Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt was to look out the window and write about what was out there. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the horror novel Faulkner’s Apprentice (Kindle edition just $2.99).

Author’s Note: This is a tale I wrote one dark and stormy day. Not too far from my town, a tornado touched down—and this in a part of the country that doesn’t usually see such storms. I was lucky to be on the “outskirts,” but as I sat revising this post, my husband called to let me know he’d be late: a major tree had gone down on the narrow road leading to our house, and he had to drive all the way back into town to pick up a different route home.

Stormsense

By Val Muller

 

It was a dark and stormy day,

The kind with rainclouds that won’t go away,

When the sky can’t decide when it wants to weep,

So the humidity lingers and inches and creeps

Until the mist reaches critical mass

And the thunder booms and strikes at last.

 

On such a day, I started to write,

A nearing deadline was my plight.

The corgis trembled there on the floor

And glanced warily at the kitchen door.

They scooted and inched onto my feet

And trembled more as it started to sleet.

 

The baby, too, could sense something wrong;

She clung and clung to her frazzled mom.

I peeked outside to see what was pounding

On roof and patio—‘twas hail resounding!

I called my spouse, I called my mom

And in my voice was some alarm.

My mom said, “Hail? Inside—go!

You can be safe—sounds like a tornado!”

So to the basement I went with the dogs

And the baby still clinging fast to my arms.

 

I managed then to bring the laptop

(since it had its battery backup).

I set it up upon a tray

To do some work despite the stormy day.

I started typing my story out

When the dogs jumped after a thunder clout.

Onto the couch they came with me

(Two dogs and a baby—what could the trouble be?)

The three of them sat, vying for attention,

The storm-neutralizing touch of mother’s affection.

The dogs crawled closer on my lap

And baby clung higher on shoulders so that

My arms no longer could reach the keys,

So we listened instead to the blustery breeze.

 

It stayed quite still, given the stormy conditions,

But my mom was right—I’m glad I listened.

Not far from us a tornado touched down,

Causing a path of destruction along the ground.

But inside my basement lair I was secure

With the storm raging, locked outside of my door.

 

The dogs still trembled, jumping like fleas

While baby took solace in pounding the keys

And watching the characters jump on the screen.

It was my nightmare; it was her dream.

She managed to choose a particular keystroke

And giggled and cooed like she’d made a joke.

I turned to the screen to see all windows closing,

And I hadn’t saved my story, I thought with foreboding.

And sure enough, Word had shut down.

The baby was smiling, but I wore a frown.

With deadline approaching, it was getting too late.

What in the world, now, could I write?

 

So after the storm, when the dogs calmed a bit

And the baby had ceased her giggly laptop fit,

And the dogs were cuddled down for a nap,

As was the baby (we’re all thankful for that!),

I powered on the laptop and reopened the screen

And thought of the storm and dark tales like Halloween.

But nothing was more troubling to my writerly mind

Than the horrifying tale one could only find

In a household run by two dogs and a baby

Whose antics make mom laugh but also drive her crazy.

So I penned then a tale of horror and woe,

Of a creative story the world will never know,

For it was deleted by chubby baby fingers,

Though its miasma in my house still sort of lingers.

Instead, I give you this tale of strife

And a tiny little slice of my life.

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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/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of DANGEROUS DECISIONS and the recently released ONLY EMMA. The prompt for this month is to write about the first thing you see when looking out your window.

THE TENNIS COURTS

by RC Bonitz

The tennis courts across the street from my home offer an endless stream of stories. Incomplete stories I grant you. I’m only seeing people in a brief interval of their lives, but you’d be amazed at how revealing those hours can be. Today, for example, there’s a pretty young woman playing with a guy I can only assume is her boyfriend. I hope he’s not her husband.

Obnoxious individual he is, yelling at her, hitting hard smashes she can’t handle and swearing when she doesn’t return them. He drives the tennis ball right at her body, too. Is this a friendly tennis match or a war? I’d like to go over there and smack them both upside the head and say “What do you think you’re doing?”

Yes, the woman too. Why does she put up with his obscene behavior? If there is any kind of a relationship between them, this is no way to nurture it.

Maybe I’ll trot over there and do it. They’re too young to waste their lives living this way. I can warn them of the depth of love they’re crushing, of the heartache these moments will develop if they continue to behave this way.

On the other hand, maybe she’s just met the bum and has already decided this is their first and last date. Perhaps they’re just having a lover’s quarrel and are acting it out on the tennis court. It’s none of my business anyway. Would they thank me for my meddling advice? Very likely not.

This is my story, sitting on my front porch and musing about people I don’t know, wondering about their lives. The musing keeps me occupied you see. I can’t get around much anymore.

 

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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/

 

 

 

 

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Contact her (info below) if you need formatting of print or e-books, editing, book covers, or help with publishing.

This month’s topic is “death in the family.”

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The Spray

by Cathy MacKenzie

“Do you want flowers on the casket?” the well-dressed man of authority asked.

Faces stared at one another, dollar signs in their eyes. Huge dollar signs.

“I think so,” the female said. “It’s our mother, after all.”

The two men eyed her, eyes wild as if asking, Why do you want to waste money on flowers?

When she glared at the taller one, he mumbled, “Fine.”

“A spray,” the daughter said. “Yellow and white flowers. How much?”

The funeral director rattled off a figure. “It’s approximate, of course. I’m the funeral director, not the florist.”

She frowned. “I know that. I just wanted a general idea.”

The brothers held their breath. I’m assuming they were brothers since no one seemed particularly lovey. Sibling rivalry more like it.

“Great,” she finally said. “Can you call the florist and order them? Add it to the bill?”

The funeral director, eager to please, nodded. “Of course.”

The daughter added, “I’ll take them to the church after the service so the congregation can enjoy them in the morning.”

The three exited the funeral home and stood on the front steps for a few minutes. They mumbled words before departing to their separate vehicles and driving away.

“The end of that family,” I mumbled, figuring their mother had been the adhesive that bound them together. Obviously the father had passed since no older gentleman was with them. And wouldn’t a husband want to plan his wife’s funeral? Of course, he could be in a home, could be crippled with arthritis and unable to get around, could be sick. Any myriad of explanations existed for his non-presence. But I was quite certain he was gone, happily reunited with his lovely wife.

And, oh, how lovely she’d been. Was she looking down upon them? Perhaps wishing she’d done something more constructive with her money? Maybe she had. Who was I to judge?

But sometimes an outsider such as I gleans more in an afternoon than others do in a lifetime.

The next day, the three siblings returned to the funeral home for the service. A small attendance. Several elderly. Most were obviously family and friends of the adult children. At the deceased’s age, who has many friends left?

The service, though short and sweet as they say, was heartfelt. Full of emotion. Tear-filled. Sad to lose a loved one. Sad when Death is involved, and Death exists to claim the living until the living is no more. I always return after my deeds are done. I can’t help who I am, what I am. I enjoy the aftermath of the fruits of my labour, so to speak.

Mourners exited the building, most lingering under the roof on the front porch. Others raced to their vehicles, where they revved engines, shone headlights, and turned on wiper blades to combat the rain. Back and forth: swish, swish, swish.

A lone female in black—the only mourner outfitted in dark clothing—appeared at the door bearing an arrangement of yellow and white flowers, embracing the elaborate spray like one would hold a newborn. She stepped from the porch into the rain. A spray upon the spray, and then a torment of wind and hail latched to the flowers and carried them soaring as if to Heaven. And then, cruelly, the wind tossed them to the ground, one by one.

Seconds later, stragglers raced to vehicles, crushing the blooms beneath their feet.

 

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The Spot Writers – our members

RC Bonitz: rcbonitz.com

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

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

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