Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month centres around the theme of autumn (Halloween, crispy leaves, Thanksgiving, a chill in the air, the smell of smoke in the wind—even early Christmas sales). This week’s contribution comes from Tom Robson.

A Lost Season?

By Tom Robson

The Autumn of 1926 began disastrously for Fred.

September. A change of season. For some the climatic transition is less significant than that other seasonal change. They can ignore the Autumn colors as the trees display their reds, oranges and yellows. Cooling temperatures are to their liking, though they don’t enjoy too much rain or the threat of an early winter. Good weather for football should last through till December. Autumn welcomed English football. The gulf stream might encourage an Indian summer which could bring good, dry weather well into November. Winter was months away, with time to acclimatize for new year winter football games. The climatic season was unfolding as it should. but the prospect of football for Fred was fading fast.

Fred was now in his fifteenth year. It was no longer an Autumn necessity to find those particular trees, a tramcar ride away in Oakwood. There, for years, he and his sisters had collected the chestnuts which their mother roasted over the open hearth of their dining room in the ensuing colder evenings. He was long past finding that other chestnut tree, the one that yielded conkers, Horse Chestnuts. He no longer cared about the ritual and competition of that childhood game. Yet it didn’t seem too long ago that he gloried in having a “ two hundred and twenty sevener conker,” best on the school playground that October, as the conker season gave way to marbles.

September wasn’t “back-to-school” any more for Fred. He was finished with that. September didn’t initiate school or Autumn for him. September was the end of the cricket season. More significantly football had re-commenced, and football was the most important thing in Fred’s life.

He lived for football. Why couldn’t his father understand that? Why had he banned any football for Fred, except on Saturday afternoons? Didn’t he know that wasn’t enough? You had to practise in the week, between games, to stay on a team. Fred’s football season was lost.

Last year, his father had been so proud when his youngest son had been selected as right back in the all-city schools’ team that had beaten Huddersfield and then won again in Bradford. But that was back in the Spring when Fred was too young to see beyond the sheer enjoyment of a game he loved and succeeded in. Autumn marked the start of a new season and he needed a team. He was fourteen and out of school. Already six feet tall and beginning to fill out, skillful and a redoubtable defender, he needed to go for try outs. A couple of scouts for teams in the Yorkshire Football league had talked to him about that. One had approached his father, saying that Fred had a possible future as a professional.

“ I showed him the door, young Fred.” pronounced his father next morning at breakfast. “There’s that apprenticeship waiting for you at Tyndale’s as soon as you’re sixteen. That’s your future. A trade’s better than playing a game. There’s no future in that, lad! You’re washed up at 30.”

“But…..”

“But nothing!” interjected Tom Robson. “You can play Saturday afternoons, but that’s it!”

Fred knew better than to argue with his father. He might be the “baby” of the family and, as his siblings frequently proclaimed away from their parents’ hearing, “spoiled rotten,” but father’s word was law. Fred’s season was gone. Fred’s football future was kickabouts on a Saturday with those who weren’t good enough to make any team.

All this had happened in late summer; weeks ago. Fred had since met up with his footballing friends who urged him to sneak away to play. Some even suggested he try out for some of the better teams like the Amateurs or Farsley Celtic. If he made it then his father would have to change his mind, wouldn’t he? What else was Fred going to do until he was sixteen and could start at Tyndale’s? There was no paid work to be had in Leeds, in 1926

“Father wants me to do some work on the properties he owns. He wants me to help out at home. You don’t know him. He’ll never change his mind,” was Fred’s response.

But last Wednesday, when he was supposed to be cleaning up one of the Albion Place houses before it was rented out, he had sneaked his boots and the rest of his kit into his toolbag. He’d worked like crazy all morning, then taken the tram, past his Harehills stop, up to the Soldiers’ Fields at Oakwood. . It was afternoon, open try outs for Yorkshire Amateurs. Fred changed, signed in, was put on a team and felt he did well.

He wanted to get home before his father. He got off the tramcar near home but, as luck would have it, his father saw him step down, coming from the wrong direction, still wearing his football shirt. They marched together up Harehills Lane to home where Tom Robson took his son’s precious football boots out of the toolbag and deposited them in the dustbin. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

Jane Robson tried to console her youngest, but her message was “father knows best.”

It was Fred’s much older brother Harry, visiting the next day, who gave Fred some hope. When Fred arrived home, from a full day cleaning and painting at Albion Place, he was surprised to see his brother.

After greeting Harry, who was home on leave from the navy, Fred had to share his distress. “Did you hear what dad did?” he asked.

“I did, Young Fred! Mother told me. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll talk to him,” consoled Harry.

“But will father listen to you? Does he ever change his mind?” Fred wondered aloud, actually smiling at the older brother he so looked up to.

“I can try, our Fred. Now go and look behind the mangle in the kitchen. I think that’s the safest hiding place. Father never goes out there.”

Fred walked through the door and down the couple of steps to look behind the machine whose rollers squeezed the water from the wet clothes on laundry day. There were his boots, rescued by Harry from the trash.

“Thanks Harry! But are you sure? Can we get away with this?” questioned Fred, seeing his football season possibly returning.

“Nay, lad. But I can ask. Better I argue your case than you. Father might just listen to another grown up.”

Fred went up to his room right after supper. His mother asked if he was unwell. He wasn’t, but he needed to give Harry a chance to talk to their father.

He was deep into his book when his father’s voice came up the stairs. “Fred! Get down here a minute. We need to talk.”

The tone was not very positive, but it was the same tone he used whenever he talked to his youngest. Fred hurried down. Harry and his father were sat either side of the fireplace, sipping tea. Fred’s mother poured one for Fred and turned towards her kitchen.

“No, mother. Will you stay a minute to listen to this?” requested her husband.

Mother and her youngest son sat. Tom Robson, checked his pocket watch; an excuse while he searched for the right words. Fred fidgeted in the chair, not knowing where to put his too long legs or restless hands.

“Our Harry has told me a few things I hadn’t realized about you and football, our Fred,” began his father.

Fred glanced in Harry’s direction, catching a hint of a smile on his brother’s face.

Choosing his words carefully, their father continued, “I think, mother, as long as Fred here does the work that you and I set him, he can play football on Saturdays and in the week, as long as it not too often and he asks first. What do you think?”

Fred turned to look at his mother, a pleading look etched on his face.

“Whatever you say, dear, as long as he doesn’t take advantage.”

Fred could contain himself no longer. “I won’t mum! Honest! I’ll always ask first if I need to play in the week – or practice. And if there’s too much work to do then I’ll do it. I’ll even miss football if you say so.”

“Whoa our Fred! I’ve not finished yet,” said his father, interrupting Fred’s outburst. “That’s this year, but once you start at Tyndale’s, when you’re sixteen, then football comes third. First there’s your responsibilities here. Next is Tyndales. Third comes football. “ He paused before asking, “Now what do you think?”

Fred’s fifteenth birthday was still seven month’s away. He had two football seasons before he reached sixteen and the start of his apprenticeship. That was ages away. He didn’t need to think.

“Thank you for this, father. And you mum!” Fred was almost lost for words he was so excited.

“First Chore, Fred.” said his father. “Go rescue those football boots from the dustbin.”

Fred looked over at his brother. He realised what Harry must have done to change their father’s mind. He held out his hand to Harry, who grasped it and pulled him into a bear hug, whispering, “I put the boots back. Go find them! ”

“Thanks for what you did, Harry.” was Fred’s afterthought, as he hurried to retrieve his football boots from the dustbin.

Fred’s lost September season had been saved.

For the next ten seasons, until he married and work commitments interfered, Fred played for various Farsley Celtic’s teams, always at right back. Early on he was approached to become an apprentice professional with Leeds United. He didn’t need to discuss it with his father. Tyndale’s offered a better future.

When his apprenticeship finished, Tyndale’s fired him rather than pay him full wages as a millwright. It was the depression.

Overseas, as a soldier in the second world war, Fred sometimes wondered if his life would be different had he become a professional football apprentice in the Autumn season he was sixteen.

Almost ninety years later, Fred’s son and his grandsons across the ocean, still see the Fall as the change of sports seasons.

---

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: website in progress

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month centres around the theme of autumn (Halloween, crispy leaves, Thanksgiving, a chill in the air, the smell of smoke in the wind—even early Christmas sales). This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie.

Cathy’s latest children’s picture book, BAD, BAD GRANNY, is now available on Amazon, in print (in two sizes: 6×9 and 8×10) or e-book. Volume 4 of Cathy’s “Creepy Christmas” series of books, CREEPY CHEERY CHRISTMAS, has just been published. In fact, Cathy’s post this month is a story from that book titled, “Crows and Storks.” The book is available for purchase here, either on Amazon (print or e-book) or on Smashwords (e-book). Be forewarned, however. These “creepy Christmas” stories, depending upon your point of view, are either weird and wacky, crass and crude, humourous and sarcastic—or just plain silly!

 ***

Crows and Storks

by Cathy MacKenzie

“Let’s go shopping tonight, Bob.”

“Nah, I’m too tired.”

“Oh pooh, you’re just lazy. All you ever want to do is lounge around and drink beer in front of the TV.”

Bob’s eyes lit up. “Sounds like fun to me.”

“Come on, I want to shop, and I’d like some company. Maybe we could do a quick dinner out. Maybe take in a movie.”

“What’s all this? First you said shopping, now you’re talking dinners and movies and who knows what else.”

“Shopping, that’s it. Plus a quick, inexpensive dinner. Maybe a movie, I said. We could go to Curley’s in the mall. It’s pretty cheap.”

Bob tossed his paper to the floor and stood at attention. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am. Let’s go. Onward ho. March: one, two, three.”

Elise threw up her arms. “Oh, Bob, quit being so dramatic. You’re exasperating. Forget I mentioned it.”

She stalked from the room. Seemed she’d been doing a lot of stalking from rooms lately.

Bob grinned. He never had any trouble exasperating his wife.

“Hey, Elise, okay, let’s go.” His voice boomed from the living room. “I can show you a few items I might like for Christmas.” He figured that was part of her plan, and two could play her game.

***

Bob parked the car in the mall parking lot, several spaces away from the nearest vehicle, which was his habit in case an inexperienced teenager or a foolish woman decided it would be a pleasant experience to gouge the side of his car.

Elise, like always, had removed her seatbelt before he had turned off the engine and had zoomed off like a speeding bullet toward the entrance.

“Sir, sir,” a voice bellowed.

Bob turned to see a woman hanging from the window of a passing truck. “Sir, you’re parked over the yellow line.”

His head swiveled again. “What?”

Elise, who had heard a commotion, turned to watch.

“What?” Bob repeated.

The woman pointed at his car. “You’re parked over the line. You’re taking more space than you should. It’ll be hard for another car to park beside you.”

Still confused, Bob looked back at his vehicle. “What the hell you yapping about?”

“Hey, buster, don’t talk to me like that,” the woman shouted. “I have a citizen’s right to report bozos like you who think the world owes them.”

By that time, Elise had returned to Bob’s side. “What’s wrong?”

Bob sighed. “Nothing, Elise. Go wait inside the mall while I move the car.”

Elise’s face lit up like an illuminated light bulb. “Oh, okay.” She made a face at the rear of the white truck when it pulled away. She would have flipped her finger but knew the woman wouldn’t see. And she didn’t want to exert herself unnecessarily; she needed to save her strength for shopping. And for dealing with her ornery husband.

What a weak sap he was. No gumption at all. What man listened to a stranger in a parking lot anyhow? But he’d make some excuse.

Elise entered the mall and stood by the double doors waiting for her husband. Where was the woman who had rudely admonished her husband? Would she pass by without Elise noticing her? Come to think of it, she hadn’t gotten a good look at the person and wouldn’t recognize her if the woman fainted dead beside her. After further thought, she wished she had a voodoo doll, so she could pin the thing to death. Make that woman keel over before she even alighted from the truck. No, that wouldn’t work. The raging woman would be halfway to the mall by this time, maybe even in the mall. Maybe even toting a few bags of purchases.

Elise reconsidered. No. No woman—not even Elise—could shop that fast.

She scanned the parking lot again. Where was he? And then she spied him, sauntering in between vehicles. She prayed he hadn’t gotten into a confrontation with the woman. It wouldn’t do for the cops to arrive, not when she had finally succeeded in getting him out for an evening. Not so much getting him out, but getting herself out. Jimmy had gone to a schoolmate’s for an overnighter, so it was the perfect opportunity for them to go without carting the brat around. For some reason, as yet unfathomable to her, she had desired Bob’s company.

As Bob neared, she tried to glean from his expression whether he was in a good mood. Was their night ruined? Her stomach growled. She pictured Curley’s famous wings piled high before Bob. Why had she pictured Bob’s meal and not hers?

From a distance, he looked okay though his mouth was in his perpetual pout.

She held the door open for him. Why? The doors were all automatic today. Technology. What happened to heavy doors allowing gentlemen to show off for their women?

“You okay?” she asked when he reached her.

“Sure, fine and dandy.”

Elise shook her head. “The nerve of her. What kind of woman does that?” Elise neglected to ask why he’d listen to a strange woman in a parking lot.

“Yeah, yeah, why did I listen to her? I see the question spinning in your brain.”

“Really? It shows that much?”

“Yep, afraid so.

“Hmmm.” When he didn’t say anything else, she asked, “You gonna answer or keep me in the dark like you always do?” As soon as her words were out, she regretted them. She didn’t want to antagonize her husband. She was starving and wanted dinner.

Bob grunted.

“Well, why would you obey a total stranger? And one in a parking lot, one you’ll never see again. You never listen to me, and I’m your wife.” Out of breath, Elise stopped. Had she gone too far?

“You done?”

“Bob, I can’t believe you would do that to me!”

“Do what?”

“Bob, you cheated on me.” Elise’s eyes glistened. “As if you had snuck out in the middle of the night to meet someone, you surely cheated on me.”

“Elise, what the hell you talking about?”

“Cheating, Bob. Cheating. You listened to—no, obeyed—another woman. You immediately did as she had asked. A total stranger! You don’t even listen to me, and I’m your wife. Your wife! Aren’t I your wife? Don’t I mean more to you than some floozy in a parking lot? I’m stunned. Just stunned. Then again, what did I expect from you, right?”

And then the visions began. Black blobs swirled before her like the floaters that had suddenly appeared in her eyes months previously. She had rushed to the emergency room, where the doctors, worried she had a detached retina or worse, performed various tests on her. But no, just floaters: black thingies attacking her like 3-D objects in movies. She had been petrified at the time but gradually adjusted to the black dots and soon they became less prominent, had even disappeared. Had the ghastly invading floaters returned? Should she worry again?

No, they weren’t floaters. They just looked like floaters. They were crows. Black crows that bubbled up before her.

Despite the sight, her mouth salivated. Her stomach growled. She literally saw the window opening, by Bob’s strong arms of course—he always ruined everything—and watched plates of food carried out by crows. She’d dream of that scene later; she was sure of it.

The plates must be held up by invisible twine, for how else could crows cart them from the table? And then the dirty dark crows transformed into white storks wearing wee pink dunce caps and toting corners of blankets in their beaks. The blankets shrouded babies, protecting them, nurturing them—all except her Angel, of course, who’d been taken from a good and real stork, probably by one of those crazy crows.

One monstrous crow-stork continued to soar around with an empty blanket that had once shrouded her dear, sweet Angel. Elise was positive that was the dastardly crow that had stolen her baby.

As if she were expecting her menstrual cycle, Elise sobbed. Great wracking sobs from the bottom of her soul where lay hidden her memories of her Angel.

Those stupid storks. Why had they floated up before her? It was the crazy crows that started it. Those stupid floaters.

“Elise, what’s your problem? I moved the car. That was it.”

She ignored her husband. She wished the storks were real, at least the one carrying the empty baby blanket. She longed to grab the blanket that once had held her child, the infant who had been taken too soon, the infant who hadn’t had a chance to enjoy life like other people. But life wasn’t fair, was it?

And if she could’ve snatched that soft flannel blanket, she’d caress it against her cheek and inhale the scent of her long-lost child. She sobbed again. Granted, she hadn’t thought of her dead baby for who knows how long, but the infant’s presence was always there, somewhere, even if Elise didn’t consciously think of her.

“Come on, woman, I can’t believe you’d accuse me of having an affair just because some female conversed with me in the parking lot. I was just trying to protect my car. How would you feel if we came out of the mall to find my car keyed? How’d you like that, huh?”

“Your car, Bob? I thought it was OUR car.”

“Elise, stay on the topic at hand. Listen. To. Me. I moved the car to protect it. I listened to that woman ‘cause she was a looney toon. I feared for my—our—car’s safety.”

“Really, that’s why you did what she asked? You weren’t cheating on me?”

“Please, Elise. Give me more credit than that. A parking lot isn’t the place to cheat.”

Elise pondered his comments. So much swirled through her head. Crazy crows and filthy floaters. Storks wearing dunce caps. Pink flannel receiving blankets waving in the warm summer breeze. Her Angel. Her dinner ruined because of another woman. She sobbed again.

“Elise, stop. Right now.”

Elise grabbed a tissue from her sleeve. “You weren’t cheating on me? Promise?”

Bob grunted and then sighed. “Elise, if it’ll make you feel better, I cross my heart and hope to die. I promise. I swear.”

“But, Bob, I don’t want you to die. Whatever would I do without you?”

“Christ, Elise. That’s a discussion for another night. Stay on the topic at hand!”

She looked up at him, snot sliding into her mouth, tears pouring down her cheeks again. “You still going to take me out to dinner?”

“I said I would, didn’t I? Don’t I always live up to my promises?”

She wiped her nose. “Stay on the topic at hand, Bob.”

It was Bob’s turn to flail his arms. “I give up.”

Elise wiggled her fingers. “Dinner? No, I can’t eat now. Storks have taken it. No, it was the crows that took dinner. The storks took Angel, at least one did. Those stupid, stupid storks. Those dirty, dirty crows.” Elise thought she had mumbled her words. Or had she simply thought them?

“Elise, woman, what you talking about? I can’t make heads nor tails. Storks? Crows? What the heck—”

“No, my dinner is gone.” Elise looked at her husband, stared him straight in the eyes but didn’t really see him, looking through him as if he were invisible, a sort of wispy ghost that floated in and out, as if smoke had sucked him up. No, she didn’t see him. He was gone, just like Angel was gone. Just like dinner.

Gone!

Bob grasped her by the shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. She shuddered when he dropped his hands.

“Elise, snap out of it.”

She looked at him again, this time seeing her husband. Really viewing him. Her hands rubbed her growling stomach. She hoped she wouldn’t throw up.

“My appetite’s gone, Bob. Just gone.” Just like Angel. Just like dinner. “I wanna go home.”

Bob shook his head. Women! He’d never understand them. Never. Two foolish women in one day. Being accused of infidelity, which he wouldn’t have minded had it been true, which it wasn’t, of course. Like he’d told Elise, who’d have an affair in a parking lot? And with a woman like that! No, not him.

“Come on, woman, let’s eat. This evening was your idea. I came all this way, just for you, and put up with the wrath of that driver.” Bob stopped short of complaining about Elise’s actions, which were more disturbing to him. But in the end, what did he expect? Elise was his wife, and sometimes she wasn’t all there.

“No, Bob. I’m not hungry anymore. I just wanna go home.”

Elise’s stomach growled. Bob heard it.

***

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: website in progress

Welcome to the Spot Writers, bringing you your weekly dose of flash fiction. This week’s post comes to you from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series. You can learn more at www.CorgiCapers.com. The prompt was to write about autumn.

The Mouse War

By Val Muller

The chill in the air was bitter. Though the dogs seemed to love it, Allie hated to stay outside with them. The stink bugs, somehow, managed to survive—finding comfort in the warm crevices of the laundry room and the utility room near the furnace. Probably in the attic as well.

She wondered what else was up there.

Coming in from the cold, she turned on the kettle for some hot tea. Then she reached for her travel mug. If she had to drive to work in such weather, at least she’d be warm when she got there. But upon opening the drawer of lids, she shuddered and turned off the stovetop. There it was, staring at her, mocking her, making her skin crawl.

A mouse turd.

Oblong and brown and intrusive.

Sitting on the lid of her favorite travel mug.

She slammed the drawer shut, imagining all the tiny particles that had escaped into the otherwise clean kitchen. Then she reached for her phone.

“Greg,” she said as soon as he picked up. “There’s a mouse in the kitchen. We’re not eating anything cooked from home until it’s taken care of. Got it?” Her voice trembled and her heart pounded. She struggled to form every word. She could just picture the mouse urinating and defecating on all the food they had eaten in the past few days. How long had it been there, anyway? When was the last time she’d opened the lid drawer? It hadn’t been this cold since—since—March?

And now it was almost winter again. Who knows how long the mouse had been desecrating her kitchen?

She shuddered and checked the clock. She had just enough time to make it to McDonalds for a cup of tea—how ridiculous was that? She eyed her two dogs with a frown.

“Aren’t you guys supposed to catch mice and things?”

They lowered to the ground, heads pathetically on their paws.

She bit her lip and threw them a treat. “Alright, I’ll forgive you this time. But you’d better catch that thing. And soon.”

#

She lingered coming home. Made an extra-long grocery stop. Went to the post office for stamps she didn’t need. Anything to give Greg a chance to buy and set some traps. By the time she got home, the sink was filled with sudsy water—hopefully all the lids were becoming clean—and the drawer was cleaned out save for one cylindrical mouse trap.

The kitchen smelled of cleaning solution.

“Thanks, Greg,” she said, smiling. “I picked up a rotisserie chicken from the store.”

Greg laughed. “Because you won’t cook in here again until the mouse is gone.”

She nodded as she put a box of cereal in the refrigerator. “Just in case,” she said, eyeing the open box on the counter suspiciously.

Greg shook his head. “Now this trap is supposed to be humane. Kills right away. Makes a loud click¸ though. But that way, you won’t have to see—”

Allie held up her hand. “I don’t need to hear anymore. We’ll just hope he’s caught.”

“Okay, but you know there might be more than one.”

Allie shook her head. It wasn’t even a possibility. One mouse was bad enough. But a family–a colony? No way.

They ate with the television on so that Allie didn’t have to hear the click. Before going to bed, she peeked in the drawer. The cylindrical trap still registered “empty,” and there was a new mouse turd in the drawer.

“Stupid mouse,” she muttered.

Her sleep was filled with nightmares of amorphous things crawling over her body, leaving little trails of dust and dirt and turdsy bits. She awoke to a loud snap and checked the clock. 2:19. Could it be the mouse? Could they be so lucky to catch it so quickly?

The next morning, she peeked into the drawer. The trap indicator was set to “caught.”

“Got him!” she called up to Greg. Then she took the dogs for a nice long walk while Greg disposed of the trap and cleaned out the drawer once again.

#

The next morning, there was a chill in the air. Allie came in from letting the dogs out and once again turned on the kettle. Then she reached into the newly-cleaned drawer for a newly-cleaned lid.

And there it was, once again, searing through her blood and her mind.

A mouse turd.

She looked menacingly at her dogs as she reached for the phone.

It was going to be a long winter.

#

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: Blog pending