep, we’re actually holding hands! It’s like the second honeymoon we never had.) “Great, Marie. Thank you.”

She smiles.

The show starts at seven. At five o’clock, we saunter across the street to La Frasca Cibi & Vini, an Italian restaurant that Marie booked. I splurge on a bottle of rosé. Marie orders the handmade gnocchi. I have the pork ribs. Marie doesn’t stop raving about the gnocchi. I don’t stop raving about the ribs.

After I paid the (exorbitant) bill, we stroll down to the Scotiabank Centre. The evening is balmy. Perfect weather for kayaking but, instead, I’ll be seeing Earth, Wind & Fire. Even the lure of Kailani can’t keep me from the concert. My heart races in anticipation. I hum “Shining Star.”

I’m not surprised at the line-up when we arrive at the facility. A boisterous crowd. No doubt a sold-out show with stupid suckers hoping to buy seats. Waiting for the usual scalpers.

“Lots of kids here, Melvin.”

I look around. “Yeah, there is, isn’t there?” Kinda weird, but whatever.

There’s a buzz in the air. The line soon disappears into the building.

I pull up my tickets on my cell phone so they’re readily available.

When we reach the ticket taker, I thrust out my phone.

He has his scanner in hand. Scans the barcode. “Hmmm, something’s wrong,” he mumbles.

He’s old. Doddery. Not too smart.

“Not scanning.” He adjusts his glasses. Peers at my phone. Smiles. “Afraid you’re at the wrong venue, bud.”

My heart races. “What do you mean?” A second later, I clue in. “Oh, it’s at the Forum? No problem.” Plenty of time to get there.

Ticket man laughs. “Well, could be. Not sure what it’s called in Virginia.”

“Virginia? What do you mean?”

“Your tickets are for Earth, Wind & Fire in Halifax, Virginia. The good ole U S of A. You’re in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, bud. Tonight’s event is Merlin & Mercy, the Magical Duo.”

“What!”

Marie pokes me in my side, whispers, “Melvin, what have you done?”

I whisper back. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re such a duffus. How much did you pay for these tickets! These tickets we can’t use!”

Ticket checker motions to the right of me. “Please, move aside while you’re discussing your dilemma.”

“Dilemma? You’re darn tootin’ I have a dilemma.”

Marie latches to my arm. Hard. Tries to pull me back. “Come on. Can’t stay here.”

“Don’t you want to see Merlin & Mercy?” I ask.

“Sorry, bud,” ticket guy interjects. “Sold out. Move along, please.”

Nosey bastard. “Move along, please,” I mumble, mimicking the guy. Christ!

“Well, I guess it’s back to the hotel,” Marie says. “Maybe I’ll get my massage after all.”

“Guess so. Can’t get to Virginia in time for tonight’s show, that’s for sure.”

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

The Spot Writers – “Vanishing Violet” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The current prompt: write a poem or story in which one of the characters is a weather, personified. 

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

She continues with her wacky, weird Melvin character. She has become totally engaged with this character.

***

“Vanishing Violet” by Cathy MacKenzie

I’m a pariah, a scorned woman: loathed, mocked, neglected. No wonder I seek revenge. We women are like that, are we not?

I was betrayed in so many ways by Vincent—Vincent, whom I loved dearly. Never recovered from the demise of our relationship. My rage now gets the better of me more often than not.

When I saw the guy on the lake in his blue kayak and three kids in the other, I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t care whether they were males or females, adults or children.

In retrospect, I should’ve blown the adult to hell—not the youngsters. They were small. Innocent. Defenseless. They didn’t stand a chance after I’d blown my sorry stack.

I tried to make amends after I’d cooled down. I saved one—the form closest to the surface of the water. I blew that bloody body to shore, hoping he or she would survive.

After that, I flounced back across the waters, praying I could save the other two children. Alas, I couldn’t find either one. I saw the guy, though—a blatant bastard, posing in pretence upon the sandy shore. Oh, how I wish I’d hurricaned him back into the water and huffed and puffed until he vanished into the depths of Sinclair Lake as the two youngsters had.

Alas, my power dissipated, and I disappeared into the realm of the unknown.

Never fear: I shall return. All winds blow again.

And when I return, I’ll be Violent Violet once again. Violet without willpower. Violet, who blows her stack at the least little provocation. Violet seeking vengeance.

Man in the kayak: beware!

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

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