The Spot Writers – “Ridgewood Point”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story that contains a tomato, a cloaked individual, and a missing shoe.

This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her writings have been published in numerous print and online publications. New under her writerly belt is THREE HEARTS, a memoir eight years in the making about her son’s last days and the aftermath. Available locally from her or on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589197.

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

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Ridgewood Point

When I was younger, I often saw her at Ridgewood Point, the wind blowing her crimson cloak about her. Sometimes she’d have the hood over her head, covering her hair; other times, her auburn hair blew free. She reminded me of Little Red Riding Hood. Would she fare better than Red?

We were a happy family of four then: my parents, me, and my older sister, Clementine.

I hadn’t thought of the sightings in years, but when I was an adult and watched the tomato fly through the air, it brought back memories of her standing at the Point, what with her red cloak and the ocean below crashing into the rocks. The tomato’s plop against the wall wasn’t nearly as loud as the ocean’s crash, but that was when I pictured her demise. Pushed over the cliff, her flowing cloak would surely resemble the blood-red tomato flesh splattering every which way.

Hubert and I had been happy—I thought—until we weren’t. And then, of course, that’s when problems started. 

The day of Hubert’s last, I was slicing tomatoes from the garden. I’d collected a basket of the overly ripe, plump fruit. But when the scene flashed again: me catching my husband and Clementine in our matrimonial bed not a week prior, I lost it. Yeah, I told Hubert I’d forgiven him. Told my sister the same. But what woman would have forgiveness in her heart after finding her husband in bed with her sister? No one! No, I hadn’t forgiven either one. Merely spouted words they hoped to hear so they could absolve themselves of sin.

I never did handle rejection well. Both were aware of that. Yet they continued their lives, seemingly without a care, while my insides simmered as if I were a pot of water trying to boil on the stove.

I lost my cool. Tossed a tomato at the wall. The second and subsequent (I didn’t count them) hit Hubert. And then I hacked him to death with our brand new knives. Couldn’t discern whether tomato flesh or human flesh when I was done.

I left the mess. Raced to the Point. And—I was in luck! There she was: Clementine, wearing that same stupid red cloak. Not sure of her purpose going to the cliff’s edge so often. I thought she’d gotten over that kick once she grew up. I sure got tired of it. Figured she did, too, but obviously not. I would’ve killed her, too, but the wind, who felt my fury, did the deed. Clem stepped a little too close to the edge. The wind did the rest.

I almost clapped with glee.

Carefully, I crept towards the ledge and peered down. She lay at the bottom, sprawled across boulders. Had to be dead. Whew!

I turned to head back. Had to clean up the tomato mess. But—wait… What? Clem’s cloak! It was draped over a bush. I could’ve sworn it went with her.

And then I stumbled. And fell.

I managed to stand.

But my shoe! My right shoe was missing.

The wind suddenly turned vicious. Dark clouds overpowered the sun, which usually shines at that time of day. I swear I heard Clementine in the distance, as well as Hubert. The two of them: traitors. Yet, I suppose, happily together in death.

I searched and searched. To no avail. If my shoe had skidded down the cliff, I was doomed. I thought the wind was on my side; was that not the case? I was too scared to return to the edge. Who knew what that nasty wind might do.

Besides, what good would come of it? There was no way anyone could reach her—or my shoe—not without a boat.

And I didn’t have access to a boat.

I was doomed.

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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.ca/

The Spot Writers – “The Stranger on the Beach” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story that starts with “The stranger appeared…” This week’s contribution was written by Phil Yeats.

In April, 2024, Phil published The Body on Karli’s Beach, the third book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore Nova Scotia town. For information about these books, and The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

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“The Stranger on the Beach” by Phil Yeats

The stranger appeared on the beach beside the island’s only decent harbour. It was midwinter and several days of particularly harsh weather had closed it to all marine traffic. The fog lifted for a few moments. George, the village drunk, waiting on the harbour pier for the pub to open, noticed him.

He headed toward the village, and George followed. He only occasionally glimpsed sight of the stranger in the fog, but had no trouble following as the interlopercursed loudly as his hard-soled city-slicker shoes slipped and slid on the icy road.

They progressed through the village and up the road, turning onto the long drive to the island’s largest house. It belonged to a summer visitor. The fog thinned as they approached the house, so George stopped well back, hidden by a large tree. He watched the stranger unlock the door and let himself in. There was no way this young stranger was the homeowner, the old fart who spent his summers criticizing George’s depravedlifestyle. He checked his watch before hurrying away.

The pub would now be open, and he had a compelling story to tell.One that would surely keep him well-supplied with beer for the evening. George got his fill of beer, all paid for by others, and everyone else, their fill of skeptical speculations. Most focused on how someone could appear on their beach in such inclement weather.

The next evening, Charles Abercrombie visited the pub. He was the self-declared mayor of the island’s unincorporated village, but seldom entered the establishment.

“I’ve visited the stranger at the hill house,” he said. “His name is Daniel Smith. He has a letter of introduction. He’s here to do some repairs in the house before Mr. Wentworth arrives in the spring.” Charles turned and left the pub without engaging in conversation. He was a teetotaller and wanted out of such a den of iniquity before the patrons, led by George, insisted he buy a round.

Over the next weeks, strange things happened. Mrs. Weebly’s missing cat returned. He was thinner than when he disappeared ten days earlier, but that was a good thing. She overfed the poor beast and kept him cooped up inside her winterized cottage. One morning, the postman found old Mr. Dobson’s tumble-down front fence with a gate that wouldn’t close upright with a smoothly functioning gate. The Brown’s wayward daughter, who’d left home at seventeen ten years earlier, returned cradling a baby with a husband in tow. The raucous-sounding motor on George’s fishing boat suddenly sounded smooth as siIk. I could add more examples, but you get the idea.

The nightly conversation in the pub became increasingly animated, and the tone changed to a mixture of skepticism and wonder. All these positive events happened after the stranger arrived in the hill house. He remained in residence—lights went on and off in the evening and the early morning—but none other than George the drunk and Charles the mayor had seen him. Neither was a reliable witness. George would do anything for a free drink, and Charles, anything to puff up his feeling of self-importance. Was he real or an apparition?

Nothing was resolved until Mr. Wentworth arrived in the spring. He told the pub’s patrons he found no evidence of anyone living in his house over the winter and denied hiring anyone to work there. “But,” he added, “several problems I planned to tackle in the coming weeks have mysteriously righted themselves.” He bought a round for everyone in the crowded watering hole and joined the conversation. The skeptics were silenced. Wonderment ruled.

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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/