Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is to write a story in which something red plays a role.

Today’s tale is from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

The Red Duck
By Val Muller

It was the kind of week that leaves the house completely upheaved. A swim meet delayed to lightning. Getting home past eleven. A morning practice. An afternoon parade. Volunteer hours.

It seemed everywhere were pieces of summer. A garden trowel with hastily-planted tomatoes nearby. A wet towel left in the van. Waterguns draining on the back patio. A swim bag doubling as a parade bag, then a fireworks snack bag, then a swim bag again.

The scent of chlorine was everywhere. Sticky with sunscreen or chlorine or melted ice cream no matter how many showers.

And in the midst of it all, the red duck. The eldest had won the rubber duck at a swim meet, a demented looking thing. The toddler took one look, and it was love at first sight. The duck went everywhere with her. It was fed pieces of her lasagna at dinner. It went swimming with her and joined her for bath time. It drank from her sippy cups befire she did. It cuddled with her at night.

She briefly loved the duck even more than her obsessive love of motorcycles and horses.

If it hadn’t been such a busy week, both parents would have been worried. Attachment to such an object was usually short-lived, but it was intense. And losing the object could have dire consequences. They all remembered what happened to Floppy around Easter. After Floppy’s unwilling mud bath, the toddler’s parents were horrified to learn that Floppy was not, in fact, machine washable.

They were as careful as they could be about losing the duck, but on Fourth of July week, with parades and fireworks for days, keeping the kids safe and accounted for was more important than a duck.

In some ways.

When they lost the duck at the July 3 fireworks, they knew they were in trouble. It was late, so they were able to get her to bed without the duck. They almost believed themselves when they told the sleepy toddler that the duck was safely packed in one of the fireworks bags, maybe the one that had all the snacks in it.

But in the morning when they unpacked from the fireworks, the duck was gone.

They called the park, but who would go out of their way to take a red rubber duck to a lost and found?

No one.

They went to the morning Fourth of July parade, and luckily the excitement kept the toddler distracted. But they knew it was only a matter of time.

For now, they rejoiced in the fact that the parade featured both motorcycles and horses, sending the toddler on a wave of adrenaline that they hoped would negate the disappearance of the duck.

Afterward the parade, the toddler wailed, shouting more horses, more motorcycles!. She fought against her car seat and railed against going home.

When she finally listened to her parents’ statements that the parade was over, she fell back to her demands for the duck.

Red duck! Red duck!

The tired parents looked at each other. No one knew where the swim team had gotten such weird rubber ducks for their prizes, but it sure wasn’t anywhere local.

Driving home, the demands turned to a sad moaning. The horses were gone. The motorcycles were gone. The parade was over, and Red Duck was nowhere to be found.

They turned toward home, and that’s when they saw them. Four of the horses from the parade were walking down the street, their riders waving to pedestrians. The car passed the horses, then they found a safe place to pull over.

They pulled the toddler out of the seat and pointed to the horses behind them.”Horses,” they said.

The toddler squealed in delight. Thoughts of the missing duck were gone. Three of the horses passed by, their riders smiling at the toddler. The fourth stopped, noticing her excitement.

“You want to pet him?” the rider asked.

The toddler quieted and reached her hand out, suddenly timid but also determined. When her hand touched the horse, her face broke into a smile that stayed long after the horse rode away.

There were no cries for a lost duck after that. Instead, the car was filled with happy babbling–the toddlers own version of Independence Day fireworks.

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “June” because it’s….well, you get the idea! This week’s work comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. Val is at work illustrating the first three books and editing books 4 and 5.

A Little June Magic

By Val Muller

“Hey Miles, what’s the best day to mow the lawn this weekend?” Jack asked his phone.

Ainsley raised her eyebrow. “Are you serious.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

Jack looked up and shrugged. “Are you saying you don’t want me to mow the lawn this weekend?”

Ainsley crossed her arms.

“What?” Jack joked. Then he followed Ainsley’s accusing eyeline to his phone. “Oh, this. What? I was asking Miles to help me help you.”

“It’s going to rain tomorrow,” Ainsley said. “So you can mow Sunday. You don’t need AI to tell you when to mow the lawn.”

Jack smirked and pushed a button. “Miles,” his annoying-as-**** AI assistant, started talking:

“Although the expected weekend rain is predicted to happen on Saturday, the densest of clouds are not expected in your area until 3:00 p.m. Eastern time. Therefore, the best time to mow your lawn would be Saturday before 3:00 p.m. Sunday is expected to be warm and sunny, but rain from Saturday is likely to last all evening, creating potentially wet conditions that may result in slipping, injuries, damage to mowing equipment, and undesired tire tracks on the lawn.”

“We’re supposed to meet Beth for ice cream on Saturday,” Ainsley said.

Jack held the phone to his mouth. “Jack, my wife thinks we have plans on Saturday. Do you think it would be safe to mow on Sunday, and if so, can you advise me of the best precautions to take?”

“Sunday’s conditions may be wettest in the morning, following a predicted night of rain. However, if you use caution, check fields for puddles and mud, and clean your equipment after mowing, you may be able to mow on Sunday.”

“Thank you, Miles.”

“You are most welcome, Jack. Please let me know how else I might assist you.”

“You can go away,” Ainsley said.

“He didn’t hear you,” Jack said.

“He?” Ainsley clenched her fists. “It’s not a he, it’s an it. In fact, it’s not even an ‘it.’ It’s not even dignified enough to be given that pronoun, it’s a—” She raised her hand in the air, expecting some kind of revelation, but nothing came. “Like a dash on a paper, a nonverbal utterance, a—”

Jack hit the button. “Miles, come up with a pronoun to use to call AI when we don’t want to assign—” Jack thought for a moment. “I should start by saying this isn’t my idea. I think you deserve to be called ‘he,’ but my wife, she just doesn’t buy into the whole AI thing yet. So this is a thought exercise for her benefit, not mine.”

“What are you saying?” Ainsley asked.

Jack hit the button to stop recording. “You should be careful what you say to AI. If you’re mean to them, they may give you worse answers.”

“They? You’re literally proving my point.”

“What point?”

Ainsley groaned. “Don’t make me go through it all again. You know, the Terminator. Robot overlords. The apocalypse. All that stuff. You’re helping the enemy here. I’m telling you, just mow on Sunday.”

Jack didn’t answer. He was typing away.

“Miles suggested using the letter X, perhaps. Or one of these characters—” He showed Ainsley his phone.

“I don’t need a separate AI pronoun. I’m just not going to acknowledge it.”

“You just said it,” Jack reminded her.

“Why don’t you put the phone down and enjoy being outdoors? It’s June, finally. It’s warm, there’s birds everywhere. I remember this book I read as a kid. It was about going barefoot in June. It was so magical, with the grass and the moon. Owls. Just all the things about nature. It made the summer seem magical.”

Jack pushed a button. “Miles, write me a short book about going barefoot in June. Make sure it includes owls, grass, and the moon, please. And make it extra human. It’s for my wife.”

*

Ainsley rocked gently in the hammock, the weight of Jack’s phone holding down the napkins on the side table that held her iced tea. She turned the page of her paperback and looked up as Jack rolled by on the mower. Then she adjusted her sunglasses, stretched her toes, and returned to her novel as the drone of the mower grew quieter and quieter. Turned out AI got it wrong. If you were brazen enough, you could mow on Friday.

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story of exactly 100 words, inlcuding these 5 words: harvest, glow, iron, paint, clock.

Rear View Mirror

by Val Muller

At 35, the good guys were taken, she thought, slugging through traffic, clock sluggish.

How many hours could a commute harvest?

She saw him in the car behind her, looking mighty fine in the sun’s glow.

Graying goatee, ringless hand tapping the steering wheel, wicked tattoo painted on his arms, yet driving a Camry. Responsible.

With iron resolve, she wrote with permanent marker, “I like your tattoo,” then held the notebook out the window. He smiled.

She smiled back for two miles, then exited. Neither were anywhere near the city, but in the glow of the blinding sun, he followed.

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a guidebook to pine trees, a school bus, and a painted rock.

Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

Transcend

By Val Muller

We got off the bus to organized chaos. Piles of rocks were visible at the far side of the field, their red-and-blue or green-and-yellow hateful slogans illegible from the yellow school bus but still very present there in the sun. Near them, a vat of white paint. Only the adults, parents and troop leaders, would be dousing the hateful rocks in paint.

At the far end of the field, the press: cameras craving a look. Between the two, scouts and their friends gathering for the event. Some wore their uniforms and others wore white shirts, ready to be splotched in paint.

All along the field, troop leaders were setting up tables and paints, paintbrushes and reference photos. I led our small entourage to our troop’s table, then opened the guide to pine trees. That was our theme. Pine trees in sunlight, pine trees in silhouette, pine trees blue in the light of the moon, and on the back of each rock a message of hope–a word, a phrase, something uplifting.

A man with a wheelbarrow stopped at our table with the first load of white painted rocks. “All dried and ready to go,” he said. Each member of our troop came around from the table to choose three rocks to start out. All day the man would bring us white rocks from the pile. All day we would cover them in colors. At the end, we would package them up for distribution to whoever needed a smile.

Little Lilly was with us. Too young for scouts but old enough to participate. She attempted a pine tree, but it came out more like a smudge.

“Mom, she’s ruining it,” Allison said, frowning.

I looked down at Lilly’s messy rock.

“Let that one dry,” I said. “That can be the first layer. Lilly, we can paint over it again, but put less paint on the brush for the next one.”

Lilly reached for another rock. “This one’s already been painted,” she said, pointing to some words that were starting to bleed through the white paint.

I reached for the rock, but Allison snatched it and studied it. “Mom, what’s a–”

She started to read one of the hateful words bleeding through the white paint, but I snatched it from her hand.

“Nevermind,” I said.

The national news was ridiculous, elevating even local politics to the divisive partisanship that had become our nation. The “Rock War,” as we had been dubbed, had also made the national spotlight, with journalists traveling to see all the hateful painted rocks true grown adults had left all over the front yard at City Hall, all over a small town scandal that should have been a small hiccup in local history, nothing more. But the more the news hyped it up, the more people traveled from afar with rocks of their own, supporting one side or the other. Soon, the fight between the mayor and the police chief had risen to national ranks.

Local and regional scout troops had pooled money to have a day of painting, turning the hate rocks into something positive. It was a joyful idea, but it was so hard to be positive with all that was going on in the world.

“But Mom, what does it mean?” Allison asked.

“Nevermind,” I repeated. “It’s just means we need another coat. What do you think? Dark blue? Starry sky?”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

Both sides were avoiding dialogue by throwing hate. That’s what it boiled down to, to people refusing to have a dialogue. Like the rocks at City Hall. A thousand pieces of hate. How do you explain that to a child while reinforcing their faith in humanity?

We agreed on a night sky with the aurora borealis behind a row of pine silhouettes. Allison turned Lilly’s green mess into a blue-green sky. The sun dried the paint quickly, and it was time to write a message on the back. But Allison’s accusation still hung in the air. I worried about my parenting. I had told them a little of the conflict, of the different parties involved, of the hateful rhetoric being slung by both sides, but I didn’t delve. Was I wrong? I wanted to protect their childhood, but would that come at a cost?

“What do we write on the back?” Allison asked. I had brought the pine reference book, but maybe I should have brought some inspirational quotes or something, too.

The press was starting to pack up now, and I watched one of the vans disappear into the drooping sun. In its place along the roadside was a group of people holding signs. I tensed, wondering which side they were and what they might say. Would I have to shield my kids?

“Look, Mom, those are for us,” Allison said. She pulled Lilly a little closer to the fence. Lilly couldn’t really read yet, and I tensed as Allison started to read the signs aloud. “Love. Peace. Talk.”

Then I smiled.

Allison squinted to make out a word on a sign. “T-r-a-n-s-c-e-n-d,” she spelled. “Mom, what does that mean?”

I picked up my brush and smiled at her, choosing a rock big enough to write it in bold capital letters. This word I could explain.

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story in which the main character is a creative writing teacher. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, who is so busy revising and illustrating her Corgi Capers tales that she forgot it was her turn to write!

The Easiest Job in the League

By Val Muller

“A timer?” She placed her hands on her hips. “Like standing there the whole time holding a stopwatch and clicking the button when they finish their lap?”

The swim official nodded. “That’s right. It’s the easiest job in the league. Best way to get volunteer hours.”

Right. Volunteer hours. Those required hours you had to fill or pay the fine. She had always preferred paying the fine. It was easier to sit in the stands at the swim meets, laptop on her knees, letting her mind zone out with the monotony. She could earn enough through her writing to pay the league for her missed hours, and the work was much more enjoyable.

But now, the officials were combing the stands in search of volunteers. Required hours or not, they said, the meet could not run without volunteers, and everyone would have to sit there, swimmers included, until five more people stepped up.

More time to edit, she thought.

But then, there was her daughter. She was here to swim, after all.

Before long, Jackie found herself standing there on lane 9, holding a timer in her left hand and a plunger timer in her right, waiting for the clock to start. Her partner, holding a stop watch and a clipboard, offered a smile. “It’s so fun to watch from down here. You get such a good view that way,” the woman said.

Jackie wracked her writer brain for something to say, some positive and innocuous banality, but there was nothing. Her brain ran loose with allusions to Dante’s inferno, and she wondered which circle of Hell made you time a swim meet.

“I’m Claire, by the way,” the woman said.

Jackie nodded, but her mind jumped to another scenario, one in which she ran down the line of timers, pushing each into the pool. Of course it wouldn’t be her doing it. It was a character with a backstory, someone who had been slighted early on in life, maybe someone with a toxic mother. Pushing the timers into the pool was just the tip of the iceberg. But she wouldn’t use such a cliche in her description, of course. It’s just that it was so hard to avoid being trite when she had to–

“That’s the start!” Claire screamed.

Frantically, Jackie pushed the button on her stopwatch. The first race was the little kids, just one lap. But they were slow. Thirty four seconds was just enough time to–

This time, the aquatic center was abandoned. It was a post apocalyptic novel, probably a young adult piece, and of course there would be some teens who made their way to the pool. They would drain it, maybe. Or maybe fill it with toxic chemicals to trap the zombies. There would be zombies, right?

“Here she comes!” Claire called frantically. “Get ready!”

Jackie looked down just in time to see the swimmer in lane 9 hit the wall. Jackie hit her stopwatch and the plunger and showed her time to Claire, who recorded it on the clipboard.

“It’s so hard to keep your mind on it,” Jackie mumbled. But Claire didn’t hear with all the cheering and yelling and splashing echoing in the pool room.

“These next races are medleys. You have to count. Two laps of each stroke.”

Two laps of each stroke? That was enough time to compose a novel. Jackie hit her stopwatch and peered up at the stands. There was a man looking disinterested and angry. Wonder why he didn’t get asked to be a timer.

And that’s all it took. She was off in the middle of a spy novel. The man had no swimmers in this meet, of course. In fact, he had no children at all. That is, none that he knew about. But that would all change after today’s rendezvous. The woman who called him here under the guise of needing a private eye was actually a former lover, and their one-night stand was now twelve and about to enter the seventh grade. He would not take it well. He would have no interest in her and would remain estranged, sending only a birthday card once a year until a tragic accident killed his former lover, leaving him the sole–

“Jackie!”

Claire was punching her. “That’s the race. Did you get it?” Startled, Jackie pushed down on both the plunger and the stopwatch.

“It’s too late,” Claire said. “Swim is a sport where a fraction of a second counts.”

Three minutes later, sheepish yet relieved, Jackie was walking back to the stands, wondering what she should write while waiting for her kid to swim. The grumpy man passed her along the way. A frowning swim official handed him Jackie’s stopwatch and threw Jackie a glare. The grumpy man would be taking Jackie’s place as a timer.

“You’ll keep your mind on it,” Jackie whispered to him, once he was too far away to hear, watching the way he swayed as he walked, capturing the beauty of it for her next great work.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://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/