Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “winter is coming,” and today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. Look for releases of books 4 and 5 in 2025!

The Fancy Wrapping Paper Exchange Club

By Val Muller

It was about that time, that certain chill in the air, winter was coming. Gus zipped his jacket and peered one more time up the staircase. This had all been so much easy easier before the dog died. At least in those days he could always just claim he was walking Bailey. But now he had to make up excuses, and it wasn’t even trash day.

It was the first night that a cold snap was truly coming. There was going to be frost on the ground in the morning and the kids were going to start asking about those Christmas elves. They usually showed up right after Thanksgiving. Or sometimes December first, but some of the families had their elves show up on the first frost. The weather was making some of the families nervous, so they sent the men out tonight to do the wrapping paper exchange.

It was an idea that came about when Frankie down the street decided he was going to keep a scrap of Santa wrapping paper from every year. He was one of those kids destined to be a historian. Or maybe an archeologist or a detective. His attention to detail was going to be the downfall of every family in the neighborhood. Rumor had it he was even keeping pieces of tape to check for fingerprints.

So every year, the family pulled that special tube of wrapping paper down from the rafters, or wherever it was they stored it for the year. And they met up at the Martin’s shed at the front of the neighborhood. Some of them had had experience doing these sneaky nefarious things as teenagers, and Gus imagined it must be sort of exciting to get that adrenaline rush again, to feel again like children.

For Gus, this sneaking was a new thing and definitely got to his nerves. Probably two times out of seven during the week, at least one of the children would get up for water. Or forgetting to do a homework assignment. Or any of the other five thousand things kids do while they’re trying not to fall asleep at night.

Rebecca was in bed reading, but he knew she would be asleep in the next five or ten minutes. Gus thought about leaving the shower on, but that would be a long time for the water to be running and after all, it was a drought year. It would be unfair to use the water for this purpose. He just had to hurry up and hope for the best.

George kept a list, and every Christmas Eve, he texted it to the other fathers in the neighborhood, just in case. And it was a good thing, too, because George got a new phone and forgot to transfer the list over. So when guys got there, Mike had already pulled up the list, and they were comparing notes. Gus had the red foil paper last year and it was his turn to pass that over to George. Mike had the glittery Santa paper and that would go to Gus this year, and so on. There were certain papers that Frankie was aware of and others that he wasn’t. All the families tried to go to off-beat stores and purchase fresh rolls for future years.

It wasn’t until last year that Frankie started getting other kids involved and making the matrix that much more complicated. In some ways, all the dads couldn’t wait to spoil the surprise so that at least Frankie could be on their side and help with the younger ones.

There at the shed, there was the obligatory exchange of pleasantries, some talk about their children’s milestones or whose kids had the bad teachers this year. Gus felt under the surface the repressed talk of men who could truly be friends if not for the relentless responsibilities of families, responsibilities so demanding that meeting at night near abandoned shed to exchange wrapping paper was all that they had left.

The exchange was made, a few of the dogs pooped and that had to be cleaned up, but soon the men went home because after all, they were sneaking out and they had to get back quickly and store the wrapping paper somewhere secret before they got too tired to think.

They were like burglars, plotting the best route home so as to avoid any detection by relevant neighborhood cameras and doorbell cameras. His house being on the cul-de-sac, Gus would be the last to get home. He had forgotten just how dark the neighborhood was. And it was never so quiet as now, walking alone, his first year without Bailey.

In the quiet night with only a slim sliver of a moon lighting the way, his breath left ghostly trails in the air as a thought crossed his mind. He and these other dads, they were walking almost like zombies or people possessed. What was making them do all these things? What was making them hide the wrapping paper? What was making them wrap these gifts so secretly? All for the children’s happiness.

A thought crossed his mind that maybe there was more to this Santa thing than he had realized. He heard a rustling in the woods behind the house and it almost sounded like sleigh bells. Gus shivered and turned up his collar, being careful not to tear the wrapping paper since it felt like maybe there wouldn’t be quite enough for the gift he would be wrapping that year.

He turned to look up at the moon, and a jolly laughter echoed in the air, or at least in his ears. And as he gazed up at the starry sky, he could swear he saw the silhouette of Santa’s sleigh being driven by eight tiny reindeer scurry across the moon.

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “Halloween with a twist.” Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

Howl by Val Muller

The sun rose in rays cutting through the mist. Randy shook his fur and adjusted his shirt. It was finally here–Halloween. Tonight was his night to prove himself, to terrify small children and howl at the moon, to rustle through bushes and leaves, to claw at doorways.

If he did all that, maybe his dad would finally get off his case.

The werewolf academy was awarding only three red shirts this holiday, making the high award an elite honor most likely out of Randy’s league but definitely on his dad’s radar.

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with being a blue shirt,” Randy said at dinner just last week. He had been assigned to terrify a young brother and sister walking their dog after dark, but he really didn’t see the need to do such things. Besides, dogs were a little intimidating.

“No werewolf aspires to be a blue shirt.” His dad tore a piece of raw meat off the bone, letting the remnants clatter to his plate with a splat while he chewed. Then he rubbed his claws along his size XL red flannel shirt, still emblazoned with the werewolf academy patch and the year he earned it.

“Dad, it’s not the seventies anymore. Not everyone needs a red shirt. And even if I stay a green shirt, I–”

His dad growled at the very idea of Randy staying a green shirt. The wereboy lowered his head and munched on a piece of broccoli.

“Dang it, Randy, I’ve told you how many times. You have to eat your meat first. You think I’m gonna let you fill up on vegetables?”

Randy sighed. The whole week, dad had been like this. Criticizing his diet. Saying his teeth weren’t sharp enough, his fur not matted enough.

“You know, Matthew got groomed this weekend,” Randy had said. “All the kids at school seem to think his haircut looks nice and–” That set off Dad, of course. Next thing Randy knew, they were at the local dump finding musty discards to roll in.

“No son of mine is getting groomed, and certainly not this close to Halloween.”

Since then, they had hunted, clawed, lingered, and howled. But Randy still hadn’t found that drive, that urge to scare.

Now, Halloween morning, Randy was determined to put the issue to rest. If he could only just terrify someone, maybe instill in them some indigestion or the need for anti-anxiety meds, maybe that would be enough for Dad.

Randy headed out of their foresty shed in search of victims. The first victim was a woman walking her dog. It was a little one, a chihuahua. But you know what they say about little dogs. Randy chose to stay on the opposite side of the street. He threw the woman a creepy look. Alright, it was more like a sideways smile, but still. Dad couldn’t say he didn’t try.

The woman gave a half wave and a sympathetic smile. “I like your costume,” she said. “Very scary.”

The way she said “scary,” Randy could tell she really didn’t think so.

Randy continued walking toward the town. Surely someone would be frightened. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his green flannel shirt to add that extra little look of dishevelment.

Soon, screeching tires and backup lights. “No. Way.” A voice called. Randy caught up to the truck that had stopped on the side of the road. The guy at the wheel looked pretty frantic. Maybe he would make an easy victim.

“Dude,” he said. “You look just like Freddy.”

“Freddy?”

“Yeah. He was our last werewolf. Something came up, though, and he can’t play the role tonight. We don’t have any spare actors, and I’ve been racking my brain all morning. Want to make an easy couple of hundred bucks?”

“Hundred bucks?” Randy approached the car.

The man nodded. “I mean, your costume looks so good, it could be real.” He reached out and tugged Randy’s facial fur. “That’s some beard!”

“You’re not scared of me?”

The man laughed. “I run a haunted woods attraction for a living. I’m not scared, but I know hundreds of people who will be.”

Randy howled. “Sign me up.”

* * *

The early November sun gently lit the morning fog. Randy crunched on a celery stalk while Dad ate some marrow out of a freshly cracked deer bone.

Between bites, he looked at Randy and smiled. “So proud of you for earning the scariest character award at that haunted woods place you went to.”

“You’re not mad I only earned a blue shirt from the academy?” Randy smiled, hoping the whole red shirt thing was behind him.

Dad let out a playful growl. “You only earned a blue shirt for now. There’s always next year.”

Randy looked down at his “scariest character” medal and the way it gleamed in the sun. His chest swelled with pride, which he released in a long, eerie howl that even made his own skin crawl as his mind wandered to next Halloween.

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/

 

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s assignment is to write a story in which a celebration coincides with a weather anomaly. This week’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

The Inaugural Launch of the Hammingway County Library Book Club
By Val Muller

Emily adjusted the book in the middle of the picnic table again. She eyed the centerpiece. Then she wiped the sweat from her brow. A wool sweater and a plastic campfire made the heatwave seem that much hotter. Hundred-degree days in September seemed…wrong. With pools closed after Labor Day, it seemed like a cruel joke from the universe.

And a cruel joke for her first day on the book club project. It was her first community outreach assignment, her first day away from the circulation desk and the stacks, the inaugural launch of the Hammingway County Library Book Club. And here she had chosen a book with strong late fall vibes. Back in June, when she imagined September, she thought the rustic picnic spot would give Halloween vibes with a kiss of frost.

But now, the heat wave. It was being called “historic.” And the book had been a disappointment, too. The whole thing followed this stalker, the crisp fall weather being a metaphor for his cold intentions, but he never actually did anything. It was almost entirely stream of consciousness except for a few pointless interactions. Even the stream behind Emily seemed to laugh at her choices. Would anyone even trust her to pick a book again, let alone plan the meetup?

Just as she was starting to think, or maybe hope, no one would be coming, a car’s tires echoed on the gravel parking lot. Three doors opened, and out stepped four adults, four women and a man. Two of the women carried tumblers.

“Oh good, we didn’t miss it,” one of them said. She sloshed her tumbler around in the air. “See, I did have time to stop home and grab my special drink.” The other one with a tumbler shared a smile, and the group headed toward the table.

“Hot enough for you?” Emily said lamely.

“You know,” one of them said, “It’s just nice for us to be out of the classroom.”

The man picked up a pinecone from the table. “We’re all teachers, and we’ve reached that point in the year where the honeymoon is over, and Thanskgiving’s not close enough. We thought the bookclub would be a nice break. Sure is hot, though.” His brow had already beaded in sweat. More tires on gravel, and out stepped a frazzled-lookikg mom and her children.

“Mommy, mommy, there are already people at our picnic spot!” a child moaned.

“It’s not ‘our spot,’ Billy. It belongs to everyone.”

The boy eyed Emily, then the group. The two women with the special drinks shared a laugh. Then the boy sprinted to the stream and splashed. Even Emily felt the wave of jealousy pass over the group.

“Come on in,” the boy shouted. “This water is so refreshing!”

The man eyed the pinecone in his hand. “I’ll be honest,” he told Emily. “I didn’t get past chapter 9. I mean, the guy just didn’t do anything.”

Before Emily could answer, he was already taking off his shoes.

*

A half hour later, a soaking Billy made his way to his mom’s car, with four half-drenched teachers in tow. The man stopped to shake Emily’s hand. “Really fun time,” he said. He picked up the pinecone again and chucked it toward the stream. It landed with a plunk and started its spiraling journey downstream.

The two teachers picked up their empty tumblers and giggled. “You’ll have to let us know when the next book club meets,” one of them said. “Only, maybe the protagonist could actually do something next time.”

“And maybe it won’t be so hot.”

Emily nodded, already taking mental notes, thinking how to attract even more patrons next time.

“The weeks between winter break and spring break are especially long,” one of them added helpfully as the group continued to their car.

Emily nodded again, cleaning up the centerpiece. Then she giggled, picked up the book from the centerpiece, and threw it into the stream.

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s assignment is to write a story that begins with the words “and then it started to rain.” Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, the author of The Corgi Capers kid lit mystery series.

Running in the Rain
Val Muller

And then it started to rain. There he was, dressed for a run during one of the longest droughts on record, ready to start training, and now this downpour. In this rain, his shoes would be soaked in minutes, and so would his knee brace.

The worry in Mike’s gut dissipated with his anxiety over running up the hill on Blakeney Court or his concern he would hit a wall five miles in and have to shuffle back home. And no one would be able to judge him for this. Knee surgery wasn’t easy, and neither was running. Why, he should get a medal just for getting dressed.

He hurried under the overhang and navigated as best he could to the apartment’s gym, managing to stay mostly dry. As if in conspiracy with the rain, the elliptical and treadmills were all taken. Only the weight bench and the bike remained open.

How easy would that be? It was like getting away with murder. No running. Easy bike. Maybe a few weights. His knee would have no chance to fail. There would be no pain.

He started the workout, choosing a rigorous hill course that took 45 minutes to complete. See? Rigorous. No one could judge him. Less than a mile in, though, and he knew it was too easy. Better than nothing, obviously, but if he really wanted to make a change, this bike was not the way to go. Was this really the best use of his workout time?

An old woman walked into the gym. She chose the bike next to Mike and opened a novel. “Nice day for biking,” she said. “It’s really coming down out there,” she said. She started biking in a leisurely way, going slowly enough that she could read her novel.

Mike kept it up for another mile, but he kept looking outside. The rain had been a heavenly chorus, and excuse, but now it was mocking him. It was telling him he couldn’t do it, encouraging him to give up.

He got off the bike, wiped it down, and nodded a good day to the woman next to him. Outside, the rain was heavy. Steady. His feet were soaked within his first two steps, and the rain soaked the front of his shirt. At the same time, he smiled. He’d forgotten how fun it was to run in the rain. Like being a kid again, like the universe was winking.

The pitter-patter of the rain matched his footsteps as he turned up Blakeney Court and smiled.

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about a mishap involving paint. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

Art Show at the Swim Meet

By Val Muller

 

Why would they leave out the senior art show during the state championship swim meet for ten-and-unders? Why?

Why, why, why?

Alice bit her lip. No one had seen. Her body acted without her brain’s permission, and before long she had shifted the large wall panels so that the ruined artwork faced the back wall. No one would know.

Not yet, anyway.

What the heck was she thinking, bringing the three-year-old to a swim meet? Not only that, but letting her sit alone while Alice went up to the balcony to watch Conner race!

The artists would be mad, for sure. They would be livid. Their work had been defiled. Desecrated. Their hard work disregarded and ruined by a careless toddler.

No one would understand, though, if they’d not been to a swim meet. The private swim clubs held meets at local high schools and colleges with pools to rent out. The events were like refugee camps, with swimmers’ families spreading out blankets, towels, and portable chairs in the cafeteria or hallway. They would camp out, and the rounders would come gather the swimmers. Then, parents would make their way into the humid pool area, elbow their way into the overcrowded bleachers to watch the brief race, then fight their way off the bleacher to return to their campsite and wait for the next race, only to do it all over again.

And while a meet would last for hours, free time happened only in small chunks. By the time the swimmers made their way back from the pool, there was only a matter of twenty minutes or so before they had to line up to get on to their next race.

Conner was old enough to deal with this. Alice helped him pack easy-to-eat snacks and small bits of entertainment like books or sketch pads that could fill in the random minutes. And besides, for the swimmer, just sitting and relaxing was a nice break between races.

But for Conner’s three-year-old sister, it was a very different story.

For a three-year-old, a half day’s swim meet was an eternity. Alice realized long ago that dragging Sally up to the bleachers was not a good idea. The crowded quarters and humid air made her cranky, and Alice spent most of the time calming the child instead of watching the swimmers. So, this time she let Sally pack a bag of art supplies to keep her busy. The first two races had gone swimmingly, and Alice created several masterpieces in her sketchpad, washable markers and colored pencils covering the pages in rainbow colors.

But after the second race, Sally was hungry, and she didn’t want to wait. Conner had a 90-minute break between his third race and his last one, and Alice promised to get something to eat from the food truck outside—but Sally had to wait until after the third race.

Sally did not want to do that.

But Alice promised her ice cream and hurried to Conner’s third race.

Fast forward to her return, discovering that Sally had wandered from the blanket and picnic chair setup and found the high school’s senior art show panels pushed into the back corner, a useless “caution” tape pulled across them.

As if caution tape could keep out a toddler.

Unbeknownst to Alice, Sally had packed her paints in the art bag she’d brought, and while Alice was watching Conner’s third race, Sally had gone ahead and added some finishing touches to an entire wall of senior art.

There was “Scarecrow at Dusk,” a beautiful gouche, which Sally decided needed some giant red sunflowers and a smile drawn across the rising moon.

The watercolor “Portrait of Strength” depicted a naked woman, which Alice clearly thought needed to be covered in a cursory blue and yellow bikini in thick, dripping paint.

And “Spaghetti Lunch” was painted over in a rainbow, turning the lunch into something nightmarish and gaudy.

There were others. Seven of them. Ten pieces, Sally had ruined. Sure, the paint was washable, but you couldn’t wash paint off paper, not without ruining the artwork underneath.

Mindlessly, Alice bought an ice cream from the truck outside to keep the toddler distracted. Then she sat down at her own little campsite in the cafeteria and pondered the possibilities. She could just go home. No one would be the wiser. Well, that’s not true. In the morning, the discovery would be made, and angry high school students and teachers would call the swim team, demanding answers. There would be a witch hunt, and someone would remember seeing a three-year-old painting.

Anyone who saw Sally remembered her. She was like an angry rainbow. The crime would be traced back to Alice within days, if not hours. That would never do.

She could come clean now. Tell the director what happened. That would cause a panic, but at least they would be on the front end of it.

She snuck to the back corner and ducked under the caution tape, taking one more look. The rainbow mess had gotten on the name cards, too. This particular painting, “Magic Flakes” by Jonny Rhoades, had been a study in shades of white, but the snowy scene was turned an angry palate of red and orange and yellow. Underneath the title was the word “oil” and then “$45.”

Forty-five dollars?

Wait, were these paintings for sale? Alice could buy them!

All of them?

All of them!

That’s right, she could take them with her, pin a note to the board, leave her contact information for payment…

She did the math. All the ruined paintings, all ten of them, sold for a grand total of $575. Worth it?

A small price to pay to avoid the embarrassment to the team and her own personal embarrassment, of course. She took a piece of Sally’s sketch paper and penned a note. “I was so inspired,” she wrote, “I just had to purchase all of these. Please contact me for payment.” Then she left her contact info.

She unpinned all ten pieces, stored them flat in Sally’s art bag, which she packed up to prevent any further impromptu artwork. She wondered if the students would be excited in the morning to learn their work had sold. Maybe this was their first sale. Maybe this would inspire them to keep going.

A steep price to pay for encouragement, but all in all, the mistake could have been much costlier than that.

The rounder called Conner to his last race, and Alice grabbed Sally’s hand, a sticky mess from the ice cream, and dragged her up to the bleachers overlooking the pool. Watching the race would be a battle with Sally fighting every step of the way, but it was one Alice would win. $575 was enough mistakes for one day.

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/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about falling in love in a museum. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

Puppy Love at the Folk Art Museum

Val Muller

It had been a year since his father died, yet Melvin still felt lost. From the outside, things were the same, but to him, life felt like a shell only. If something funny happened at work, he still thought about calling his dad on the way home. Dad was always one for—well, Dad jokes, stupid puns, and goofy misunderstandings. But as quickly as the instinct hit, so did the remembrance.

There was no one to call on the way home. It was almost like Dad’s absence made all the humorous anecdotes lose all meaning. He found himself on this cloudy Saturday heading to the Apple Valley Folk Art Museum, a favorite of Dad’s. He had gone many times with his father, and lately he hadn’t been able to get the museum out of his mind.

*

The museum was folk art, naïve art, just the kind James had loved and painted. Rose could barely believe he was gone—from breathing to buried in a matter of weeks. The whirlwind of death and paperwork and funeral and well wishes had settled, and now things were too quiet.

Well, except for Beamer.

Beamer was not quiet. James’s service dog, Beamer made his presence known through soft but insistent communication. James had a zillion tasks for the service animal. Rose had none, and the dog was languishing under her care.

“Care.”

She was just as much a dog person as the artistic James had been an accountant. It’s true that opposites attract, but it’s not true that your opposite wants to take care of your emotional support dog after you die. If only she could find someone to take the dog.

*

Melvin found the painting, the one his father loved. It was a folk art piece depicting an unidentifiable planet—it wasn’t Earth, since Earth was visible far away in the space backdrop—and dandelion seeds were floating in the air.

Dad had loved the painting because of the irony. The nuisance plant on Earth was thriving on the planet, and the painting implied that the seeds were helping to terraform it. Folk art and sci-fi, a mix Dad chuckled at.

There was something hopeful about the idea of continuing on. Life after Earth. That sort of thing. Mel stared at the painting and sighed. Despite the familiar and hopeful message, Mel felt no closer to closure than he had for the past year.

Behind him, something whimpered softly. It was an older woman and a dog—the dog wore a bright vest labeled “service animal.”

“Oh, pardon us,” she said.

Mel looked from the woman to the painting, then back to the dog. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Were you waiting for a turn at this painting?”

The woman dismissed the idea with the wave of her hand. “Yes, but you looked so lost in thought, we wanted you to take your time.”

“We?”

The woman laughed sadly. “Me and—well, I guess me and the dog. I’m Rose. This is Beamer.”

“Beamer,” Mel said. “Like the car.”

Rose laughed. “That’s exactly the joke. James used to tell people he always travels with his Beamer.”

“A dad joke.” Mel smile-frowned. “My dad would’ve loved it.”

Rose’s eyes understood immediately. “I’m sorry—when?”

“He loved this painting.”

Beamer whimpered and pulled toward Mel.

“Sorry.” Rose pulled back, but Mel reached out and pet the pup. “I know it says he’s a service dog, but James stretched that certification as far as it would go. He wanted to bring this dog everywhere. Now—”

But she stopped short. Here, in front of her husband’s painting, this young man was gazing into Beamer’s eyes as lovingly as only one man had done before.

“Hey,” Rose said. “There’s this nice little coffee shop down the street. Why don’t we—”

And they 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.com/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story that features a springtime ritual.

Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series. Stay tuned for an illustrated re-release of the first three titles and the release of book 4!

Mom’s Weekend Off

By Val Muller

It was the day that woke the soul. That’s how Patty thought about it, anyway. You know the one: the first spring day after winter when the sun is so warm that it’s dangerously close to feeling too hot, but it isn’t because the cold of winter is still stuck into the inside of your bones, which are saturated with winter’s chill. It’s that time of year where you will feel you will never say too hot again.

Dan and the kids were away til the morning, and Dan told Patty to enjoy herself, a once in a blue moon free weekend day alone, a full 24 hours. She promised she had only one task, and then she might go to the movies or take a bath or just hang out in the hammock and read. She would only eat cereal and would not lift a finger in the kitchen other than that.

Just the one task, then it would be time to relax. It was time for the birdhouse clean-out, her annual harbinger of spring. The last two weekends it had rained, so Patty had done the typical indoor spring cleaning, but it didn’t feel like spring until the birdhouse cleanout, the emptying of last year’s nests to make room for this year.

Of course it required the ladder, so she went to the garage to retrieve it. Several cardboard boxes had piled up since Christmas, too big to fold up into the recycling bin, and now they blocked the ladder. She’d been meaning to take them to the recycling center. She guessed now was just as nice a day as any. So she went to the van to lower the seats, making room for the cardboard.

Of course, that’s when she saw the detritus left by the kids all winter. It was their chore to clean the car weekly, but it had been so cold that everyone had let it slide for weeks, and now the floor of the van was a graveyard of dead French fries, candy wrappers, and Cheerios. She couldn’t just leave that mess until Monday, so she swept out the floor and then took a vacuum to it. Finally, the van was ready, and she stacked the cardboard and left, nodding to the birdhouse as she left the driveway.

“Be right back,” she told it.

On the way back from the recycling center, a group of Boy Scouts were selling mulch at the edge of a parking lot. It had been three years since Patty re-mulched the flower beds, and they were having a “buy three, get one free” deal. They even loaded the mulch into the van for her.

Back home, she unloaded the mulch and scowled at the mess it left in the freshly-vacuumed van, so back into the house, get the vacuum, clean the van, put the seats back up. But then the four bags of mulch were in the middle of the driveway. Dan would not be able to pull through when he returned with the kids. So, into the garage to get the hoe, break open the mulch, and head to the gardens.

Which needed to be weeded.

By the time that was finished, it was nearly dinnertime. Patty stood in the kitchen, trying to decide which cereal to pour, but the warm weather called to her—no, it demanded a barbeque. So into the freezer to look for something to grill. Digging through the shelves, she caused an avalanche of several opened-and-frozen bags of shredded cheese, which of course she insisted on consolidating while the steak thawed long enough for her to grill. She dug through even further to find the oldest of the frozen bagged vegetables to make with the steak. Then she organized the veggies in order of expiration date.

As she heated the grill, she realized the patio furniture was still covered for winter, so she removed the covers, but then there was the half-built wasp’s nest under the table, which she had to clear, and then of course she took a sponge and soap to the table and chairs.

The sun was nearly setting after dinner, and she hurried to store the furniture covers in the garage until next winter. In the garage, she saw the ladder leaning against a wall, now visible since the cardboard had been cleared. The wind kicked up and reminded her of the loose piece of siding on the front of the house, so she moved the ladder, got out the rubber mallet, and hammered the siding back in. While up there, she saw the gutters had pulled loose from melting ice, so she hammered in the nails, moving carefully along the front of the house until it was too dark to see.

She put the ladder back in the garage and scratched her head. It was hard to shake the feeling that she was forgetting something. But the kids were with Dan, she reminded herself. She had no responsibilities for a few more hours. Her muscles were more achy than normal, so she went upstairs to take a bath.

The next morning, no one woke her, and she slept until the pitter-patter of feet traveled through the hall. “Mom! We missed you!” her son was screaming.

“Will you read me the mouse-cookie book?” screamed her daughter.

Patty sat up in bed, discombobulated by the strange feeling of having had a good night’s sleep. She took a moment to process the situation while Dan stood over her.

“Wow,” he said. “Still asleep at ten, and the nest from the bird house still sticking out. You really did take it easy. Good for you—I didn’t think you’d be able to just relax. You always did work too hard. Let me know when you’re awake,” he said. “I’ll get out the ladder for you.”

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/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about new neighbors moving in. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit series. 

Return of the Light

By Val Muller

The fire crackled, and Samantha tossed another log on it. She half turned, was almost about to shush the dog—Bella always startled when Sam threw a log on the fire. But then Sam remembered. Bella was gone. It hadn’t been a year, not quite. It seemed like forever. Then again, it seemed just yesterday that Bella had been there, at her feet. 

But last year, at the winter solstice, Bella had been there at the campfire, keeping watch in the night, the darkest night of the year. 

What’s supposed to be the darkest night of the year, anyway. There was a darker one. A night without Bella. The first night, then the next one, and many, many more. It was getting easier, but some habits were hard to break, like searching for a dog at her feet, looking for a begging pup at mealtime, that sort of thing. 

The fire at winter solstice was a tradition, but doing it alone was not. This celebration was about the return of the light—the return of the sun. It was supposed to be happy, but—

Sam stared into the fire and imagined the next year stretched out before her, stretched out the way a dog would stretch, head down, rump in the air, just like—

No, the fire dancing along the trees was playing tricks on her. Sam could swear she saw a dog stretching by the tree, but surely it was just a log or a—

“Simba!” a voice called. 

“Hello?” Sam called back. 

The “log” turned to her and scurried over, tail wagging. It was no log, but a golden doodle, and a happy one at that, showering her in kisses. She’d almost forgotten that ineffable feeling, the one that transcended the senses, the unconditional joy and Zen of the present brought when a dog—

“Simba!” the voice called again, and the dog reluctantly backed away and hurried to the voice at the edge of the fire. 

“I’m sorry,” the voice said. “Simba’s a little excited to be at his new house. Isn’t he, you good boy, you.” The man’s voice degenerated into dog cooing. Then the man, realizing his neglect of fellow human, turned to Sam. 

“Mike,” he said. “My wife and I moved in just this morning.” He motioned to the darkness, toward the recently-sold house. “Poor guy’s been crated much of the day. You a dog person? He seems to take quite a liking to you. I’ll have to have my wife come over in the morning. The two of you seem like you’d get along. You don’t have dogs, do you?” 

Sam took a breath, allowing the shock of it all to dissipate. She turned to the fire, watching the crackling flames make patterns on the logs—now a dog, then a cloud, then a person jumping, now a bird in flight—the solstice flames embracing the ephemeral nature of life. She looked up as the circle of light embraced her new neighbor and his companion. Then she took a deep breath and spoke, for only just a second imagining Bella still at her feet. 

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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/