Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Browsing Posts published by Val

For this week’s Writer Wednesday, I’m happy to feature M. H. B. Hughes, author of 1777–Danbury on Fire! I was fortunate enough to help Millicent with the editing and layout of the novel, and the book has special meaning to me because (1) it takes place in the area of the country in which I was raised and (2) it’s about freedom and its variations, one of my favorite themes.

You can learn more about the author at https://www.danburyonfire.com and purchase your copy here.

I hope you enjoy the responses Millicent provided regarding her novel and the research involved:

coverTell us about yourself: When I began the book seven years ago, I was commuting almost four hours per day, while considering how to intertwine characters and reality. Much of the story came from fact, some from probability: if you were XXXX, what would you do? I often felt astonished when research proved the reality of my theories. Even up to the very end, I discovered new information to incorporate before someone could catch me out on historical fact.

Tell us about your book: Joe Hamilton, 13, is shocked when his attempts to become a tavern kitchen boy seem thwarted by politics. Powerful relatives reject Joe’s parents until they come around to the Patriot view. Joe believes his father is on the edge mentally, but physically as well: a family “investment” is a handsome stallion now turned vicious. Joe’s delightful hero, Lambert Lockwood, wanders through the plot ─ until he meets a bullet in embarrassing circumstances. Joe’s desire to help his friend is thwarted by finding helpless relatives in immediate danger of death. Soon enough, Joe fears for himself when a British trooper acts way too friendly. Stakes rise with the flames as Danbury goes up in smoke.

Did you always know you wanted to be a writer? Most of my characters were real people and were my relatives and their friends: I feel that they wrote my book by channeling through me, although Lambert Lockwood and J. S. Cannon were the only ones channeling. I used to believe that I could hear a woman’s voice, pleading, “But I was a real person: I had a real street address!”

Who is your favorite character in your book, and why? The more I learned about the real Lambert Lockwood, the more I fell in love with this handsome man (“of good appearance,” according to one source). His horrific experiences at the loss of Fort Washington led him to combine with Danbury town lawyer Tad Benedict to start a Masonic lodge, because all Masons vowed to assist each other. After the war, Lambert followed into the hardware business, moving to Bridgeport CT, where he added a book printing shop to supply his bookstore and lending library. Lambert retained the childlike enthusiasm and hardheaded awareness that he displayed in the book, financing his sons in selling the first imported board games and children’s toys in New York. He backed the first bank and the first insurance company, as well as the first Masonic lodge in Bridgeport. The final public scene in his life is mentioned in the book, the crowning reward to a life well lived.

What’s your favorite scene or location in the work you’re currently promoting, and why? I like the early dinner party scene, as the mother returns to her real personality, before the war in the family robbed her of her of her own beliefs. A mini-infatuation of Joe’s would-be girlfriend with a handsome British face makes me remember thirteen all too well. The British officers (except for one) are portrayed as pleasant and well-intentioned, although sometimes they reveal a little & more….

 What book or author has been most inspirational for you, and why? Gigi Amateau’s Come August, Come Freedom and Bob O’Connor’s The Perfect Steel Trap showed me ways to combine fiction and reality. Gigi put letters into her book, which gave me the “Yes!” moment for including snips of documents in 1777. Bob O’Connor’s The Perfect Steel Trap uses masterfully imagined letters/depositions from those involved in the Harper’s Ferry fiasco.

If you were to be stranded on a desert island, what non-survival item would you bring along that you couldn’t live without? Coffee, for sure! A couple of cups and I could just swim home, right?

Are you working on any other projects at the moment? Yes, two.

  • Looking for an illustrator for my chapter book Pet Care 101 about the unwelcome arrival of two ferrets in the home of twins who really wanted a dog. (Illustrations must be realistic, not cartoons.)
  • The other book Horses+Boys≠School visits young equestrians. Ambitions and faults collide as each searches out the niche for which they qualify. Foremost is Leah, 16, overmatched in school as well as in love, where she is partnered, but not romanced by Turk, a boy on the rebound, who wants a trophy to show off. On the sidelines watching is the brilliant Char, the rejected former girlfriend, now a lioness on the prowl, just waiting the chance to claw her rival.

What question do you wish I had asked?

“For what age group is your book intended?”

I think of it as ageless, because of facts that pose new questions to the reader. What are artificers or cradles? What part did religion play in the war? With what attitude did the English try to stop the rebellion?  I injected a little modern snarkiness on all sides, à la Mark Twain, because persons in those days had the same feelings as modern folks!

(I recently purchased a Newbury winning book from 1957 Rifles for Watie, ostensibly a YA, yet I loved its revelations about the Civil War in Arizona. Who knew that Indians fought in the Civil War?)

Finally, where can we find you?  https://www.danburyonfire.com or Millicent Bell Hughes on Facebook (where you see a lot of extraneous horse stuff)

 

Last week, the Toddler Tuesday post featured words the toddler makes up or combines to make sense of the world. Here is a video she helped me make to demonstrate the word “fluffly.”

My daughter’s first television show—at least, the first one that captivated her attention—was Peppa Pig. It was recommended by my husband’s coworker, and it was literal love at first sight.

The moment the toddler discovered Peppa Pig. I fear no human on Earth will warrant a more perfect love at first sight.

The moment the toddler discovered Peppa Pig. I fear no human on Earth will warrant a more perfect expression of love at first sight.

Since then, we have watched every episode countless times. I could probably recite several from memory, and I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve referenced something from Peppa Pig in explaining things to the toddler.

“Mommy, what’s that?” she might ask.

“That’s construction equipment,” I’ll say.

She’ll shoot me a perplexed look, telling me she doesn’t quite understand.

“You know Mr. Bull on Peppa Pig?” I’ll ask. Her eyes will light with understanding. “The equipment there is similar to what Mr. Bull uses to build houses.”

“And dig up the road!” she adds, nodding understandingly.

But another fun side effect of her obsession with Peppa Pig is that it’s British. So, many of the terms we use for common objects here in American are referenced differently in the show. As a sampling, the toddler now refers to her flashlight as a torch. Our yard is a garden, even though our tomato garden is also a…garden. Many things are “lovely” instead of “nice” or “good.” When I show her pictures of our beach vacation, she references the time we “went on holiday.” As for nap-time, she often says she is “a bit tired.” When people thank her, she tells them, “you are most welcome.”

When I mix something in a bowl, like pancake mix or cake batter, she says she must “make a wish” over the “Christmas pudding.”

British English here in America has the effect of seeming a bit formal, so it’s sometimes comical coming from a toddler. Going on a walk at dusk, she might say, “I need to find my torch because it’s a bit dark” and she’ll need a jacket because “it’s a bit chilly.” Or if she wants us to turn on the light in her room, she might say, “Mom, I’m a bit scared.”

But the most humorous element of her obsession with Peppa Pig is her pronunciation. She has adopted a British pronunciation of several words, and I’ve noticed she switches from time to time between American and British pronunciations, sometimes even within the same sentence.

But one word stands out. The abbreviation for “cannot,” “can’t” has stuck with her as British in nature. I’ve noticed that many of the “child” characters on Peppa Pig say, “I can’t” quite frequently, as in “I can’t reach.” My daughter has picked this up.

The effect is a toddler speaking very formally, in an overly-dramatic nature.

“Get your shoes on,” I might say.

She’ll look at me with a very serious expression. “caaaan’t,” she’ll say, drawn out and slow and politely British. “They’re the tie kind.”

The way she says it makes the whole ordeal seem that much more dramatic than it should, as if I’ve just asked her to marry her mortal enemy (“I simply caaaan’t.”). I could see her throwing her hand across her forehead as if ready to faint. The way she says it makes it seem like every fiber of her being is ready to give up its very existence if it is forced to take one more step in the requested direction. But when applied to everyday situations, the result of the juxtaposition is humor:

“Please eat the last bite of your broccoli.”

“I caaaan’t, I just caaaan’t.”

“Time for you to go to bed.”

“I caaaan’t, mommy.”

She needs a formal dress, I think, and maybe a tiara. Then maybe I would believe her.

And I need to learn more effective ways of biting my tongue to stifle laughter.

“Honey, can you please stop hitting the keyboard so mommy can finish this blog post?”

“I caaaan’t, Mommy. I just caaaan’t.”

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt: Newspapers and news sites show a plethora of depressing stuff from floods and wildfires and other environmental problems, to mass shootings, to refugee problems and other political and social crises. Write a story focused on a depressing occurrence and give it a happy ending.

This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, is available from her locally or on Amazon, to great reviews.

***

Downtown Meetings

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“Did you go downtown this morning?” Simon asked, entering the kitchen.

I jerked around from the counter, dropping the dishtowel as I did so. “Why?”

“I saw you driving down Main Street with the top down.”

The top down? I breathed a sigh of relief. “Nope, not me.”

“It sure looked like you.”

“You know I never have the top down when I’m alone.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s presumptuous. Like I’m flaunting. You know I hate attention.”

He laughed. “Well, it looked like you.”

“When did you think you saw me?” I bent over to pick up the towel, glad to have something in my hands.

“Oh, I guess it was around eleven or so. I had to go to a meeting on Churchill.”

“Wasn’t me. There’s lots of red mustangs.”

“Yeah, I know.” He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and kissed me. When he broke away, he asked, “What’s for dinner?”

“Meat loaf.” Simon’s favourite.

After dinner, he disappeared downstairs to his man cave.

I plonked to the kitchen chair. Scary stuff, that was. Had he seen me in my red Mustang with the top up, trying to catch me in a lie? No, he had no inkling.

My life was simple and carefree, with very few problems as compared to those who endure such catastrophes as forest fires, tornados, and hurricanes. Why did I want to create a disastrous situation when there was no need for one? Simon was a perfect husband and provider. Sure, we had the odd spat—what married couple didn’t? I should be more grateful for him and my life.

I finished the dishes and headed to the bedroom, intending to read in bed. Instead, I pondered, unable to concentrate on the book. Sweat poured over me, and I threw off the blanket. What had I been thinking? Could I have gone through with it?

If Simon had actually seen a woman resembling me in a car similar to mine, what a cruel coincidence. I very rarely drive downtown. What a fluke he’d been there the same morning I was.

I hadn’t been attracted to Rob, not with his receding hairline, paunchy belly, and seventies-style clothing. Not up to my standards, for sure, and I should have exited the mall immediately when I saw him—the guy who waited by the fountain. Despite my initial reaction, we enjoyed conversation over lunch. I was taken aback when he mentioned his wife and how it would kill her if she discovered he’d been hooking up with other women.

Gee, what should he expect? He had joined Dates & Mates, a local dating site, specifically for sexual partners. It would kill Simon, too, if he ever found out I was a member. But this was my first time. Rob was the first anonymous guy I’d connected with online, the first guy I’d met in person.

“She never wants it anymore,” Rob had said. “She has a condition.” He rattled off the medical term, which was foreign to me.

I had almost blurted, “So, because she can’t—or won’t—engage in sex that gives you permission to seek sex elsewhere?” But I kept my mouth shut. Who was I to talk? I was as bad as he was.

I wondered what sort of marriage Rob had, and that’s what had knocked the sense into me, thinking of his innocent, unsuspecting wife at home, waiting for her husband, not knowing of his double life.

This was all foreign to me. Cheating and lies. And what about my love for Simon, my husband of ten years? Didn’t he deserve better? I had thought I needed excitement in my life, but I already had the best husband. I didn’t want another. It was pure luck Simon hadn’t caught me.

Suddenly, I was cold and yanked the covers over me. Minutes later I heard Simon coming up the stairs. He would keep me warm, as he always did.

***

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.ca/

I remember in school, English teachers loved to tout the fact that Shakespeare made up words when he couldn’t find one to suit his needs. Some used it to argue for Shakespeare’s genius. Others seemed to want to make students feel better when creating a word of their own. I often remind myself of this when listening to my toddler speak.

IMG-PHOTO-ART-1541202197As my pediatrician explained, my toddler has advanced speaking abilities, stringing together paragraphs at a time like a kid twice her age. Only, she still has the maturity of a two-year-old. So listening to her speak is often, um, entertaining. Yes, we’ll call it that.

Today, for your entertainment, I present a Toddler Tuesday post. The first several will be dedicated to her language use and the resulting hilarity. Today’s post is all about vocabulary. When the toddler hears a new word, she often associates it with something familiar. The results are amusing.

Momitor. Derived from the English “monitor,” this device is “the thing mommy uses to listen to me when I am supposed to be napping.”

The ele-gator. A cousin of the alligator, the ele-gator opens its mouth at the push of a button to devour small children and their parents, delivering them from one floor to another.

Bu-meat-o. A breakfast bu-meat-o is a thing toddlers like to eat containing breakfast and meat. Duh.

Too fit. You might think this is literal, as in “mommy is too fit, brother, from chasing us around the house” (I wish). But you’d be wrong. The phrase “too fit” is used when something doesn’t quite fit correctly. Sleeves too long? They are too fit. Pants a bit snug? They, too, are “too fit.” Talk about language efficiency: this phrase allows a tantruming toddler to complain about any number of issues regarding her clothing without being bothered by pesky and practical details.

Fluffly. We’ll end this post on a cute note. This word is a portmanteau of the words “fluffy” and “lovely.” A fluffly toy is a cuddly toy, such as a bear, that also happens to be lovely. So, a bright rainbow plush bear is fluffly, as is a cuddly puppy with a heart embroidered on its chest. A fluffly toy is essential for long car rides, tantrums, naptime, and bedtime, as well as other traumatic events such as when your mommy gives you the wrong color fork at lunch. As in, “I need my RED fork, mommy, and now I need a fluffly toy to cuddle.”

She’s so serious about it that most of the time I end up turning my back to hide my chuckles. And hopefully I shared a few with you.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s post comes to us from Val Muller. She’s the author of the Corgi Capers mystery series (www.CorgiCapers.com) among other works.

The prompt: News these days contain a plethora of depressing stuff from floods and wildfires and other environmental problems, to mass shootings, to refuge problems and other political and social crises, to whatever you like as your favourite example. Write a story focused on one or more of these depressing occurrences and give it a happy ending.

The Cabin

by Val Muller

It was his grandfather’s legacy, something he built by hand with old-school craftsmanship, something they didn’t even really teach anymore. As a kid, grandfather’s cabin had always felt more like a bomb shelter to Ryan in that it seemed indestructible. Its worn wooden boards were solid as the Earth. Its door could take a battering from any kind of weather. Visiting the cabin was a perpetual camping trip, a constant game of fetch, an unending wilderness retreat.

As a teen, the cabin sheltered Ryan in a different way. It was impervious to bullying and breakups, to failed chemistry tests and college rejections. Like Walden, it promised a retreat from the monotony and fatigue of life. There was always a fishing trip to be taken, a stroll to be had in the woods, a fire to be built in its stout little potbelly stove. It had been a place for grandfather to bestow his ancient wisdom, and a place to remember the old man after he had passed.

But not even grandfather’s cabin could withstand the forest fire. Ryan was lucky he got out alive. He’d been there not twenty-four hours before the whole forest was put under mandatory evacuation. He left without a sight of fire, with only the faintest scent of smoke on the wind. He read later that a father and son on a mere two-hour hike had gotten stuck in the fire and perished just yards from a pond that might have saved their lives.

Yes, Ryan was lucky to have left alive. Now, he returned to a smoldering world, a post-apocalyptic one worse than the most painful breakup or the most misunderstood unit in chemistry. He followed the gravel trail there in his off-roader; the remains of the trail were the only sign that he was in the right place. The cabin, tiny in the dense forest, had been nothing for the fire to consume. A mere side dish for its insatiable appetite.

There, in the ashes, stood the stone steps grandfather had stacked himself, still mostly intact. And in the corner of what used to be the cabin, the potbelly stove, black as ever and the only thing that seemed remotely okay to have witnessed such flames, next to a charred chimney.

“I’m sorry, grandfather,” Ryan whispered. He remembered his grandfather’s words, the ones repeated in the will and testament. Take care of the cabin as I did and bequeath it to your children’s children.

Now, there was no cabin left to bequeath. How long did it take forests to recover from such fires? The trees stood around the razed cabin like charred matchsticks. A bit further away, green undergrowth peeked out of the ashes, and several lines of trees seemed untouched. The path of the fire hadn’t taken everything–but it had come straight for the cabin.

The undergrowth seemed to sway in the windless day. What was that? A draft?

No, something else.

Ryan stepped closer. Something brown peeked out of the growth. A coyote? Did those even live around here? A bear cub?

Whatever it was, it looked half dead. It approached on cautious, shaky legs.

A dog?

Ryan blinked. For a moment, it almost looked like the ghost of Blue, grandfather’s favorite dog. Ryan remembered the German Shepherd Dog as a kid. Blue would always be the quintessential dog in Ryan’s mind. Fetch-loving, tail-wagging, bone-chewing Blue.

Yes, it was definitely a dog. Ryan reached into his pocket, pulling out the only thing he had to offer, a granola bar. He unwrapped it slowly, and the dog sniffed, its tail wagging between its legs.

“It’s okay, Boy,” Ryan said, offering the bar.

The dog’s tail raised, and it approached. It made eye contact briefly, then grabbed the granola bar and retreated a few feet to consume its prize. Finished, it looked at Ryan expectantly.

“I have water in the car,” he said.

The dog sat, tail wagging, clearly domesticated.

Ryan tipped the bottle of water into the dog’s mouth, and it lapped at the stream greedily. Ryan noticed it had no tags. No name. No home. He’d read about the animals displaced from the fires. People were setting their animals free in hopes they would save themselves–horses, livestock, dogs, cats… with only moderate chance of being reunited with loved ones. The scope of the fires was simply too much. This dog was one of its victims.

“One less victim,” Ryan whispered, looking at the cabin again and noticing its foundation easily traceable in the ashes.

“Come on, Blue,” he told the dog, jingling his car keys. “Let’s go home.”

*

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.ca/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to use these five words in a story/poem – esophagus, carrot, pigeon, lily, moustache.

This week’s story comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara dreams, reads, edits texts, translates, and occasionally writes in two languages. She also has a lot of fun.

 Mrs Florence and Mr Becco

by Chiara De Giorgi

“Mom! It’s Lily’s turn!”

“Julie, please. Lily’s had a rough day. You can very well go see to Mrs Florence’s windowsill today.”

Lily crossed her arms and stomped her feet. She hated that task.

 

They had found Mr Becco, injured and almost dead, lying on their balcony just a couple of weeks earlier. Something was stuck inside his esophagus, and he had fallen from the rooftop. They had massaged his throat and managed to save his life, but one of his legs was slightly crooked and he could not fly.  They had decided to keep him and take care of him until he recovered enough to take to the sky again.

She had been enthusiastic at first: she had planned on writing a blog, called “The girl and the pigeon”; she had imagined herself becoming an Instagram star with the account: “A pigeon’s life”. She would travel the world, with Mr Becco perched on her shoulder, and magazines would pay for her trips and accommodations in exchange for articles and pictures of Mr Becco visiting every corner of the world. None of which had happened, yet, but one thing had filled their days: Mr Becco’s poop.

The bird had elected a particular spot where he’d set about doing his business, the product of which inevitably soiled their downstairs neighbour’s windowsill. She and Lily took turns to go to Mrs Florence’s every time Mr Becco pooped, so they could wash it up.

 

“Come on, Julie”, said Mom again. “When you have a hard time, Lily always cares for you. Won’t you do the same for her?”

“It’s different”, grumbled the little girl, “Lily’s my big sister, she’s supposed to care for me.”

“Julie, can you just stop for a moment and listen to yourself?”

Mom was becoming impatient. Julie sighed, almost ready to drop it, but not just yet.

“I don’t like going downstairs”, she whined. “It’s not Mr Becco’s droppings, I don’t mind cleaning up. It’s Mrs Florence’s house. It’s… creepy.”

Mom frowned.

“What do you mean, it’s creepy?”

“Well, you know. It always smells like boiled carrots. And Mrs Florence herself, well.”

“Well, what? Julie, Mrs Florence is a sweet old lady, a bit lonely and very deaf. You know I will be an old lady one day, right? And who’s going to take care for me and boil me carrots?”

Mom was smiling and tickling her. Julie tried to resist, but she burst out laughing.

“You won’t have a moustache, tough. No you won’t!”

“Won’t I? Won’t I?”

Mom put two strands of her hair under her nose, to pretend having a moustache, and Julie started laughing so hard, she had to hold her belly.

“Mrs Florence has a moustache, and smells like a carrot!” she cried, collapsing on the floor.

“And luckily she’s quite deaf”, considered Mom, sitting next to the little girl. “Will you go there in your sister’s stead?”

Julie sighed, then nodded.

“Of course. Mom? When do you think Mr Becco will be able to fly again?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he likes it here. Maybe he likes Mrs Florence’s windowsill”, she concluded, winking.

A few years ago, this was a “1book1community” pick. I had picked up a copy but forgot about it until recently. By the time I picked it up again, I forgot the premise and didn’t bother to read the description. So at first, I thought it was about a boy who was on a ship run by who I assumed to be his father, a stringent captain.

But early on in the novel, clues let me know that was not quite it. Early on in the novel, it becomes clear that the protagonist, Caden, is struggling with mental illness. The chapters fluctuate between reality and the constructs of his mind, largely represented by a voyage aboard a ship headed for the Marianas Trench, the lowest point on Earth.

Each element of the increasingly-bizarre voyage coincides with something from Caden’s life. For a spoiler-less example, at one point Caden notes that crewmen sometimes jump from the height of the ship’s lounge, located in the crow’s nest. This is revealed later to come from an experience Caden had with his family in Vegas: his family decided to go bungee jumping, and Caden was forced to go along. There are many other examples of his real life bleeding into his imagined one.

The premise is that mental illness is a long and disturbing journey, as tough for loved ones as it is for the person suffering. No two cases of mental illness are alike, and getting the right balance of medication and therapy is an art rather than a science.

I enjoyed Caden’s intelligent and honest voice. What was more difficult to see but important to think about is that Caden provided us, the reader, with a look at the depths of his mind. But when confronted by friends, therapists, and even family, he is frustratingly quiet about what he is thinking. And possibly, rightly so. After all, how could he begin to explain that he’s on a voyage led by an insane captain sailing to the Marianas Trench in a sailing ship made of metal?

It’s an important read to give perspective on mental illness. At the end, an afterward by the author reveals that the drawings in the novel came from his own son, as did the inspiration behind Caden’s experiences. Caden’s voice shows that mental illness is not about intellect. It is about chemical balances in the brain and the way they interact with the individual.

It seems not too long ago I wrote of the death of my uncle. Today, I learned of another death. Bob Bonitz, who wrote under the pen name R. C. Bonitz, was a founding member of The Spot Writers, a writing group I belong to. The four of us take turns writing flash fiction to post weekly on our blogs.

Young lonely woman on bench in park

A while back, The Spot Writers decided to write a serialized novella, which we ended up collectively publishing. Though I never met Bob face-to-face, I feel like I know a lot about him through his writing. Believe me, it’s difficult to write a story with three other people, especially if personalities are different. If you’ve read the serialized blog posts, or the ebook or paperback, you might feel as if you know Bob’s personality, too. When I read his book A Blanket for Her Heart, I got an overwhelming sense of kindness and good intent, and that’s something difficult to fabricate.

Though Bob quit The Spot Writers a year or so ago, I and another original member, Cathy MacKenzie, still remember him fondly. We often exchanged writing advice and shared many of the same publishers. And the group he conceived has stayed strong—even if it sometimes takes convincing for us to keep our ever-changing fourth member! The four of us would never be together—the stories we post each week would never have been written—if it weren’t for Bob.

The Spot Writers was founded in May 2012. That means in the time since its inception, roughly 320 short stories have been written. All because of Bob.

And that got me thinking.

The father of a good friend of mine had a recent health scare. He’s not out of the woods yet, but it was looking bad for a while. So death has been on my mind. In fact, I came across an article recently about near-death experiences: the thesis was that death itself isn’t so bad—many of the writers of the article, who had technically died on operating tables and in similar circumstances, compared it to a very peaceful sleep, a restful absence of worry.

So what, exactly, is the worst thing that can happen when we die?

For me, it’s not leaving behind anything. Whether it’s children, or a novel, or memories that others take with them, the act of leaving something behind shows that we were here, that we existed. I wrote of this when remembering my uncle—how the turnout at his viewing, and the box of dog biscuits we found at his house, which he kept for the dogs of neighbors and friends, showed just how connected he was.

Being on maternity leave, I’ve been spending a lot of time in the house lately, and I’ve also pondered what makes a house a home. And really, it’s the same thing. It’s leaving a piece of us in that space. It’s caulking around a window to keep out a draft. It’s painting a room to align with your personality. It’s planting flowers in a garden that bloom even after we’re gone. It’s building a clubhouse for my daughter, or instilling in her what is important in life. It’s watching her teach to her brother a song I taught her, and using one of my calming techniques to calm him.

It’s how, in the words of Ray Bradbury, we can live forever.

I send my condolences to Bob’s family, but I hope they can take comfort in the impact Bob has had in just this small facet of his writing life, in conceiving a writing group that has been thriving for six years now.

To my friend Bob—thanks, and Godspeed.

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The September prompt is to use these five words in a writing: carrot, lily, moustache, esophagus, pigeon.

This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, is available from her locally or on Amazon, to great reviews.

***

Pigeon Phobia by Cathy MacKenzie

The final time I visited Granny in her fourth-floor condo, I was ten. I didn’t know exactly how old she was then, but the brown spots on her hands, her stooped shoulders, and her grey, frizzy hair showed her years. For as long as I could remember, she sported a bit of a moustache, and the stubby hairs rubbed against my face whenever she kissed me.

She used to stand by the sliding door that opened onto the balcony and talk to Stella. “I see you, Stell,” and “What are you doing, Stell?” were her usual questions. No one answered, of course.

I had never seen Stella standing on Granny’s balcony, never even met her as I far as I knew, nor did I know why Granny talked to this mysterious, invisible woman several times a day.

The pigeons were in full force, though, swooping down to the balcony. They pooped on the wicker furniture, on the side tables, and on the railing. I swear those beady eyes looked right into the living room. I eyed their scruffy feathers and scrawny beaks. So close, I could touch them.

One day, Granny stomped from the living room and into the kitchen, yanked open the fridge, and pulled out a bag of carrots. I sensed what was coming and moved out of her way.

Yep, she hurled those carrots, one by one, with strength a frail, elderly woman didn’t normally possess. “Get away, you dratted creatures,” she shrieked.

As hard as she threw, though, she didn’t hit any.

She gasped after yelling at the birds and covered her mouth. “Stell, I’m so sorry if I disturbed you. Go back to sleep.”

She turned from the door, and a sad face overtook her surprise at seeing me. “Sorry, Carmen. It’s those damned pigeons. How I hate them.”

“Can we go out to sit, Granny?”

“No, we cannot. Not with those dratted pigeons ruining everything. Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow we’ll go out.”

I was at Granny’s condo for six days that last time, but “tomorrow” never came. The pigeons continued their tirade, almost taunting her. She wouldn’t go outside with them perching on the railing as if they owned her balcony. “I dare you,” they seemed to say. “I dare you.”

I would have yelled “double dare” back, but that would have given the pigeons the attention they craved, and Granny wouldn’t have liked that.

Visits with Granny are as fresh in my mind as if they happened yesterday, but many years have passed. The pigeons aren’t as bad as they once were. Maybe they were never that bad. When one lights on the balcony, I shoo it away.

I hate the sunlight as much as Granny hated the pigeons. The afternoon glare hits the sliding door most days and highlights my age spots, similar to those that lined Granny’s hands and arms.

I have no grandchildren. No husband. No siblings.

But I have my memories.

I cough, remembering how Granny wheezed and hacked every few minutes. I had always thought her coughing a nervous habit, but she suffered bouts of heartburn and inflammation of the esophagus, so perhaps not.

I peer down from the fourth floor balcony. I can just barely see Granny’s headstone. “Hush now, Granny, the pigeons won’t hurt you anymore.” I cover my mouth and giggle. “Oh, Stell, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

If I lean over far enough, I can see Stella’s headstone.

Yesterday I visited Granny and left an orange lily, her favourite flower. I stopped by to visit Stell, too.

Strands of shoulder-length grey hair whip across my face. The wind whispers. Or is it Granny?

“Hush, Granny. Sleep tight.”

***

 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.ca/

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The September prompt is to use these five words in a writing: carrot, lily, moustache, esophagus, pigeon.

This week’s story comes from Phil Yeats. Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) recently published his first novel. A Body in the Sacristy, the first in the Barrettsport Mysteries series of soft-boiled police detective stories set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community is available on Amazon.

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The Unpopular Prompt

by Phil Yeats

After their monthly writing group meeting, two women stopped on the library steps.

“What’s up with Colonel Mustard?” Susan asked.

Beth laughed. “Is that what you’re calling Maurice Moutarde? And I presume your question refers to his angelic smile when Claire announced this month’s prompt.”

“Yeah, really. Have you ever seen him smile?”

“Not part of his persona. And everyone knows he hates prompts based on five disconnected words.”

Susan shook her head. “We’ll find out what he’s up to next month.”

 

One month later, the dozen writing group members reassembled in the library’s meeting room.

“Time to start,” Claire announced before everyone had taken their seats. “No newcomers, so we should commence our readings. Who wants to start? And remember, no more than five hundred words.”

Susan rolled her eyes. Everyone knew the five hundred word maximum. She snapped to attention when Maurice cleared his throat.

He stood, theatrically displaying an opened three-by-eleven-inch Power Corporation envelope before spreading it face down on the table. Maurice paused, staring at Claire. When she looked up from her agenda, he began reading.

“A pigeon with moustache-like marking above its beak scarfed a carrot-coloured encrustation from the pavement, staggered to Claire’s prized lily and dislodged the disgusting mess from its esophagus.”

Beth whispered to Susan. “Would you conclude he hasn’t changed his opinion of those prompts?”

“Or abandoned his ongoing feud with Claire over the preferred direction for our group,” Susan added.

Their mirthful eyes and suppressed chuckles contrasted with the evil eye Claire cast toward Maurice. He ignored her malevolent glare as he bowed to his audience before sitting. Mark one up for Maurice in their little battle to become top dog in an insignificant writing group.

 

***

 

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/