The Spot Writers – “Incomplete” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

The task this month is to write a story where something yellow is important in the plot. It can be any object or whatever yellow you can think of.

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. 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”.

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Incomplete by Chiara De Giorgi

Yellow is the colour of the in-between. It doesn’t have green’s peacefulness, and it is not furious like orange. It’s when things are just almost good, but not exactly bad.

Yellow is feeling wide awake at 6 am on a day when you planned to sleep in and not knowing what to do with all the extra time. Yellow is one of your best ideas being implemented by someone else. Yellow is a phone call you’ve been waiting for coming just when you’re listening to your favourite song. Yellow is being reminded you are nothing in the grand scheme of things. Yellow is a painting you cannot give the last brushstroke to. Yellow is when your wish comes true but not in the way you had envisioned so you are disappointed but cannot show it. Yellow is wanting but not daring to hope. Yellow is not enough light to read by but too much to fall asleep. Yellow is realising you are replaceable. Yellow is a good story with a crappy ending. Yellow is going out of your way to do something that for others is ordinary and no one will ever know how much it took. Yellow is dreaming of the wrong person. Yellow is being bothered by a messy room but not quite caring enough to straighten it up. Yellow is someone reading between the lines things you never wrote. Yellow is a strong black tea with no milk. Yellow is having a good book but no time to read. Yellow is having a lot to say but no voice. Yellow is when butterflies stop fluttering, but ice hasn’t settled yet. Yellow is being restless but not upset. Yellow is settling for content because you can’t be happy.

***

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 – “A River of Deadly Gas” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

The task this month is to write a story where something yellow is important.

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 last month. For information about these books, visit his website–https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

*****

“A River of Deadly Gas” by Phil Yeats

On Tuesday morning, in the middle of a major heat wave, I noticed the yellow tape as I walked to work. It reminded me of crime scene tape in police dramas, but this stuff was there for pedestrian traffic control. The tape stretching across the sidewalk between pylons said, ‘Caution. Sidewalk closed. Use opposite side.’ in stark black letters.

I’d been seconded to our environmental engineering firm’s regional office. We were cleaning up an industrial site near a small city on the Canadian prairie. Mosquitos and horse flies in a cow town where everyone drives overpowered pickup trucks was not my idea of a dream assignment, but such was life. My job was well paid, but it took me to industrial cesspools, not pristine beaches. And I wasn’t the world’s best traveller. I focused on getting back to the comforts of home rather than searching for interesting new experiences.

“Bloody nuisance,” I muttered as I watched the traffic barrelling down Main Street at something approaching highway speed. I could retreat two blocks to the nearest traffic light, or challenge the cowboys in their pickups.

Miracle of miracles, a gap like the Dead Sea parting appeared, and I dashed across.

I wondered, as I hurried along the busy street, why two downtown blocks, and the side street separating them, were cordoned off.

That evening on the way to my temporary digs, I diverted when I reached the cordoned off area. It now extended another block north along Main Street and two blocks east along the side street between Main and the river. I walked to the river, then south along the riverfront. I couldn’t easily return to Main because the structure for a bridge across the river separated the cordoned-off northern sidewalk from the southern one. I strode under the bridge approach and back to Main without having a good view of the six-block area isolated by the yellow warning tape.

During my perusal, I noticed two things. First, I saw very little activity inside the cordon. Second, workers were constructing a more substantial barrier along the outside edge of the sidewalk at the northeast corner.

At home, I searched the town website, the local news outlets, and social media for insights, but found nothing. I went to bed annoyed that I hadn’t learned more, but couldn’t pursue it. I was leaving the next day for a three-day trip to review sampling protocols at our active remediation sites.

Friday afternoon, as I drove the company SUV along Main Street, I noticed the changes at the construction site. The entire site appeared to be surrounded by a bright yellow wall. I parked on the next block and strode back to investigate.

The bright yellow wall was three metres high. Its colour reminded me of elemental sulphur, and when I got as close as I could to it, I thought I could detect the odour emitted by impure samples of natural sulphur. The wall was fifty centimetres from the edge of the sidewalk and cantilevered outward at the top. A vertical metal screen that extended from the top to the ground protected its outer surface.

Seconds after I approached the wall, a security guard accosted me. He refused to explain anything and insisted I move along if I wanted to avoid arrest. I abandoned my investigation and returned to my vehicle.

In our regional office, I was swept into the pandemonium that too often accompanies serious crises. I joined a lively discussion led by the company CEO. He apparently arrived from headquarters earlier that day. As the conversation jumped from one topic to another, I pieced together the story.

Extreme heat in the tundra released toxic heavier-than-air gas that was flowing south. We were in the path of the river-like flow. Animals and a few humans succumbed to the river of gas in the remote regions it traversed. It was now approaching more populated areas. The barricade around several downtown blocks was an attempt by the local civic authorities to provide a sandbag-like barrier that would protect the city core.

“And the coating of sulphur on the outer wall?” I asked.

“Not clear,” our CEO replied. “A concoction of elemental sulphur and ground pyrite.”

“What!” someone exclaimed.

The CEO cracked a smile. “The city acted without informing provincial officials or consulting federal partners. No explanation of what they’re doing or why.”

“Utter chaos,” the intervener added. “Where do we stand?”

“Part of a joint federal provincial task force. They need our expertise in remediation and clean-up.” The CEO paused, gazing around the room. “Time to shift from the general discussion and to our specific tasks.”

Three hours later, I headed home. My responsibilities were clear and my work schedule for the next weeks was laid out. We faced a month-long effort that would start in the morning at 8 a.m. I stopped at a pub for a late supper and a chance to think.

We faced a mountain of unknowns starting with the nature of the colourless dense gases comprising the flow. Increasing release of methane from melting permafrost was a well-known global warming problem. We’d also expect lower concentration releases of ethane and other alkanes. Methane and ethane were lighter than air, so they’d escape to the upper atmosphere. Propane and butane were not. They could be responsible for the ground level flow.

Someone suggested release of noble gases could be part of the problem. Helium from the melting permafrost was inevitable, but it was so light it would escape to outer space. Neon was also lighter than air, so it would escape to the upper atmosphere. Argon was the most common noble gas. It comprises one percent of the air we breathed. It’s denser than oxygen and nitrogen, but not dense enough to form a separate ground-hugging layer. Krypton and xenon were dense enough, but their global concentrations are far too small.

Nope, I thought as the server arrived with my dinner. Propane and butane are the only likely candidates. I couldn’t understand why their role wasn’t already established, but I put that question aside. Next problem. How could we trap a near-ground flow of pentane and butane? It should be simple, but the gas was thinly spread over a large area. And why did they plaster bright yellow sulphur on the outside of the barricades? I had no answer for that one.

*****

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 – “One Boring Day” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

The task this month is to write a story where something yellow is important in the plot. It can be any object but using the colour yellow or whatever yellow you can think of.

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.

Last month, Cathy continued Melvin’s story. If you’ll recall, Melvin was in rant-mode, upset at the world, what with a dragging winter and spring, not to mention Covid and his usual life issues. He was looking forward to summer—to be kayaking and, hopefully, seeing Kailani again…

***

“One Boring Day” by Cathy MacKenzie

I yawned and lazily rolled over, sensing without reaching across the bed that Marie was long gone. A second later, I heard dishes rattling in the kitchen. A little too loudly for my liking, almost as if to tick me off. And on a Saturday when a man should be able to rest in peace!

Despite wanting to satisfy my growling stomach, I pulled the comforter over my head to drown out the echoes in the hopes of another hour of shut-eye.

Didn’t work.

I got up. Joined the dull, gloomy day with its forecast of rain.

The rainy morning passed, as boring as Saturdays always are in this household. The kids were with their grandparents for the day, which gave major respite, and after lunch, Marie left for her quilting bee. Or maybe it was her knitting klatch—whatever it is she does with her group of women. Most likely gossiping and such.

After lunch, I napped on the couch. Woke up around two o’clock to a bright light streaming through the living room window.

I raced to the window. Had to shade my eyes from the blinding ball.

The sun!

The rain had ceased, and the lake was as calm as melted butter on a sweltering summer’s day.

My heart raced! Kayak time? Could it be?

Yes!

My mouth salivated. Would this be the first time this season to see Kailani?

I changed into shorts and T-shirt, grabbed the cabin keys, and sprinted down the narrow path to the lake. All the while, my heart beat a million miles a minute. Anticipation, of course!

I unlocked the cabin door. My kayak, which I had named the “Blue Origin” after Bezo’s rocket ship, rested on the red shag rug, where I’d left it in the fall. I dragged it out of the cabin and onto the lawn. I returned inside for the paddle and life vest. Gotta be safe in the great big sea, right? Can’t take chances on a storm coming out of nowhere. Gotta be prepared at all times. I learned my lesson the hard way though I do believe all three of my kids wore life vests. Whether they did or not, one died: William, my only son.

I looked to the sky, to the ball of yellow that still nearly blinded me. I shook my fist at the heavens, at a god that would take my only son. He—God—wasn’t watching, of course. Never is. Doesn’t pay attention to us atheists; I’m quite certain of that. Never mind. Kailani will make me forget my troubles.

I hauled everything down to the water.

Porters Lake, connected to the Atlantic Ocean near Lawrencetown Beach, was as calm as it had appeared from the house. Looks are often deceiving, but—hurrah!—not on this day. The sun beat down, hot to trot on this early June day. Had to have been close to ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Just as I like it.

I waded into the nippy water and hopped in the kayak. Off I went, paddling into the middle of the lake toward the beckoning myriad of small islands. A body could get lost on one of them—if one so desired—perhaps never to be found again. Even someone not-so-desiring.

A sudden thought! Could William be stranded on one of them? Could he be awaiting rescue by his father? It had been many months since he disappeared—gone all winter, in fact—but miracles happen, right?

I was close to home, not down the lake to the right where we’d had our mishap the previous summer. No way could he be here. He’d be out farther, at the other side of the lake and closer to the ocean, where the waves and wind would have taken him, not in this calm area.

I shook my head. Memories, be gone! Look to brighter things. Kailani—the gorgeous mermaid who’d come to me the previous summer and took me for a soaring kayak ride into the sky and deposited me safely back on ground. We’d soared as if my kayak was Santa’s sled. And me—it was as if I were Santa, high upon the throne! She was like Rudolph, leading the way.

I yearned to see her again. I furiously paddled. Yelled to that ball of yellow in the sky: “Kailani, you there?”

I paused. Let the oar relax in my hands.

Silence.

Nothing.

Alas.

Then—a shadow. Could it be?

I looked around, just having gotten my hopes up, when darkness surrounded me. In the distance, the heavens roared.

I paddled furiously toward shore, against the sudden rain and wind that threatened to overturn the kayak.

Kailani, where are you? I pictured joining William in the depths of the ocean (wherever that was) if she didn’t rescue me.

But, somehow, miraculously, I reached the dock. I hauled the kayak out of the water. My stomach growled even though Marie had prepared me a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast. A thick, juicy steak would do wonders to calm my spirit. I can only hope that Marie stopped at the store on her way home. If not, I’ll stick her in her yellow 2012 Kia Soul and point her in the direction of Sinclair’s Meat Market.

God willing, the rest of the summer awaits. I’m confident Kailani will appear another day.

(This was a boring day, but it was the first day of the kayaking season and you can’t expect much on the first day, right? Stay tuned for upcoming amazing adventures.)

***

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 – “September” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story where yellow is important in the plot. Today’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit Corgi Capers mystery series.

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“September” by Val Muller

It was June, and Sasha chose her brightest yellow shirt to commemorate the occasion. Her mother always used to read her this old picture book called “Barefoot in June,” and today she really felt it. She hadn’t even painted her toenails, and her feet were atrocious from gardening this weekend, but damned if she wasn’t going to put on her sandals today. They were bright white—it was, after all, after Memorial Day.

She pranced into the school, her sandals especially peppy on the worn linoleum tiles. The tiles always looked so shiny as the school year began, but by June they looked as worn as most teachers felt. But despite two weeks left of school, the warm weather and promise of summer put a spring in Sasha’s step.

She sat at her desk, organizing her papers and looking at her cup of iced tea. For once, she could sip it in peace. She did so as she threw handful after handful in the recycling bin. So close to the end, these wouldn’t be needed anymore. She had seniors first block, but they were at graduation rehearsal. Sasha would use the time to check students’ grades, then maybe get a head start on a chapter or two of summer reading. Her students for the rest of the day would just be working on their final project, and the day was smooth sailing.

A distinctly not-sandaled clip-clop sounded down the hall. Sasha looked up to see Mrs. Freedman, the assistant principal.

“Hi?” Sasha said, more of a question than a greeting. There was never really a good reason for Mrs. Freedman to visit your classroom—especially when you had planning first thing in the morning.

“Ms. Peters,” she said to Sasha, “unfortunately, we’ve had a lot of teachers call out sick this morning. We’re going to need you to cover Mr. Baker’s math class in Room 213.”

“You mean like right now?” Sasha asked.

Mrs. Freedman nodded. Then she put a small Ghirardelli chocolate square on her desk. “A little token of our appreciation,” she muttered before clip-clopping out of the room. Sasha took several sips of her iced tea, then shoved the chocolate square in her mouth. She now could feel that it was going to be a very long day.

Mr. Baker’s class was chatting quietly, though most kids were on their phones when Sasha walked in. She clapped her hands in greeting and approached the podium. “Good morning,” she said, trying to sound as cheerful as her shirt. “I’m Ms. Peters, and I’m stepping in for Mr. Baker today. Let’s put our phones away while I find his lesson plans…”

A hush came over the room, but it made her skin rise in goosebumps. It was not the hush of respect. It was the hush of people morbidly looking at a car wreck. She looked up from the podium to a sea of eyes. Some mouths gaped in horror. She looked down to see if maybe she had forgotten a shirt or something dire.

Then she heard it.

“She’s wearing yellow.”

It circulated around the room like a chorus.

“She’s wearing yellow.”

Then all eyes seemed to turn—like they all belonged to the same school of fish. They turned simultaneously to a student seated in the corner.

“Did he see yet?”

All eyes swam from Sasha to the student.

“Yellow, yellow, yellow.”

Sasha’s mind flashed to college, when she’d read “The Yellow Wallpaper.” The room gave off that same vibe of insanity that Charlotte Perkins Gilman embodied in the story. Sasha looked down at her summery yellow. Under the fluorescent light of the math classroom, it looked sickly.

A student in front was trying to catch her attention.

“It sets him off,” he whispered.

“Sets who off? What does?” Sasha whispered back.

“Yellow,” the students said. “And him.” He pointed to the boy in the corner who had not yet looked up. “You should cover up if you know what’s good for you.”

Sasha’s mind flashed. The mysterious boy in the corner did look familiar. He’d often been in the office for behavioral problems. What did they mean, yellow set him off? Could a color really do that? Then again, sometimes students liked to have fun with teachers—even real teachers subbing for a class or two. Were they pulling her leg?

The boy in the corner made a terrible groan, a sound like a death wail. What was it? She looked up. He was staring right at her. His eyes pointed at her yellow shirt accusingly.

“It sets him off,” the students whispered.

“Yellow.”

“Cover up.”

There was a school sweatshirt hanging over Mr. Baker’s desk, something he kept no doubt to keep him warm when the heat was malfunctioning, as it often did. But as Sasha’s shoes indicated, it was summer now. No need for sweatshirts.

Still, that wailing. How was she going to teach when the school’s number one behavioral issue was set off by… the color yellow?

She sighed and pulled on the sweatshirt. It had a musty smell. It smelled of school and September. It did not smell of summer. She felt the first trickle of sweat run down her back as the troublesome student in the corner quieted, and she began with the lesson.

***

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/