Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Browsing Posts published by Val

Book Review: The Weight of Feathers by Anna-Marie McLemore

July 16, 2018 No comments

I received this book for free (from the publisher) as a review copy for possible use in my teaching. I teach AP Literature and am always on the lookout for modern books of literary merit that balance the ability to analyze elements such as symbolism with reader interest.

The plot intrigued me, and the novel did not disappoint. In fact, I read the book in about two days, which is a recent record with my summer days occupied by a toddler. It’s a young adult, rather than an “adult” novel, so it was a bit of a quicker read than something targeted at an older audience. For an AP Lit class, it would be a good way to hook students while allowing them opportunities for analysis.

The book seems at first like a modern Romeo and Juliet: the Palomas and the Corbeaus are rival performing families. The Palomas are performing mermaids, and the Corbeaus strap wings to their backs and perform feats in the trees and tightropes.

The families are performing in a small town with a history of abuse by a factory that ignores safety concerns, resulting in an accident that literally rains down on the town. Throughout all this, the two protagonists, “Cluck” and Lace, are thrown together. They are the “Romeo” and “Juliet” characters, taught to scorn members of the opposite family—when neither family has all of the facts. Lace is a Latina girl, and Cluck is a Romani boy, and both families rely on stereotypes and misconceptions perpetuated by superstition to fuel the hate.

The book walks the line between reality and magical realism: for instance, “Cluck” and his family have actual feathers growing from the backs of their necks, while Lace and her family have scales growing on certain parts of their bodies. The raining of feathers that happens throughout the novel can sometimes be explained by the events in the story and sometimes defies logical explanation.

Reading the author’s note at the back of the book (after having finished the novel), it seems these elements could be read as metaphors for the marginalized. In the book, Lace at one point refers to Cluck as a gypsy, and the author notes how this term has been adopted into pop culture even as it carries a heavily derogatory meaning. When we learn more about each family’s history, we see that not all members of the family are so willing to buy into the hate, but it is easier to give in than fight back.

My main complaint about the novel is that the last twenty or so pages seem to shift into more of a “telling” rather than “showing,” where a lot is explained by getting us directly into the thoughts of characters. The lack of subtlety was a bit disappointing given the rest of the story. Still, it’s a novel I’d recommend, and I’d look into it for use in the AP classroom as well.

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Flash Fiction: Myself by Val Muller

July 12, 2018 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a character who finds an object that had been lost.

This month’s story comes to us from Val Muller. She is the author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series (www.CorgiCapers.com) and the YA coming-of-age tales The Scarred Letter and The Girl Who Flew Away. She is taking the prompt a bit more metaphorically. It is inspired by David Bowie’s video “Thursday’s Child” (https://vimeo.com/240799507), a video which has always intrigued her.

Myself

By Val Muller

The kid was finally down for a nap. There was finally silence. Peace. She sighed and looked around the room. The vacuum cleaner sat in the corner, its cord unraveled and covered in stickers. Its canister was full of beans, dirt, sand, and dog hair and needed to be emptied. The carpet was sprinkled with dried bits of Play-Doh. The dog’s head was stuck under the couch as it tried to reach a half-eaten bag of Veggie Straws that had spilled earlier. Its front legs struggled to reach under the couch, scattering more beans onto the carpet.

Note to self, she thought. Put beans on top shelf of pantry from now on.

In the kitchen, a trail of water led from the dog’s water dish to the toddler’s doll house in the living room, where it filled the toy bathtub and toilet, already starting to warp the wood of the toy furniture. The trail seeped into the carpet in a serpentine line. A half-eaten bowl of Cheerios sat on the Mickey Mouse child’s table in front of the television, absorbing milk.

To her right, the kitchen sink overflowed with dishes. The dishwasher had become a repository for beads and sand dumped there during an unexpected phone call yesterday, and she couldn’t find the energy to clean it or hand-wash the backlog of dishes that had accrued.

It was all too much. She went to the bathroom. Closed the door. At least she could have thirty seconds to pee unencumbered, without a toddler asking “whatcha doin’ in there?” or sticking her little fingers under the door. She washed her hands and dried them on her pants: the hand towel was missing. Likely, it had been used to drag water from the dog bowl to the doll house.

She looked in the mirror and sighed. When had she last brushed her hair? Like, really brushed it, while looking in a mirror and using styling products? Last week? Last month? It might have been years ago, before the toddler.

A stranger stared at her from the mirror. Her eyes looked tired. No, not tired.

Dead.

That was it. She was dead inside. She was a function. She got chocolate milk out of the refrigerator when asked. She kissed boo-boos and tied sneakers. She quelled tantrums. Couldn’t a robot do as much? A twinge of guilt pricked her stomach. She was ungrateful. She had a healthy toddler. That should be enough.

She stepped out of the bathroom and plopped on the floor to pluck stickers from the vacuum’s cord. On the hearth above the fireplace sat two books she’d put there at Christmas—Christmas a year and a half ago—that she planned to read. But what was the point now? Each time she sat down to read, something interrupted her. An accident, a request for a snack, a cup of milk being dumped on the dog. No, better not try to get into something like a book. Best to use nap time to clean the house.

She was almost finished removing the stickers by the time she realized she was singing: music was still playing from the living room speaker. It was The Wiggles, and she had been singing to “Five Little Monkeys.” She hurried in to stop the music, and it still echoed in her head. She didn’t even mind it anymore. It was even familiar. Comforting.

What?

What had become of her that she didn’t even realize she was singing along to kids’ music? When was the last time she listened to something of her own choosing?

She needed to get out. A trip to the mailbox. A box awaited, sent by her parents. They were cleaning out her late grandmother’s home, and they mentioned they’d be sending some old photos Grandma had kept over the year. She returned inside, using a broom handle to push the rest of the Veggie Straws out from under the couch. The dog gratefully consumed them.

The first few photos in the box were recent: baby’s first and second Christmases, first and second birthday parties, first time swimming. She flipped through the stack. The pictures aged. Here, her graduation from college, arm around Grandma. Then, a photo she’d sent of herself in her college apartment. She’d forgotten about that space tapestry. It had graced her wall for all four years of college. She always maintained that crazy idea—that she was a stellar traveler, and her life on Earth was just one of her lives, just one experience of many. She insisted that her very vivid dreams were her soul’s way of remembering all of her other lives. Her nickname had been Supernova.

How could she have forgotten about that? She still had that tapestry somewhere, didn’t she? And when had she last had a vivid dream? Maybe you died inside when you stopped dreaming.

She kept flipping. Back through the college and high school years. There were the pictures of her art show. Her high school exhibit, Nebula, had gotten her a free ride for two years in college. Good grief, she’d forgotten the scope of that final project for college, the one that got her national acclaim. The canvas took up the entire wall of her dorm room. She’d had to transport it to the show in sections. And now each section was boxed up in the basement, stacked under a disassembled crib.

There was that whole wall in the office. It had been empty since they moved in. Maybe she could hang it up again…

She flipped through the photos, going back in time to her days as a swimmer, her time on the debate team, her summers at the beach, the time she colored her hair blue and purple. Her first ear piercing, and her seventh. Her days in elementary school gymnastics, her role in the kindergarten school play, her dozen-and-a-half lifetimes that had passed since her birth.

An aged picture of her in ripped jeans and a Starman t-shirt reminded her that she had loved David Bowie. She remembered that now. Why was she content with The Wiggles? Where were her Bowie CDs? She hurried to the garage and dug through her car, under the crusted layer of cereal that seemed to cover everything. Under the copies of The Wiggles and Disney soundtracks and pouches of applesauce and travel packs of disinfectant wipes. There they were, at the very bottom of the center console, interred more than three years earlier. Her Bowie CDs.

She flipped through them. There is was: David Bowie. The 1969 album. She hurried inside and replaced the kid CD in the living room player. “Space Oddity” started playing. It played softly, and she kicked up the volume.

She closed her eyes, rocking back and forth in the living room, listening to the tale of Major Tom, risking everything to follow his dream of space travel, even to his ultimate detriment. But he went. He risked things. He didn’t leave the book on the mantle for fear of interruption.

The song drew to a close, and she hit “repeat.” The intro started up again, and she kicked up the volume, wondering how loud she could make it before waking the kid.

The guitar tickled her mind. The drums pounded with her heart. She ran her fingers through her hair, remembering how she used to toss it around in college. Wild and teased with hairspray, like it had been kissed with stardust.

She kicked up the volume some more so that her hearing took over. The sight of the messy room faded. She listened again to the tale of Major Tom. What had he discovered in those moments in space? What insights did he gain? How much had he grown? What would his next life bring him?

He wouldn’t have been bothered by stickers on an electric cord, or sand in the dishwasher. Those things were irrelevant.

He would have bought paints by now, reclaimed the office, reclaimed a dream.

He was a space traveler. He glowed brightly. He was remembered by all. He was a Supernova.

Emily kicked up the volume again, planning the décor for a home office renovation, her mind igniting with the names of all the paint colors she’d need to paint a nebula. Major Tom’s name echoed on the track.

Major Tom was dead in the end, sure, but not dead inside.

And neither was she.

 

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/

 

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Book Review: I want to grow hair, I want to grow up, I want to go to Boise by Erma Bombeck

July 9, 2018 No comments

This book was given to me in a box of my own works that came to me from my late uncle. I was curious as to why he had it: either he or my grandmother had purchased it on May 28, 1992 (I know because the receipt is still in the book).

My uncle, as a child pedestrian, was the victim of a car accident that left him permanently disabled, and I wondered if perhaps he or my grandmother bought the book seeking a connection to a life-altering childhood experience.

The book was written by famed columnist Erma Bombeck in the late 1980s. During this time, as the book explains, science was making groundbreaking strides in fighting childhood cancer, giving, for the first time, hope to those diagnosed. Thus, it was the first time a need for such a book arose.

I honestly didn’t expect to finish the book. I only planned to skim the first few chapters to get the gist of the book, then move on to fiction, my preferred genre, for my summer reading. But the book was a fast read: its largish font and easy writing style made the pages fly by, and it was the perfect thing to read while supervising a toddler.

It did not go into the painful depth that I thought it might: Bombeck chose not to dwell on those details. It certainly acknowledged the challenges and heartbreak of childhood cancer, but it focused more on the positives, as told through small snippets of individual stories. The children in the book are the stars of the show, displaying maturity and resilience but also a hope and positive attitude that many adults do not have anymore. They are able to confront their disease with humor and honesty.

Bombeck also mentioned the parents, suggesting the difficulty they must face when going through such a challenge, but again, she did not dwell on the negative.

It appears that the book at the time of publication was original. Today, I can see more depth being put into one of the Chicken Soup for the Soul titles, with contributors seeking an audience. This book was written during a time when not everyone was a writer or contributor: Bombeck traveled the country and worked for two and a half years to track down enough contributors to tell their stories. It’s a light read and obviously outdated, but the ultimate lesson to take from it is that humor and positivity can go a long way. As mentioned several times in the book, we are never promised tomorrow, regardless of our actual health. It’s best to keep worries to a minimum–because what good do they do anyway? And it’s best to keep a positive spirit.

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Fantastic Friday: Peace

July 6, 2018 No comments

One of my favorite positive websites to browse is humanprogress.org. The site is ripe with examples of the strides we’ve made as humans over generations. The site is highly “clickable,” allowing you to find data and statistics for things like falling rates of disease or the success of markets from historic times onward.

I was reading an article on the site recently, “Things Are Getting Better, So Why Are We All So Gloomy?” The article offers several explanations for humanity’s tendency to dwell on the negative. For one, our brains are programmed to over-react to threats (for our own survival). But social media and the 24-hour news cycle also push our exposure to negative things, not to mention the fact that negative things, like deaths and plane crashes, happen quickly; positive things, like cures for diseases happen so slowly that we tend not to notice.

The article reminded me why I started my “Fantastic Friday” feature, and it reminded me that I have been remiss in posting every Friday.

So this week, I wanted to share a small positive in my life. With the recent heatwave, I decided to cut my long hair. I last did this about three years ago:

File photo: a trip to Luray Caverns 3 years ago.

File photo: a trip to Luray Caverns 3 summers ago.

I wasn’t sure how short I wanted to cut, but because I had the potential to cut nearly a foot of hair, I thought about donating it. There are several organizations out there, such as Wigs for Kids, that collect hair donations to make wigs for children–and others–with cancer. As I sat at my computer researching the numerous charitable organizations that collect hair donations, I realized how lucky we are in the U.S., an appropriate observation for the week of Independence Day.

Sure, our nation is not perfect, but in juxtaposition with news stories about, say, Venezuela and their struggles in keeping the country fed and hydrated, I felt lucky researching something as peaceful as hair donation and required donation lengths.

After my research, I settled on a minimum of 8 inches and headed to the salon. Despite the crowded salon, I was able to “check in” online to reserve my spot in line, and I barely had to wait. As I (briefly) waited, I noticed people entering and exiting the nearby coffee shop, ice cream parlor, sandwich store, and supermarket. All were peaceful, even if busy or rushed. All seemed to leave the store with whatever they came for.

Before long, I got the chance to peacefully trade my money for a long-overdue haircut. My stylist was helpful in making suggestions about which organizations to donate to. I ended up donating about 10 inches, and my head feels lighter already.

Chopped hair, don't care!

Chopped hair, don’t care!

The small amount of time I spent contemplating the donation made me reflect on how relatively peaceful our lives are–as well as other positives I’ve read lately. On social media, someone was collecting hotel shampoo and conditioner bottles to replenish supplies at a local shelter. Another was using his very popular corgi’s Facebook account to fundraise for a foster dog parent who had saved the life of an abandoned corgi. Another was offering free baby gear to anyone in need, donating rather than selling it, with the mere desire that someone else bring new life and enjoyment to it.

It’s easy to get bogged down in minor problems, but sometimes taking a moment to think about the big picture is all it takes to ease the weight of the world. It seems the media is always trying to fuel our worries and anger by showing us the worst in people and by making us take sides. But looking at individuals and their individual actions, it’s easier to see the good in humanity.

There is so much peace in our lives. Sometimes it takes only a moment to be still and find it.

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Flash Fiction: A Christmas Tale by Chiara De Giorgi

July 5, 2018 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The June prompt is to update a legend or legendary character/beast: bring it into the modern world, or add a twist that isn’t consistent with the original legend.

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

A Christmas Tale

Chiara De Giorgi

“Guys, I don’t want to repeat myself, but rules are simple: one story for Christmas, one for Midsummer, one for Halloween. You’re always late, and I find myself publishing scary stuff for Christmas and dealing with the fairy folk in November. Santa and the reindeers are always complaining that, by the time we publish something Christmas-related, it’s almost time for eggs and bunnies. Who, by the way, are pestering me because they want to be featured as well. I mean, come on! Why must you always be so lazy? Use your brain for something useful, for once, and give me something worth publishing at the right time. Shall I remind you, that last year our Winter issue featured a story about Zombie Fairies? A pathetic attempt to merge Midsummer and Halloween, no doubt, and yet you delivered it so late it was already Christmas by the time we managed to print it! I can’t do this anymore. You’re the greatest disappointment and I would close the magazine down at once, were it not for those fluffy reindeers expectantly looking at me. To be honest, I’m also a tiny bit freaked out by all those magical creatures. I mean, they’re sweet and all, but what would happen if they got angry? I don’t even want to think about it. So, please, I beg you: concentrate and write.”

The editor-in-chief left, his unfinished cigarette forgotten in the ashtray, dropping ash on his desk. No one spoke. The clock ticked and tocked, and the faucet in the restroom dripped. Drip. Drip. Drip. Someone had left the door open. Again.

“Well…”

“Yeah.”

“After all, you know: he’s right.”

“I must say, I liked the Zombie Fairies piece, though.”

“At least we always try to be original.”

“You mean ghoulish.”

“I mean our stuff is never predictable.”

“Guys, he’s not complaining about the quality of our work, he just needs us to be on time.”

“Hey, it’s not easy writing stuff about Christmas when you’ve just booked a week at the Bahamas.”

“Why, doesn’t Christmas happen at the Bahamas as well?”

“Yeah, you just need to wrap up some loving feelings in sugary goodness coated with pink little hearts, et voilà! A Christmas story ready to be printed out.”

“That’s not original, though.”

“Nor ghoulish.”

“We don’t really need to be ghoulish.”

Knock-knock.

“Who’s there?”

“Er, hi. May I come in?”

“Sure, Mr… Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“My name is Santa, you might have heard of me.”

“…”

“I overheard you speaking, and it is my understanding that you’re facing some sort of difficulties because of me and my sweet reindeers.”

“We… er… I mean…”

“I wonder, therefore, if you wish me to be of assistance.”

“Hey, why not? We need inspiration: we have to write a story about you!”

“Ho Ho Ho! What a coincidence! I can tell you some very personal stories about me. After all, I am Santa. I know each one of you.”

“You do?”

“Of course! You, for example, devilish child!”

“Me? What? Why?”

“In a time when finally, finally!, children started being rational and stopped believing in me, so I could seriously consider retirement, you campaigned for me! You convinced all your little friends that the poor old man does exist and loves all the children and the least we can do is believe he’s real! You devilish, devilish child! Me? Loving children? Ha! All I want is to permanently move to a desert island in the middle of the ocean, with a giant drink in my hand and a beautiful, curvy blond by my side, and never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever see a child again!”

“I’m sorry, I guess? I had no idea…”

“Of course you hadn’t! And, by the way, where has all that fierce love you had for me gone now? You aren’t even able to crank out one little story for me in one year!”

“Well, we’re trying to…”

“You’re trying, what?  I remember of you as well, you know.”

“Oh. Ahem. Really?”

“Sure! You’re so smart, in fifth grade you stole all of your classmates’ letters to Santa and signed them yourself, thinking you’d get twenty-five presents!”

“I’ve always been a resourceful kid.”

“A liar, you mean.”

“Come on, children’s lies are not really lies…”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

“I… No, I actually…”

“What? No words? You? Nice writers you are, the lot of you! But I had enough of this. I am here to put an end to all your Christmas-related issues.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Think of it like the ultimate Christmas present, from Santa himself.”

“Sounds great!”

“Yes, I am great, as a matter of fact. May I have a coffee, please?”

“Sure! Sugar?”

“Two.”

“Cream?”

“A drop.”

“There you go!”

“Mmmmh, smells divine. I’ll just set it aside for the moment.”

“And why’s that?”

“First, I have to eat.”

“Eat? Wait, we should have some crisps somewhere…”

“Don’t bother, I don’t need crisps.”

“…”

“Guys, have you noticed the reindeers? Why are they circling us?”

“I’ve no idea. It looks like they’re glaring at us, doesn’t it?”

“Now that you mention it, it does, yes.”

“Do I sound very stupid if I say that it looks like they’re going to eat us?”

“Actually, yes, you do sound stupid. But I admit I agree.”

“Mr Santa… Are you going to let your reindeers eat us?”

“Not completely, no. I want some bites as well.”

“I’m not sure this is going to help us with the difficulties we’re experiencing regarding a Christmas story, to be honest.”

“But of course it will help you! Didn’t you want a ghoulish tale?”

“…”

“Rudolph, go on: first bite’s for you.”

 

The Spot Writers:

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/

 

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Flash Fiction: Silkie Samaritan by Phil Yeats

June 28, 2018 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The June prompt is to update a legend or legendary character/beast: bring it into the modern world, or add a twist that isn’t consistent with the original legend.

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.

***

Silkie Samaritan by Phil Yeats

She’d stumbled along the familiar path from the manor house to the distant shore. Storm clouds obscured the heavens, and the fog was exceptionally thick. She lost her way several times and lurched blindly amongst boulders and brambles before regaining the familiar path.

In the darkest predawn hours, she reached the cobblestone beach. Unseen, the relentlessly pounding surf beckoned from only a few yards away. She dropped her winter coat onto the cobbles and stumbled toward the sea. When she saw the effervescence created by waves breaking upon the shore, she unbuckled her shoes and kicked them off. As she stood, she loosened the ribbon and let her nightdress fall to the ground.

She stood shivering in the frigid winter night wearing only her chemise. She stepped forward onto the slippery ice-cold cobbles at the water’s edge. A few more steps and the undertow would claim her, ending her miserable existence forevermore.

A large wave washed ashore covering her feet with frigid water. She noticed the intruder as she instinctively stepped back. He disappeared as the fog swirled around trees at the edge of the beach and reappeared several seconds later. Closer now, she could distinguish his features.

He was young, not yet twenty, and strikingly handsome. When he spoke, his voice seemed familiar. But she was certain she’d never seen him before.

He stood just beyond reach, drifting in and out of focus as the fog swirled about him. He was too far away to restrain her, but his bright twinkling eyes held her in thrall.

“Please, reconsider,” he said. “There must be a better solution.”

How could he assess her choices? He couldn’t know how she stood at sixteen with the hopes and ambitions of the fairest and most accomplished maiden in the parish. Or how the handsome young John Dunsmuir had been smitten at the balls, hanging on her every word and action, lavishing praise and dancing with her one dance after another?

Then her handsome doctor disappeared, and six months later her father promised her in marriage to the only son of the local squire. Her financial security would be assured, but the squire’s son was nearer fifty than forty and ugly as sin with a miserable disposition that matched his appearance.

On their wedding night, he beat her when he failed to consummate their marriage. Eighteen months later, she remained a virgin, but the regular beatings became harsher. Tonight, when she stumbled from the house, one eye was swollen shut, blood dribbled from her lip, and she cradled her arm beneath her breasts to minimize the pain.

How could this enigmatic stranger offer her any option but the one she’d chosen?

He held out a neatly folded stack of clothes. “Remove your chemise and don these.” 

She inspected the clothes, rougher cloth than she was accustomed to and drab colours, but they’d be warm. As her will to end her life waned, she was feeling the cold. She grabbed the grey-brown trousers and pulled them over her legs and up under her chemise. Strange to be wearing a sailor’s trousers, but they fit well.

“Next, the shirt. We must leave all your clothes on the beach.” He twisted away holding out the clothes while looking toward the path to the village.

She also turned away, hoping to hide the bruises her husband had inflicted.

He turned back toward her after she’d buttoned up the shirt. It was made of finer cloth, and like the trousers, fit perfectly. Next, a pair of well-fitting shoes and then a waistcoat. This was tight across her chest, but he insisted she fasten all the buttons, flattening her breasts and aggravating the pain from her bruises. When he passed her a boy’s cap and instructed her to tuck her blond curls up inside, she realized what he had done. He’d disguised her as a lad, one on his way to join a ship.

She followed, lacking the will to do anything but follow his instructions, to a small house overlooking the harbour.

“This is Mrs. Page. She will keep you hidden and prepare you for the voyage. Please, follow her instructions without question. I will return when it’s safe.” He turned and departed without another word, leaving her in the care of the matronly Mrs. Page.

He returned four days later in the early morning light.

“Come,” he said picking up the sailor’s kitbag Mrs. Page had packed. “We sail on the morning tide.

Two days later, they were at a decent, but modest hotel in Paris, and in the months that followed visited Vienna, Prague, Venice, Florence, Rome, and Naples. In the autumn, they returned to Le Havre and boarded a brigantine destined for the New World.

During the months of their grand tour of Europe, her saviour acted like a true gentleman, always attentive to her needs and never acting inappropriately. Finally, on the voyage across the Atlantic, he provided an explanation.

“I was always a strange child. Many called me a changeling, but my half-brother, John, always stood up for me, saved my life on several occasions. You know John, he courted you when you were sixteen, but your father rejected him as a suitor, claiming he had insufficient prospects. He departed determined to improve his prospects. When you married, his dream didn’t die. He remained determined to somehow win you back.”

“But how? My fate was sealed once I married.”

“I chose to repay my debt by watching for a chance to free you from your bonds.”

“And you’re taking me to him?”

“I will leave you in Halifax and you will travel by coach to Windsor where John is professor of medicine at the newly established Kings College. He can now offer you the life you deserve.”

“Won’t you come with me to visit your brother and receive your reward for all you’ve done for me?”

He shook his head, a wistful look in his eye. “In Halifax, my job will be done.”

 

The late autumn storm, the worst in living memory, drove the mighty ship toward an unforgiving lee shore. The splintering of massive timbers upon offshore rocks assigned the ship and crew to watery graves.

He grabbed her by her arms, dove into the waves and struck out for shore. With mighty undulating kicks, he battled the turbulent seas and incessant undertow. His strength spent at the pounding surf line, he thrust her into the outstretched arms of rescuers braving the undertow from the shore. When they lifted her weight from his arms, he sighed, rolled onto his side, and let the undercurrent drag him into the depths. The child of a silkie from the sea, he’d grown to a man upon the land. Now, he would return forevermore, a silkie in the briny deep.

 

***

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/

 

 

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Flash Fiction: On the Edge, the Story of Peggy and Sam by Cathy MacKenzie

June 21, 2018 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The June prompt is to update a legend or legendary character/beast: bring it into the modern world, or add a twist that isn’t consistent with the original legend.

This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Her first novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, will be available for purchase by the end of June. “Follow” her website www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for updates and/or “like” her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/WolvesDontKnock/.

***

“On the Edge, the Story of Peggy and Sam”

by Cathy MacKenzie

Author’s Note: Peggys Cove, a small rural community on the eastern shore of St. Margarets Bay, is one of Nova Scotia’s most visited landmarks, picturesque with its lighthouse and deadly waves crashing against the huge boulders. According to local legend, a young girl named Margaret was the only survivor of a shipwreck off Halibut Rock, near the cove. (Peggy, of course, is the nickname for Margaret, hence the name of the cove.) Margaret/Peggy was found by a fisherman who took her to his home, and she was adopted by this man and his wife. No doubt, they all lived “happily ever after.”

In this fictionalized story, I’ve brought Peggy of the Cove into the modern world, where we find her floundering in the Atlantic Ocean…

When Peggy spat out salty water, it was as if she were in the throes of a nightmare, for why was she in the water? But her predicament was real—too real.

She gasped for breath and tread water. She scanned the vast waters. What—a lighthouse?

She was a fan of lighthouses and immediately recognized this one as the lighthouse at Peggys Cove. Peggys Cove, the place where legends began and ended. An abundance of lobster chowder and buttery biscuits. All varieties of fresh seafood. Tourists who disregarded the dangers of the rocks.

She’d been there several years previously and had even admonished several carefree teens who bounded over the boulders as if they were invincible. “Watch for the black,” she had shouted. “Don’t go near the edge. If you tumble, you’ll disappear forever.” They ignored her, of course, so she let them be, and they were fine in the end, thank God. She wasn’t certain what she would have done had one of them toppled into the sea. Would she have jumped in? Nope, not her. Be reckless in your life; suffer the consequences.

Consequences. Was she suffering consequences? What had she done to deserve this?

Her head ached, and the shark-infested waters didn’t calm her nerves. It was a wonder a shark hadn’t shown its face yet. If it did, she wouldn’t fare well.

She made an effort to swim toward shore, where relentless waves slapped against a wall of boulders. Would the waves crash her to the rocks? Wet rocks were slippery and dangerous, and she wouldn’t manage to get on shore even if she reached land. Barefoot, she would slip and slide on the rocks, and if she slid back into the water, she wouldn’t make it a second time. She had amazed herself she’d made it thus far, not that she knew where her journey had begun.

How the hell had she ended up in the water? Why the hell couldn’t she remember? What the Sam Hill—her father’s favourite expression.

Sam!

Samuel Reid, her fiancé.

She shivered and swallowed more water. She found it ironic the more she drank, the thirstier she became.

She was slowly losing strength. She must get to shore.

What had happened to her? Journey—a boat! A cruise boat. They had been on a cruise. A seven-day cruise out of Manhattan. Her memory was returning, albeit slowly. They had boarded the ship at Manhattan, with ports of call at Portland, Bar Harbour, Saint John, and Halifax, ending with two days of cruising from Halifax back to New York.

What “leg” of the cruise was she mired in? Did she “disembark” on the way to Halifax or on the return journey to Manhattan?

More nerve-wracking, how had she ended up in the ocean? No one could accidentally fall over the forty-eight-inch railings. No amount of booze would cause her to be drunk enough to jump into the sea. Someone had to have pushed her.

Horror stories assaulted her. Husbands and boyfriends who wanted to be rid of their partners. Someone had pushed her, and who else but Sam? But why? They loved each other, didn’t they? She did, at any rate, and had always thought herself to be a good judge of character.

They were to marry in December, two weeks before Christmas. The wedding had been planned—by her, of course—and invites mailed. Two months from now. A big wedding, too. Gifts had already poured in. They were both popular, having graduated Dalhousie in June. No jobs yet, but such was life. The jobs would come, though, and they’d end up happily married, forever after, with the proverbial white picket fence and two-point-five kids—if that stat was still correct. She hadn’t checked recently. And who’d have half a kid, anyhow?

They’d taken out life insurance policies four months previously. Sam’s idea, wasn’t it? She hadn’t thought much about it—until this moment. “Might as well get coverage now,” she remembered him saying. “One less thing to do after we’re married.”

She spat out more water. Was she getting the bends? No, from the little she knew about the condition, the bends were when you were deep underwater, your brain exploding within your skull. She was above the sea, but still dangerous and brutal. The sea claimed whatever and whomever at will.

She must reach the rocks. She was confident she could grasp hold and haul herself up no matter the eel-like surface. And someone would be there to rescue her.

Please, God, let someone be there.

Figures and distances weren’t her forte. How much farther? How much longer could she last? Not that it mattered. She must keep swimming. Move her arms, kick her legs. Nothing to it, right?

Her life depended upon it.

Sam. Had he really done this? Why? Why, oh why?

They’d been drinking; they always drank. Who didn’t? “One more glass of wine?” he had asked. “Sure, just one,” she had replied. Booze was free onboard. They’d purchased the beverage package.

Wait! Who had purchased it? Him or her?

No matter. Didn’t matter. Gotta reach shore. “Please, God,” she mumbled. “I’ll never drink again if you save me.”

Didn’t everyone bargain when death neared?

No, death wouldn’t come for her. And when she found Sam, well, she didn’t want to think what she would do.

She forced her arms to dig deep into the water, inch by inch. Where was the splash of her feet? Shouldn’t she hear the splash? Wasn’t she kicking?

Forget it. Keep going. She was moving. The rocks were closer. Black rocks, but she’d manage. Just get me there. I’ll handle the rest.

She pretended she was a mermaid. Mermaids existed in the water. She’d live if she were a mermaid. Who knows, maybe she was one.

Kick! Kick, kick.

Her feet were numb, so maybe she had developed a mermaid tail. Flap! Flap, flap.

Nearer. Almost there. A few more kicks. A few more flails of her arms.

The water was warmer. She was warmer. Another sign of death?

She was close. So close. So close…

“Please, God, don’t let this be a mirage.”

She touched the sharp edge of a rock. A big rock. A boulder.

“I’m safe,” she muttered.

She looked up. A cliff. Too high. She’d never scale that.

She latched hold, her hand slipped, she swallowed water.

She reached again.

She managed to hoist herself onto a low-lying surface, where she lay, panting. The October sun shone across her. Warm. No breeze, no dastardly wind. No crash of the waves against the rocks.

Anyone there? she wanted to shout, but she possessed no strength.

Let me rest. Just let me rest.

AUthor’s Note: My story “Margaret of the Sea” (perhaps a bit too dark, but that’s what the guidelines wanted!), another fictionalized account of Peggy/Margaret, will be published in an upcoming anthology titled Creatures in Canada – A Darkling Around the World Anthology, by Lycan Valley Press. This anthology consists of one “legend” story per province in Canada, a story that could have only happened in that particular province. My story was selected for Nova Scotia. Book will be available on Amazon.

***

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/

 

 

Catherine A MacKenzie, flash fiction none

Flash Fiction: Cerebus by Val Muller

June 14, 2018 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is among the most difficult I’ve tackled. In fact, when I shared it with my student writing group, they were all stumped. Update a legend or legendary character/beast: bring it into the modern world, or add a twist that isn’t consistent with the original legend.

Today’s post comes from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series. Learn more at www.CorgiCapers.com. And if you like modern twists on mythology, check out her supernatural mystery The Man with the Crystal Ankh: https://www.amazon.com/Man-Crystal-Ankh-Hollow-Book-ebook/dp/B01N75XTGK/

Cerebus by Val Muller

“Where are we?” asked the largest of the heads.

“I’m thirsty,” answered the middle head, craning its neck in search of water.

“Meow,” said the third.

“Meow?” the other two repeated.

“Meow,” confirmed the third.

“Where are we?” asked the largest head again, its eyes devoid of intellect. An affront to its position. I sighed. That should have been me—head head, brain of Cerebus. What was Ambrus doing in my spot? If I were still in charge, I would have crushed ten souls by now. Twelve! And the three of them were just standing there.

“You’re on Earth, you twits,” I answered. “Don’t you remember anything?”

“Earth?” repeated the largest head—my head—in Ambrus’s lame voice. He said it the way you remember a dream you just woke from, a dream you’ll forget in the next moments. “It’s very bright up here,” he complained.

“Yes,” agreed the second head. It had to be Mikula. He had taken Ambrus’s place as middle head.

We all turned to the third head. “Meow,” it said.

I looked down to note that I was licking my paw. Of all the undignified…I growled at myself, but it came out as more of a purr. In fact, I found myself thinking about finding a nice cardboard box to curl up in.

How atrocious.

And what the hell is cardboard?

“I’m confused,” said the largest head. I glanced at him. I couldn’t help but admire his—my—chiseled jawline, its bone-crushing teeth, its fiery mane of hair, more lion than dog. Oh, but those vacant eyes. I narrowed my own.

“When are you not confused, Ambrus?” I asked. Ambrus was our brawn, not our brain. He did what I told him. He devoured souls when I didn’t feel like it, he pounded his head into the rocks of the underworld to create cavernous cave-ins. He told us when we needed sustenance. Pure beast. He did none of the actual thinking.

“Meow,” said the third head.

“Wait,” said Ambrose. “What’s going on?”

I growled—trying to make it as purr-less as possible. Any imbecile could see what had happened.

“We were sent up and forward,” I said.

“Up?” asked Mikula.

“Forward?” asked Ambrose.

“Meow,” said the third head.

“Up.” I motioned to the surroundings with my paw. I was surprised at how dexterous the feline appendage was. I pointed to the alleyway, the buildings, the glowing lights of the city.

“And forward.” I pointed to the airplanes in the sky, the automobiles, the indicators of the current era.

“But why?” asked the idiot who occupied my head.

This had literally been explained to us moments ago when we were still in Hades and still in our own era.

“We’re being proactive,” I said. “Sorting and gathering souls for Hades. Things were getting crowded. Gods, haven’t you read Dante’s Inferno? We’re supposed to scare up some people into behaving better. Hades is tired of dealing with so many down in his turf. We’ve got to slow down the influx of souls.”

Mikula nodded like it was the first he was hearing of all this. That’s all he ever did. Agree and obey.

The third head meowed. I wished the other two would just bite his head off already. There were fewer things more useless to me than cats. And here I was…

“When we transported,” I explained, “we were supposed to be sent somewhere deserted. You know, to fully materialize. Hades can see all, but he apparently missed that there was a mangy alleycat right here, licking its damned paws just as we arrived. The sheer force our arrival crashing into its existence, and my head was taken by idiot over there, leaving Ambrose’s head ripe for Mikula’s taking. And me…” I meowed so loudly I felt sick and forced up a hairball.

A human walked by, talking into a sparkly device. The three heads turned to gauge my reaction.

“I thought we were bigger,” Ambrose said. Indeed, the human had towered over us. “We used to be able to devour men in a single gulp. That I remember.”

“Souls have no size,” I said. “In this world… “ But what could I say? How could I justify Cerebus’s new diminutive size with talk of limited resources of the laws of physics in the real world? These partners of mine came from an alternate dimension, and they barely understood anything. It was pointless. We weren’t going to devour souls anytime soon. And we certainly weren’t doing Hades any favors.

A human walked by. “Meow,” I said, swallowing my disgust.

“Awww,” the human said. “Are you lost, little kitty? Stay right here.” She disappeared into a doorway and emerged a moment later with a little can. She flicked the top, and it made the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. I leapt to her feet and devoured the sweet ambrosia that was trapped inside. Fish and liver pate. I couldn’t remember a thing in Hades I liked better.

When I finished, I glanced up. Music from an open window above the alley had lulled the three idiots to sleep. Their body was warm and their breathing, rhythmic. I purred once and leapt into the crook of their front leg, snuggling in for a nap. Before I fell asleep, I admired the clean paw I had just licked. Its calico pattern was something to rival the finest artisan’s work. Then I licked it some more, just to be sure.

It’s what cats do, after all.

* * *

The Spot Writers:

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/

 

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Fantastic Friday: In Loving Memory

June 8, 2018 7 comments

I lost my uncle unexpectedly recently, and that got me thinking about life. What does a life boil down to? What are the ways we all affect each other?

warrenxmas2More people than expected showed for the viewing, and it seems no matter how isolated we may seem, we impact our fellow humans. It is the nature of mankind: we are ripples in a pond. Even though we do not last forever, our actions move those around us, which causes more ripples, and so on. Human nature is such that the pond is never fully still.

It is in this way that we live beyond our years. We live in the stories we tell, in the memories we create, in the anecdotes that survive us.

I wanted to share what I read about my uncle because the lesson seems especially important in a world that seems to increase its pace daily:

One of the most poignant memories I have of my uncle is a Christmas when I was younger. He and my grandmother were unloading gifts under our tree, and I stood perplexed. As a child, still self centered, I noticed that a gift labeled to my sister was huge, whereas one for me was tiny.

My uncle was the only one who noticed what must have been a perplexed look on my face. He stopped unloading the gifts and turned to me. “You know,” he said, “whatever is inside this little box might be the most valuable thing under the tree. There are diamonds and jewels worth more than cars.“

I don’t remember what was in any of those boxes that Christmas, but I do remember my uncle’s words because they stuck with me through the decades. His words opened up my way of thinking. As a child, I imagined all sorts of little things that might be hidden in that box. A skeleton key that opened any door in the world? A gem that granted wishes? An ancient piece of jewelry? Previously, like most little kids, I thought bigger is better, but his words made me think beyond the obvious.

Thinking back on it, I realize the exchange represents the way he lived. I don’t think anyone here, or anyone who knew him, would describe him as “typical.” He was always one of a kind. Whether he was known to be the poster child for political incorrectness or known as “uncle Looney,” as I and my sister and dad and daughter lovingly called him, Warren stood out wherever he went. 

He never gave in to the rat race of life. He thought differently and he lived the way he thought, marching to the beat of his own drum. In our rush to go from work to home and back again, things often blur together in a frenzy of time. We miss so many of the details and forget what is not immediately relevant. But not so with him. 

He remembered things and enjoyed the tangible for the memories they held. What we saw as an old car he refused to give away, he saw a collection of memories, a tangible link to the past. 

When we watch films, we do so mostly in passing, but he took the time to enjoy them, often multiple times, so that their meaning grew beyond the superficial. When I told him I was expecting a daughter, he responded with an elaborate reference to Marty McFly, a character in my favorite movie of all time. He took a passing reference to a film and loaded it with meaning about destiny and life choices and fulfilling our futures. 

And that is what I will always remember him for. As a libertarian, I value above all else the idea of thinking critically and living by one’s own standards, not living a certain way simply because someone else told us to. And my uncle certainly did this. He lived the life he chose for himself to the end.

Whether it’s his quirky references to films, the many gag toys he showed us as kids, the pranks that he played on us, his outside-the-box ideas, or a simple but eye-opening statement about the value of an unknown gift, I will always remember him as one of the most unique people I have ever met. A tease and friend to my dad, a comfort to my grandmother, the quintessential eccentric uncle to me, and the doting great uncle to my daughter.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said “insist on yourself; never imitate.” My uncle lived this philosophy, and as we rush back to our lives, I’d like us to keep his way of life in mind, taking a moment to linger in a thought or memory, a moment to enjoy the comfort of our physical surroundings, a moment to linger in the now. The future we worry about is always there lurking but never is promised. But we have moments–here in the now–that become memories. My uncle embraced those, and as we move on with our lives, I know the many moments we have shared with him will become memories we will cherish, keeping him alive in our hearts.

I am working on the second draft of a novel that is largely inspired by my uncle and his life. Stay tuned for details.

Also: my uncle had several copies of my books, and I have been trying to decide what  to do with them. If you feel so inclined, leave a comment, and I will likely choose random responders to send copies to. There are several Corgi Capers, some Chicken Soup for the Soul titles, and other Val Muller novels in the stack.

Fantastic Friday none

Flash Fiction: A Fuse for a Book by Chiara De Giorgi

June 7, 2018 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. May’s prompt is to write a story about a character

playing a prank on another. This week’s story comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara

dreams, reads, edits texts, translates, and occasionally writes in two languages.

She also has lot of fun.

 

 

A fuse for a book

Chiara De Giorgi

My elderly upstairs neighbor is very cute, but quite deaf.

 

She’s also lonely, especially at night. Her small flat suddenly becomes too big, the

emptiness of it filling every inch. And she can’t sleep if she’s alone. So she turns on

the TV while she lays in bed, waiting for sweet slumber and hopefully some happy

dreams.

 

This is all very moving, and I feel sorry for her. That is, until at 2.00 am she turns

in her sleep and accidentally presses all the buttons in the remote and the volume

goes up and a crazy zapping starts, right over my head. Which happens more often

than seems reasonable, especially at 2.00 am.

 

I tried banging on her door once, but of course she couldn’t hear me. She slept on,

while people in China could hear her TV proudly announcing Germany’s Next Top

Model. So I bought myself some earplugs, which I keep next to my bed, just in case

RTL jingle brutally and suspiciously intrudes into my dreams at some ungodly hour.

Once I thought, why doesn’t she goes to sleep with a book, for goodness’s sake!

 

And right there and then, an idea was born.

 

The first book I left in her mailbox was an ancient and pretty copy of Jane Eyre.

She disregarded it completely, as I could easily tell the following nights.

 

So I tried slipping a slim Agatha Christie mystery under her door. Again, no luck.

Desperation and insomnia were gripping me, so I tried leaving the whole Modern

Herbalism Collection (seven hardbound tomes) on her doormat. No success. My

elderly neighbor was happily and unwittingly spending her nights lulled by the worst

possible TV programs, while I was going crazy for lack of sleep. My eyes were

bloodshot, my skin was grey, I put the car keys into the fridge and tried starting

my car with a ham slice… I needed a new idea.

 

One morning, I went down to the basement by mistake (I was basically sleep

walking and missed the front door of the building while going to work) and a

brilliant idea stroke me.

 

That night,around10.00pm,whenIheardmyneighborturntheTVon,I tiptoed

Down to the basement, reached the fuse box, and removed the one that granted

power to the sweet old lady’s flat. And There Was Silence.

 

I slept like a baby, woke up happy, and went to work with a renewed spirit. Before

leaving the building, I put the fuse back. Let her call Maintenance!

 

Which she did, after a week of mere moving-and-replacing the fuse, but no one

ever found what was wrong with the TV, or the cables, or anything.

 

My elderlyneighbor finallystarted reading the booksI hadanonymously givenher.

I’ve been dropping a new book in her mailbox every week since then, and we’ve

both been sleeping peacefully ever since.

 

I keep removing the fuse at night and putting it back at morning, though. You can

never be too safe.

 

The Spot Writers:

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/

 

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