Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is “trolley,” and today’s post comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out the youth horror anthology, OUT OF THE CAVE, recently published under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. Available on Amazon and Smashwords

***

Bye, Little One

by Cathy MacKenzie

 Phoebe watched the departing trolley from which a small hand appeared. “Bye, little one,” she mumbled, waving back.

She scanned the area before sauntering back to her car, sinking into the driver’s seat of her 1988 Honda Civic, relieved yet mildly upset she’d gotten away with the deed. Wasn’t anyone watching for unsavory characters or strange incidents? One was supposed to be on guard these days, what with the world going batshit crazy with terrorists and muggers and rapists.

Was she too sure of herself? She was still in the parking lot and not yet out of the thicket—or whatever that phrase was.

The trolley would return within minutes, and if she didn’t soon leave, she’d be stuck. Suddenly feeling like a criminal, she turned the key and backed onto Devonport Road. She stepped on the gas a little too hard and screeched around the corner, where she pulled to the curb.

She pictured his face: her little boy, four-year-old Andrew, who wore a perpetual grin revealing gleaming white teeth. Everyone smiled back at him, but no one could shine like he did. Even at her lowest, he caused her to smile. Her stomach somersaulted as if she were on one end of a teeter-totter with a crazy person on the other. And then it was as if she’d swallowed a bucket of feathers that tickled her insides.

Except it wasn’t in fun.

Her body hurt. Her insides ached. There was no way to prevent the pain and no remedy to alleviate it. “Calm down,” she muttered. Everything would turn out okay. Someone would find him and he’d be placed into foster care and a good family would adopt him. She was certain of that, wasn’t she? She had to be. She couldn’t keep going if she thought he’d be abused or neglected. If she did, she’d be forced to return. She had time; the trolley travelled fifteen minutes around the open field. Most parents accompanied their children, at least the younger ones.

But Andrew would be fine.

***

The trolley rocks side-to-side. Andrew stares out the window, watching trees roll by. Though the sun brightly shines, he shivers sitting alone on the open bench. Most of the other seats are occupied.

“Just a short trip,” his mother said. “Have fun.” He stuck his head out and waved, and she waved back. And then the trolley took off, full of excited kids.

Why didn’t his mother accompany him? Every screaming kid but him is seated with an adult. He blocks his ears. His head throbs.

“Only a few minutes,” she said. “A break for me. A short ride for you. It’ll be fun.”

“But, Mommy, can’t you come?”

“No, dear, just for kids. I’ll wait here.” And she waited while he craned his head until she grew smaller and smaller and then disappeared as if she had abandoned him. But she wouldn’t do that.

He rubs his eyes, wanting the ride to be over. Someone behind jostles the seatback. He holds his breath, restraining himself from turning. Instead, he eyes the open field and the swings and the life-size wooden choo-choo train that he had played in. His eyes water. Minutes pass slowly. “Only a few minutes,” his mother said. But how much is a few? Even at four going on five, Andrew knows a few can mean whatever one wants it to mean. Three or four? Ten? Maybe ten, but not twenty. Twenty’s too many for a few. Twenty is a lot.

Tiring of green grass and the path ahead, he more carefully examines his surroundings. Mothers clench children’s hands as if scared they’ll jump over the sides or be snatched by the boogeyman. But no, the boogeyman doesn’t appear during the day.

He peers around a mother and a tall child in front of him. The trolley driver converses with three children sitting directly behind the driver, but Andrew is too far away to hear their words. And then, one of the kids bounces up from his seat and the driver takes his hands off the steering wheel to hoist the boy onto his lap. Andrew suppresses a scream. How come the driver didn’t pick him?

***

Phoebe pulled to the curb though voices rumbled, “Keep going. Leave.” She rubbed her throbbing temples. “You leave,” she moaned. “Go. Leave.”

But the voices persisted.

She stepped out of the car and fell to the ground. The pavement scratched her knees and drew blood. Blood scared Andrew. Whenever he had a bleeding cut, he thought death was imminent. He’d cry and point to the red, tears cascading down his cheeks. She’d comfort him the best she could, but at night, after seeing blood during the day, he’d suffer nightmares. “It’s the boogeyman coming to take me away.” “No, it’s not. There’s no such thing as the boogeyman.” “Yes, there is, Mama. I see him in the middle of the night.” His tears would stop for a few minutes before restarting. By the time  Phoebe had settled him, her chest would be soaked.

She brushed her arm across her cheeks and stood, thankful she was alone. It would be embarrassing to be seen weak. That’s why she had to let him go. The voices were right. He needed stronger parents—a mother and a father—to lead him on the right path. Andrew had never asked about his father—or any father—but he hadn’t started school. When he did, questions would come too fast, and she wouldn’t be strong enough to handle them.

But could she desert him? Leave him to be raised by strangers?

Her eyes flashed. She frowned. What had she been thinking? Forgetting about the car, she raced back to the playground. The trolley should be about done. She wouldn’t be too late, would she? No matter if she were. Andrew was her son, and she had suffered an accident. Her bleeding knees proved it. She had every reason to be late.

She slowed when the trolley whistled. “All aboard,” the fake conductor shouted, and her heart thumped when a new set of kids and mothers boarded. She slipped behind a large oak. Where was Andrew? “Andrew,” she screamed. Andrew. The words echoed. No….

The voices returned. “Go. He’s in better hands.”

“No,” she muttered. And then in the distance she saw him, led away by a heavyset woman, his slight frame shrinking with every step.  Phoebe ran, chasing them down the dirt path. She stopped and glanced around; no one had seen her running like a madwoman.

The woman and the boy disappeared into the building, and the door closed behind them.

Gone.

When one door closes, another opens flashed through her. God was telling her everything was okay. A new door for Andrew and a new door for her; both would be open, both opening to new beginnings, new lives, new opportunities. But as much as she knew that to be true, she needed Andrew. She couldn’t exist alone. She headed toward the office.

“No, go back. Go away. He’s better off without you.” The voices returned at the most inopportune moments, but she always obeyed in the end.

“Bye, Andrew.” She waved, turned in the opposite direction, and ran, needing to get as far away as possible.

She stopped and turned. The door opened. She held her breath. But the figure exiting wasn’t Andrew.

The voices didn’t return again until she entered her studio apartment. “You did the right thing. Now go.”

She jammed clothing into a bag. She didn’t have much. Andrew didn’t have much either, but she didn’t need to take his clothing and toys. She’d obtain new items once she found another child.

She smiled, a great big grin that lit up her face.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Tom Robson: https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com

***

And if you like dark stories, check out Faulkner’s Apprentice, a supernatural chiller available for only $2.99. 

Lorelei Cecelia Franklin broke a twenty-year streak of bad luck when she won the L. Cameron Faulkner fiction contest. Apprenticed to the reclusive and famous author, Lorei will spend three weeks with the master of horror himself in the secluded mountains of Virginia. On her way to Faulkner’s mansion, Lorei meets a leathery man who snares souls that desire too much, and everything in the mansion screams warnings against him. But with her lust for Faulkner, her appetite for fame, and her wish to protect her ailing mother, Lorei’s chances for escape are slim.

 

  Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s belated contribution comes from Tom Robson, author of “Written While I Still Remember” and many short stories The prompt was “The No-phone Restaurant.”

Drinks with Dialogue

by Tom Robson

She was still talking, unaware that I had stopped fifteen yards behind her on the busy boardwalk. I turned to count the group we’d just passed, resting on the bench or BBQ picnic table or simply leaning against the stout horizontal beam that separated the walkway from the harbor waters some ten feet below.

“What are you looking at now?” was the question that interrupted my counting. My wife had backtracked to join me.

“Nineteen,” I replied and I pointed to the group who were oblivious to the attention I was paying them. I was no more than four paces away and Barb urged me to keep my voice down.

“No need!” I responded.  “Eighteen of their minds are lost to texting, talking or whatever on their devices. I bet the phone of the one there,the one in the front smoking, has died. Look at her! She’s begging her friend to let her use her phone. And that’s the only face to face communication among all nineteen. And Ms Smoker’s friend is ignoring her plea.”

“So why stop to poke your nose into their business? Let’s go. They are beginning to notice your staring. And I’m sure some can hear you.”

“Not a chance! They’re all “Phone deaf!”

“You and your obsession with people addicted to devices. Give it up! You’ll never change the trend.”

“Trend? Trend? You had it right when you used the word ‘addicted.’ It’s a way of life. There’s more than three generations that can’t exist without a device immediately available to them. They are lost and incomplete without them.”

My wife had heard it all before. With a “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” she turned to continue our Saturday afternoon walk along the waterfront boardwalk. I dutifully rushed to catch up with her.

“Let’s stop for a drink,” I urged. “That bar they’re outside is new. Let’s have a drink in there. I like the notices by the door. Can you read them?”

“You know I can’t! So, tell me, what do they say?”

Unable to hide the delight in my voice, I read all the messages  displayed. “Abandon your device all ye who enter here. Cell free suds! Mouth to mouth conversation available. Talk to me!  Listen to someone!”

“Do you think I’m going to drink in a place that agrees with your technological extremes? If it’s banning cell phones, tablets, lap tops and any devices, it won’t last the month.” Barb was already inching away.

Before I could persuade her to accompany me in support of a business that was trying to discourage i-phone dependence, the door from the “Talkers Tavern” flew open and an angry young woman, clutching her cellphone, was ejected by a large doorman.

“You can’t frickin’ do this!” She loudly protested as he blocked her efforts to rejoin her friends inside. “I have my frickin’ rights! Look at all of them over there!” And she pointed at the nineteen who had earlier captured my attention. Eighteen of them were still attending to their device communication, oblivious to the disturbance the reject was creating.

“Those people left quietly when they chose to use their phones!” responded the doorman.

Right on cue, two of the city’s finest, the bicycle mounted patrol policing the busy boardwalk, emerged from a gathering crowd. While one tried to calm down the irate woman, the other questioned the doorman.

I strained to hear what both said to the still angry woman, after they had heard both sides of the dispute. The woman was not going to win her argument. But one constable agreed to accompany her back in so she could gather her friends. But he insisted on taking her phone from her until they came back out. She argued, but relented.

The doorman prevented any bystanders from following the pair into the ‘Talkers’ Tavern.’ The remaining cycle cop requested that the gathering gawkers move on. A crowd was gathering and it was changing from curious to questioning  and could become hostile.

My wife knew she had to get me away from taking sides in a no-win situation. She took my hand and said, “You can buy me a glass of red on Murphy’s terrace. On the way back to the car we’ll have to go past the ‘Talkers’ Tavern’ and we can see if it’s still in business! I have a feeling it’s not going to last long.”

Police sirens came closer and we watched as the blue lights turned from Water Street into the car park adjacent to the ‘Talkers’ Tavern’.

I knew my wife was right yet again. Murphy’s it would be!

---

The Spot Writers are:-

RC Bonitz         rcbonitz.com

Val Muller          https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. Mackenzie     http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter

Tom Robson      https://robsonswriting.wordpress.com/

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Almost Over!

Barking Rain Press’s anniversary sale is almost over! Check out The Scarred Letter, 50% off this month only (along with all of BRP’s books). To puchase your half-priced paperback, simply use code “BRP5YEAR” when you check out at www.barkingrainpress.org. You can also find the ebook automatically discounted to $2.99 at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and wherever ebooks are sold.

 

 

 

 

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of DANGEROUS DECISIONS and his latest novel, ONLY EMMA. The prompt for this month is “Trolley Car.”

 

RIDING A MEMORY
by RC Bonitz

Hands still resting on the steering wheel, he sat there staring out the windshield. He heard it before he saw it, the distinctive clack clack of iron wheels on the joints of iron rails, the ding ding of its bell as it approached the terminal. What brought him here again he did not know, but this was becoming a habit. Paul liked old steam trains and trolley cars, but at a time like this? He wondered what Helen would say. He smiled. She’d understand, she always had.

Stepping from the driver’s seat as the trolley car came to a stop, he headed into the museum to buy a ride ticket. The gray haired woman at the ticket window smiled at him as she took his money. She was getting to know him after all of his appearances during the last two weeks.

“You should sign on as a volunteer. You could ride for free,” she said.

“I might just do that,” he said, but of course he didn’t mean it. Obligations and schedules he didn’t need. What he needed was a place of peace when the pain hit him. This was a memory album, happy times with Helen and the children, Sophie giggling, Stevie running around the museum and jabbering at the motormen on the rides.

“Your friend is out there somewhere with her children.”

He blinked in surprise. His friend?

The woman noted his confusion. “That young woman who rides with you sometimes?”

He stared at her blank-faced, unaware of his expression.

She hesitated, then went on. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew each other.”

He shook his head, all the while trying to recall the woman she was referring to. Someone who rode the trolley with him? Was he so into himself he’d never noticed others who frequented the trolley too? Helen would admonish him for that. She would have. She’d always worried about him. He gave the ticket agent a smile and strode outside to the trolley, his steps just a tad uncertain. That young woman?

He saw her then, just boarding the trolley, shepherding two little boys ahead of her. The agent had been right; he’d seen the woman before. The kids too, but he hadn’t paid any attention to them either. The boys were about the ages Sophie and Steve were when it happened. Last month. Tears threatened and he brushed his eyes with his hand. Damn, why did that agent have to bring them to his attention? The trolley cars had been his place of peace, of forgetting for a moment. Now he’d forever see these kids and be reminded.

He slowed his pace and waited until the mother and kids were safely aboard the trolley, then got on himself. They were sitting in the front. He took a seat in the back. Two elderly men were the only other passengers and they chatted happily in the middle of the car. The motorman collected tickets and took his position at the front of the car. He faced them all with a grin, his hand on the controls.

“Everybody ready? Here we go,” he said and the trolley surged forward.

Paul stared out the window, trying to ignore the happy chatter coming from the front of the car. Suddenly he realized one of the little boys had broken away from his mother and was tearing pell-mell towards the open doors at back of the car.

“Brian,” the mother screamed, “Stop! Come back here!”

Paul moved without thought. He reached out and snagged the little guy as he tried to run past him.

“Whoa there, where do you think you’re going?”

The mother ran toward him, the other child in her arms, the two of them staggering from side to side in the rickety trolley.

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said as she reached Paul.

“You need another pair of hands with these little guys,” he said feeling strangely light hearted.

“I don’t have that luxury anymore.”

He studied her then. Dark hair down to her shoulders, she’d been attractive once. No makeup, now she looked gray and drawn, tired and in pain.

His heart lurched at the thought that hit him, an assumption based on the look of her and his own devastating experience. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She gave him a look of puzzlement, then studied his face carefully. “Nothing to be sorry about. We’re better off without the jerk.”

“Oh. I thought…”

“We’re probably better off, but I have my moments.” She smiled ruefully.

He nodded, somehow vaguely disappointed. “Would you like me to hang on to this little guy for the rest of the ride?”

She grabbed Brian by the arm and slid into the seat in front of Paul. “No thanks. I’ve got them both now. We’re under control.”

---

 

The Spot Writers–our members:

RC Bonitz: rcbonitz.com

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Tom Robson: https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com/

---

 

Check out The Scarred Letter, 50% off this month (along with all of BRP’s books). To puchase your half-priced paperback, simply use code “BRP5YEAR” when you check out at www.barkingrainpress.org. You can also find the ebook automatically discounted to $2.99 at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and wherever ebooks are sold.