Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Browsing Posts published by Val

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt was “As the policeman pulled back the sheet, she knew immediately that…” Today’s story comes from Deborah Dera. Deborah is traditionally a non-fiction writer and blogger but she also enjoys exploring her more creative side from time to time.

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A New Beginning

by Deborah Dera

I hadn’t anticipated the knock on the door. I’d planned the perfect escape. My bag was already packed and in the car; the money in the belt under my shirt; the plane ticket in my pocket. I just needed to get on the road.

Then there was a knock on the door.

The female officer standing on the other side looked bored. My husband had been reported missing. I didn’t make the call. He wasn’t missing. I knew where he was. What I didn’t know was when he would come back. I’m never sure if I’ll have enough time to make a getaway. I need to try. Try. Try…

The knock was unexpected, though.

She started to speak as soon as I answered, mine a wordless greeting. “Mrs. Albertson. I’m Detective Wright. We’ve received a call from your mother-in-law stating that your husband has been missing for 2 days now.”

“My mother-in-law has been known to overreact.” My tone is dry.

Wright cocked her head slightly, I’m sure thinking me odd. “That may be true, but I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s alright. May I come in?”

I pushed open the screen door and stepped aside. “I only have a few minutes. I have a plane to catch.”

At that, the good Detective Wright looked genuinely surprised. “Your husband is missing and you are hopping a plane?” She glanced around the room. I knew she was looking for signs of a struggle; maybe that I’d done something to my husband. What she saw was an organized home – one that looked lived-in. Not too clean; not a disaster. Just a home. Something I’m sure a busy officer like she could relate to.

I sighed, “Have a seat.” Detective Wright chose the end of the couch, furthest from the front door, all other entrances visible. “What would you like to know?”

“You can start by telling me why your mother-in-law would report her son missing.”

I gave her a wry smile. “I imagine he hasn’t bothered to call her in a couple of days. They’ve always had a close relationship. I haven’t heard from in in 6 days, but that is not unusual. I’m never quite sure when he’ll return from his… trips.”

“You are no longer close?” She’s looking directly at me, but with what I sense is a trace of pity. Or is it compassion? I can’t quite tell.

I shook my head no and looked away. Maybe she’d take pity and leave me alone; put the puzzle pieces together and realize I’ve done nothing wrong.

“May I look around?”

I waved my hand in a gesture of welcome. “Of course, please…” She stood immediately, glancing into the kitchen, then turning to move down the hall.

“Where do you think your husband is?” She stopped to look at me, waiting for my answer.

“He may or may not be on an actual business trip. I’m never quite sure; but I imagine he’s with his mistress,” I deadpaned without a trace of humor. She studied my face, tired and hardened from years of putting up with my husband’s absences and abuses. I could tell she was taking me in for the first time – truly looking at me. Her eyes were drawn to my arms – a few yellowed bruises remained from the last encounter I did have – a couple of scars remained around my wrists. I didn’t bother hiding these things any longer. She was smart to observe without comment.

Detective Wright turned and headed back down the hall, pausing to open the bathroom door. She stepped in to pull back the shower curtain, looked around, and proceeded back to the hall and into the bedroom we once shared happily.

The bedroom was slightly messier. I’d long since stopped decorating or rearranging the keepsakes I once cherished. Many were broken – victims of tantrums. They no longer told the stories of the memories they once held. The curtains were drawn, pushing the day’s natural light away. The bed was made, but messy.

I watched her carefully as she casually opened the closet door. She glanced at the items on my dresser, then over at his. She turned to the bed and as the policeman pulled back the sheet, she knew immediately that my husband was not a victim. It didn’t take much to put two and two together. I stood nervously, wondering if she’d ask me about the cuffs attached to the headboard, usually covered by the sheets, but she didn’t.

“The plane. Where are you going?”

“I… I thought I might go see my mom. She lives in New York.” I started to fumble, pulling the printed ticket confirmation from my pocket for her to see.

“When will you be back?”

I squirmed, uncomfortable, suddenly more nervous than I’d ever been. “I don’t imagine I’ll be coming back. I’m supposed to be here when he gets back. I never quite know when he’ll return. If I’m not here he’ll… he’ll be angry. I… need to go… I’m going to miss my plane. Please…”

Detective Wright nodded. “I have a better idea, ok? I can help you.”

I stared at her, blinking.

“I need you to come to the station with me; and when we’re done I’ll make sure you get a new ticket to New York. Ok?”

I nodded slightly, suddenly dizzy – confused, scared. She knew… but I suddenly felt as though I might actually be able to make it out of there for good. And I did.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitzhttp://www.rcbonitz.com

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

Catherine A. MacKenziehttps://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Deborah Marie Dera:  www.deborahdera.com

 

I read this book on the recommendation of coworkers when we were discussing books about students who rebel. This is a cross between middle grade and young adult—there are bits in there that older kids would get, but the story is appropriate for middle grade.

The story follows a boy named Wallace Wallace, who made a star play on the football team. But since he refuses to lie (and praise a book he didn’t like), he has detention for English class, preventing him from joining his football teammates.

As he stays after school and is forced to watch the drama club rehearse for their play, he cannot help but use his brutally honest personality to offer suggestions about how to improve their play. The story uses multiple points of view, including Wallace, a “love” interest of his, and the drama teacher. At first the multiple perspectives were jarring, but by the end, they came together quite nicely. The novel was humorous and fast-paced, weaving together a mystery, a plot, and a love triangle. The title comes from the main characters objection to the classics read in school in which the dog dies (Old Yeller).

I liked Wallace’s honest personality and the way he stuck to his beliefs no matter what. Since it’s more of a middle grade book, the characters weren’t as developed as I would prefer (as in YA or adult books), but it was still an enjoyable read—and definitely something I would have loved as a kid.

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month to begin a story with the phrase, “As the policeman pulled back the sheet, she knew immediately that….” This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Give Cathy’s new Facebook page, “Granny MacKenzie’s Children’s Books,” a “like” and a comment perhaps?

 The Charred Body

by Cathy MacKenzie

As the policeman pulled back the sheet, she knew immediately they had hauled her into the morgue for no reason.

“It’s not my husband,” Jennifer said. “It’s not Paul.”

“How can you be sure?” The officer asked.

Jennifer glanced at the mortician and then the officer. “It doesn’t look like him, for one reason.”

“How can you tell? The body’s been burned beyond recognition.” He scanned her face. “And what’s the second reason?”

“Second reason?”

“You said the first reason it wasn’t him was because it didn’t look like him. So what’s the second reason?”

The young woman’s face flushed. “Did I say that? It’s just an expression.”

Despite the horrendous sight of the gory mass before her, Jennifer couldn’t stop herself from looking again. She knew why she didn’t flinch at the sight: because it wasn’t Paul; she breathed a thankful sigh. She wouldn’t want anyone to suffer such a tragic fate.

“It’s definitely not him. That person, or whatever it is, is too big to be Paul. And wouldn’t burning shrink a body?”

As if they hadn’t heard her, neither man answered her question. Or were they ignoring her, waiting for her to stumble?

“Paul’s only slightly bigger than I am. It can’t be him. That’s my second reason. Can I go now? The sight is a bit disturbing.” Jennifer turned and then asked, “Have you made any other headway—other than this?”

“Nothing else.” The officer grasped her arm to lead her out. Jennifer heard the tray slide into the metal wall compartment, just like on TV except the sound was hollower in person. The noise echoed through the room and she shivered.

“We’ll be in touch,” Officer McAdams said.

“Yes, let me know when you have something new,” Jennifer said, besides charred bodies to snare me with. She smiled and could almost see the huge question mark spread across Officer McAdam’s face. But couldn’t she smile? Surely, if the officer was honest, he would agree he’d tried to trap her into an unwitting confession.

It had been almost six weeks since Paul had disappeared. Despite what the police said, they didn’t know whether he was dead or alive.

She was glad to breath in the fresh fall air without being hounded. When she had been at the precinct the first time, she remembered telling the two officers, “Paul likely went off for some space. We haven’t been getting along too well lately.” She had wanted to get those words out before they asked her about “problems in the marriage.” When one spouse was murdered or disappeared, everyone knew the culprit was the other spouse. For effect, a tear had dribbled down her cheek. “He’s gone off before without telling me.”

“Why did you wait two weeks to report him missing?” she’d been asked.

“I told you I didn’t know he was missing. We had a fight.  I though he went to his brother’s.” At the quizzical look on the officer’s face, she had said, “I couldn’t call. I didn’t want his family to know we were fighting.” After a few seconds of silence, she said, “I am worried. This is the longest he’s been gone.” She had searched in her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. “I hope you find him soon.”

Jennifer returned home. When the door closed behind her, she allowed herself a real smile, not that small, inconsequential smile she had given the officer. Then she chuckled, certain she was free. She had gotten away with murder! The body would never be found.

The police didn’t bother her again for several weeks. When they did, they didn’t telephone to politely ask her to come to the station. That time, two blue-clothed officers rang the bell, handcuffed her, and shoved her into the police car—after reading her the standard rights, of course.

Jennifer blubbered, “You don’t have a body. How can you arrest me?”

“Anything you say can and will be used against you….”

“But….”

At the station, Office McAdams joined Jennifer in the room. He read her the same spiel, “Anything you say can and will be used against you….”

And she discovered the police had a body.

“No, you don’t have him.” She stared the officer in the eyes while she clenched her moist hands.

“The body burned beyond recognition, the one you said definitively wasn’t your husband? That was your husband.”

“No!” Jennifer stood and flailed her arms. “No, that wasn’t him. He wasn’t burned. I—”

Jennifer fell back to the seat.

“Ma’am, what are you saying?”

“Nothing. It wasn’t him, the body I saw. I told you, that body was too big. And the head and facial features—what was left of them—didn’t resemble Paul at all. I want a lawyer.”

“You killed him, then left him in the old outhouse on the Ingram property, didn’t you?”

Jennifer’s face turned white.

“You never thought anyone would look there, did you?”

Jennifer coughed and took a deep breath. “No, because he’s not dead. He disappeared, I told you. And you said he was burned beyond recognition, so how do you know that’s him?”

Officer McAdams’ face remained expressionless. “We matched DNA with his brother. It’s conclusively Paul.”

“No, it’s not. Paul isn’t burnt up like that…that charred mess of flesh.” Real tears slid down her cheeks.

“Vandals, Ma’am. Likely we would never have found him had vandals—kids, most likely—not set fire to the building.”

 

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitzhttp://www.rcbonitz.com

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

Catherine A. MacKenziehttps://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Deborah Marie Dera:  www.deborahdera.com

I finally got around to reading this book. Being an English teacher has its downsides: when I assign independent reading projects, a lot of books are spoiled for me before I get to read them. This was one of them—many students read it several years ago, but I’d forgotten that I already knew the basic plot before I bought it and started reading.

Still, I’m glad I read it.

The book follows a freshman named Melinda. She’s an outcast at school because she called the police during a high-school party the summer prior, and everyone seems to hate her.

Spoilers follow.

Seriously.

If you plan to read the book, stop reading now.

So, hints are dropped (though I knew the truth because my students told me, so I’m not sure at what point a reader would actually figure it out) that Melinda was raped by a student who she first refers to as “It.” She had too much to drink at the party and was confused. Though she told him “no” at the party, he continued on, and she was too naïve to know what to do. She ended up blaming and hating herself.

Because she freaked out, she ran before the police arrived, and no one learned the truth, not the police, not her parents, not her friends. Everyone thinks she is simply a snitch.

The book follows her freshman year as she tries various coping techniques. I enjoyed how art class was woven in—the teacher assigns her the symbols of a “tree” to work with the entire year, and she uses her work on the tree project to help her reconcile her feelings.

It’s a YA read, so it’s easy and quick, and it’s an important reminder about how each of us brings baggage with us—and though we may seem like we are rebelling or acting out, there is sometimes a deeper problem about which we are too hesitant to speak.

It’s midway through the year, late enough that the novelty of “weight loss” and “fitness” resolutions has worn off. For those of you who stuck to it—great! And keep it up!

For those of you who didn’t, I’m writing this post to hope to encourage you to get back on the fitness wagon. I want to share my ongoing fitness journey as a way to inspire others. In September 2014, my husband and I decided to lose weight (and I decided to get back in shape). We started with the goal of losing a collective 100 pounds, assuming it would take the bulk of a year to do so. So far, we’ve lost 96 pounds collectively, and we are close to our goal.

I feel a million times better—more energetic, more confident, and more powerful—than I have for years. I wish I could share the feeling with everyone.

So many people have asked me “what’s the secret?” For those wondering how we are doing it, it’s simple, but it’s not easy. In short, it’s a lifestyle change.

First, a bit of my history.

In middle school, I was chunky. My doctor told my mother to “watch it.” Whatever my genetics are, my metabolism is “efficient,” meaning I can basically take a jelly bean and turn it into a pound of fat. Great for cavemen scrounging around for food. Bad for people who live in a society such as ours—privileged to be surrounded by food almost all the time.

In high school, I took to running track (distance) and cross country. I lost weight (lots of weight), broke several schools records, earned several medals, and ran the mile in five and a half minutes. I could eat Taco Bell on the way home from practice and still be hungry enough to eat two helpings at dinner. Here is a picture of me from prom. Very toothpicky:

val-promThings were okay through college and even grad school. Though I stopped running freshman year, I kept in shape. I ran frequently, loved to rollerblade, and maintained a healthy weight. Sure, I no longer looked like the toothpick I was in high school, but I was healthy.

Then, rushing down the stairs at the start of an Easter holiday, I slid down the last three steps laden with a suitcase, a duffel bag, and a box. The carpet on those stairs was slightly loose, and I was going too fast. I tried to stop myself by jamming my leg straight out, catching my weight—and the weight of all the luggage I carried. The good news: I stopped myself from falling down the stairs. The terrible news: I seriously damaged my knee.

I thought it was just a sprain, but when the injury kept getting better-worse-better-worse, I finally went in for an MRI. I had a partial tear of the ACL. By that time, I hadn’t been able to do enough exercise to get my heart rate up—for about 7 months. During physical therapy (it was suggested I do physical therapy, not surgery, as it was only a partial tear), it was a challenge for me to walk on the treadmill backwards and at an incline. I tried to run after the physical therapy, but it felt like someone had slashed the back of my knee with a knife. I biked, but I didn’t have enough roads to safely ride as fast and far as was required to get enough exercise.

The years added up, and so did the pounds. My knee went through the better-worse-better-worse pattern for several years, and it kept me from exercising to the extent I needed to. But my eating habits stayed the same.

The pounds added up.

The pounds added up.

Making a Decision

This takes me back to September of last year, when my husband and I decided to get back in shape. I needed to lose 50 pounds to get back to the relatively healthy weight I had been before tearing my ACL. And being honest with myself, I could probably lose up to 70 and still look and feel healthy. But I set my first goal at 50 and decided to re-evaluate when I got there.

We didn’t use any fancy weight plans or anything like that. We went with a straight calorie deficit plan, using MyFitnessPal, a free app and a website that helps keep track of daily calories and goals. As I said, simple but not easy. I’m not a fitness expert, so I’m not endorsing anything. I’m just sharing what worked for me. MyFitnessPal calculates the number of calories each individual needs to lose, maintain, or gain weight based on the details each user inputs, such as weight, height, activity level, and goal.

The first two weeks were the worst. We were shocked at the number of calories in things we ate every day—especially things that were low fat but heavy in calories. We assumed pizza was unhealthy because of all the cheese—but it turns out, the carbs are the big calorie culprit there. So we reevaluated our eating habits, made some changes, learned what filled us and what left us hungry. In short, we upped lean proteins and cut carbohydrates. We ate fats moderately (the calories contained in fats act like a police force anyway, insuring we don’t eat too much fat) and limited sugars. For the first two weeks, I literally felt hunger pains. But when my stomach got used to the amount of food we should have actually been eating, it became easier.

Eating and Cooking

For “go-to” meals, we grilled chicken breast every Monday so we’d have them for lunches or dinners when we needed something quick, lean, and full of protein. Each Sunday night, I boiled eggs so we had them for breakfast—a grab-and-go protein with reasonable calories. We made sure to have ripe bananas and apples around for when we got hungry. We planned lunches, starting with a protein and building a filling but low-calorie salad around them. For desserts (which we didn’t eat but a few times a week), we bought packages of pre-shaped cookie dough. We carefully counted how many calories we had left at the end of each day, and if we had any available, we baked only that number of cookies to insure we didn’t over-eat. Allowing us a few cookies here and there helped to prevent cravings. We learned that things like tea or hot chocolate were better than a few scoops of ice cream. We bought packages of those “steamer” vegetables—the ones already mixed that you just pop in the microwave. We learned which pre-packaged chicken or fish meals were healthy and which were high in sodium. In short, we made sure our refrigerator was much more convenient than running out for fast food.

celebrating losing 40 earlier this year with... 40 pounds of potatoes!

Celebrating losing 40 earlier this year with… 40 pounds of potatoes!

Exercise

My husband is not a big fan of exercise. He was able to lose a lot of weight without worrying about exercise—simply counting calories. Only recently—after the easy weight came off—has he started to exercise more regularly. He even admitted that exercise makes him feel healthier and younger. He has been sick rarely since losing weight.

Because of my fitness background, I missed being in shape. For me, this journey has been more about getting back in shape (and feeling strong!) than about the number on the scale. I am not officially endorsing any of the exercise programs I used; I am simply stating what worked for me.

I started with a DVD I found in our collection, Jillian Michael’s 30-Day Shred. I was astounded at how difficult the “level 1” workout was for me—doing jump rope and jumping jacks for a full two minutes killed my calves. It took me about three weeks of doing level 1 (a 20-minute workout) every day before I got in shape and started getting bored. I spent another 2-3 weeks on level 2 and then moved on to level 3. My 16-year-old self would have been ashamed at how far I’d allowed myself to go.

I saw changes in my body after the first few weeks. Definition seeped back in—slowly. After making it to level 3, I changed it up, alternating in Billy Blanks’ Tae Bo (I had done Tae Bo for years in college, and I have several DVDs) and finally stepping up my weight training to include Les Mill’s Pump. After losing about 20 pounds, I was thrilled to realize that my knee no longer hurt anymore—at all.

After all of those exercises became easy, I started Les Mills Combat, a series of intense mixed martial arts moved that helps my heart pump and my muscles build. When weather permitted, I ran. The weight loss helped, and strengthening the muscles did, too. Even though the numbers on the scale weren’t going down as quickly as they were those first few months, my clothes were fitting much more loosely. I went through boxes of clothes I had packed up years ago—and kept in hopes of being able to fit them again.

And I can!

It fits again. Like going back in time...

It fits again. Like going back in time…

The best feeling was on Thanksgiving of last year. I had forgotten my jacket, and several family members wanted to go on a short walk to visit some historical areas near the place we were eating. My parents each had brought two jackets—one winter-weight which they wore and one lighter-weight in the car. It was cold enough that I knew I’d have to layer each of their lighter jackets to stay warm. My father is very tall, and his jackets are huge on me, but my mother wears a medium. I had worn XL for years. I tried on her medium jacket and was thrilled when it fit! It even zipped up with some room to spare. I don’t know how many minutes the smile stayed on my face.

Feeling Great

But it’s not just about what fits or what doesn’t, or even how I look. For me, my fitness journey is about how I feel. I feel more energetic, even when I am tired. Getting up and doing physical work no longer feels like a chore. My posture has improved. Even though I am a writer, I honestly cannot put into words how great I feel now that I am getting back in shape. And feeling great communicates non-verbally to others, boosting self-confidence and others’ perception of you. Again, it’s not just about looks; it’s about an overall package. An energy.

If you are thinking about losing weight or getting back in shape (or getting in shape for the first time), I want to encourage you to do so. Start by taking a good look at what you eat. And there’s no such thing as getting away with cheating. If you eat an extra candy bar and don’t record it, you’re only cheating yourself. If you work out for 30 minutes but don’t put in any effort, you are the only one who isn’t going to see the results you want.

The point is not to deny yourself a candy bar once in a while, but the point is to be aware of what you are eating, and how many calories you should be eating. If you’re going out to eat, take a look at the nutrition information on the restaurant’s websites. Chances are, you’ll be shocked. Many meals contain more than a day’s worth of calories. More and more restaurants, though, are coming up with “healthy” menus that are fairly tasty and quite filling. Living in America, it’s not easy to eat healthy. The cheapest and most convenient options are loaded with calories (and usually pack little nutritional value), but eating healthy is possible. It might take a little extra planning, but healthy eating is possible.

The end? No... the beginning!

The end? No… the beginning!

And you don’t have to be good all the time. Once in a while, to keep my metabolism burning, I splurge, going above my max calorie count for the day. I usually don’t feel too great afterwards, a reminder to listen to my body.

But overall, I feel great most of the time now—even when I’m sick, I feel healthier than I felt when I was heavy. Give yourself the best gift you can: the gift of health. If you need encouragement, please send an email my way. I’ve been through frustrating weeks of hitting that “plateau” and wanting to quit, but I toughed it out, and you should, too. It’s a simple decision, but it isn’t easy. Stick to it, though. You’ll be glad you did.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “As the policeman pulled back the sheet she knew immediately that…”

Today’s contribution comes from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter, a novel celebrating the strength and truth embraced by Hawthorne’s original protagonist—in a modern setting. Find out more at www.ValMuller.com.

Next

by Val Muller

As the policeman pulled back the sheet, she knew immediately that she couldn’t do it.

“I won’t go,” Mel said. “Give me back the sheet. It’s cold.” She curled up in the fetal position, trying to salvage the escaping warmth. Her black silk camisole and garter barely offered any warmth to the rising gooseflesh.

“You have to go,” Danny said, snapping the sheet off the bed. “She’s your cousin.” He tilted his head, and the vinyl black and blue policeman’s hat nearly toppled off his head.

“My distant cousin. And who ever heard of a ‘Tarts and Uniforms’ party? How about a wholesome, old-fashioned bachelorette party?”

Danny pulled off his policeman hat. “You know she loves the scene from Bridget Jones’ Diary.

Mel rolled her eyes. “In that movie, it’s a Tarts and Vicars party, not a Tarts and Uniforms one.”

Danny chuckled. “Guess she didn’t want to be sacrilegious.”

Mel scowled. “Yes, asking all her female guests to dress like prostitutes is the epitome of wholesomeness, isn’t it? Besides, isn’t that the scene where Bridget makes a total fool of herself when she’s the only one to show up at the party scantily clad? I just can’t go out like this.”

“Well, you’re not getting the sheet back. You RSVP’d that we’d both go, dressed as Julie requested. Besides, you should be thankful I agreed to be your Plus One.” Danny flashed a smile.

Mel pulled the fitted sheet off the bed and wrapped herself in it. “I changed my mind. I’m not going. Not dressed like this. It’s probably illegal, anyway, going out in public like this.”

“That’s why you’ll wear a jacket ‘til you get there.” Danny laughed, pulling out his plastic nightstick. “Besides, ma’am, I think I know what’s legal and not legal around here—”

“And you, Danny. You could get in trouble for impersonating a police officer, I’m sure.”

“It’s a costume.”

“It’s not Halloween.”

“So?”

Mel ducked her head under the fitted sheet.

Danny tugged at the sheet. “It isn’t even a convincing costume. I don’t think I could fool a three-year old. It’s all I could find in a pinch. Having a Tarts and Uniforms party in the middle of June doesn’t make it easy for those of us looking for costumes. Come on, I went out of my way to get a costume for this party just so I could go with you.” He pouted playfully.

“I’d trade places with you in an instant. Besides, Julie should just have a normal bachelorette party and let Ryan have a normal bachelor party. The guests aren’t supposed to be the ones dressing up. Who ever heard of a co-ed bachelor/bachelorette party, anyway?”

“She wanted to have a mixer. Maybe set up the next couple to get married.” Danny’s eyes linger on Mel a little too long. Then his face paled, and he cleared his throat, averting his eyes.

“Then what would be the point of us going?” Mel asked. “You hoping to meet your future wife there?”

“I think I’ve already met her,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He cleared his throat again.

Mel loosened her grip on the fitted sheet. Marriage had never come up, not in the two years they’d been together. She’d always hoped but never pressed… She spoke slowly, softly, not sure what words would emerge. “Now that you mention it…” She cleared her throat. “I would rather spend the evening with you. See a movie. Take a walk at the river.” She glanced down at the fitted sheet she wore like a robe. “Wearing actual clothing…”

Danny looked up again, and she followed his gaze. It lingered on the way the moonlight left little splotches of light on the crumpled sheet.

“Okay,” he said. “Deal”

As he changed out of his costume, she pulled on jeans and a shirt. She couldn’t help but smile, thinking that maybe at the wedding, she would be the one to catch Julie’s bouquet—and right there with Danny as her Plus One, too.

 

The Spot Writers—our members:

 

RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Deborah Marie Dera: www.deborahdera.com

Ceremony follows the story of Tayo, a Native American who fought against the Japanese during World War II. The horrors he witnessed in the war have left him sick and restless, and he cannot settle into regular life upon his return. His fellow soldiers take to alcohol and violence to deal with their experience, an the people around him blame the white man, but Tayo seeks a deeper way to heal.

The novel incorporates flashbacks and snippets from stories, legends that have been passed down through Tayo’s people. Tayo seeks help from a wise man and learns that his struggle is more than just personal: the problems he faces are more than just “White Man” versus “Indian.” He learns there is a darker witchcraft at work in the world, one meant to affect all people in all places. He learns that all people are connected and that ceremonies change; they must change. Through his journey, he integrates stories and rituals from the past with his experiences in the modern world.

I enjoyed the opening of the novel, the author appealing to a muse as well as an iteration that stories are the most important thing: when stories are forgotten, the world is in danger. The novel itself becomes such a story.

There were times reading it when I thought, “Where is this even going?”, but I kept reading, and I started to see how the pieces were fitting together. The last half of the novel read very quickly. It’s a literary work–one that can be analyzed in depth, and the way it all comes together makes the read worthwhile. Now that I know where the novel is going, I plan to re-read it and see from the start how all the pieces connect. In some ways, reading the novel becomes a ceremony—one that can be repeated to insure a better understanding and one that demonstrates the importance of stories.

The novel reminded me of a short story I’d read, “The Man to Send the Rain Clouds.” I had forgotten the short story was written by the same author! In fact, I also plan to read her book Almanac of the Dead . Ceremony is not an easy read, but the payoff is worth the effort.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “As the policeman pulled back the sheet she knew immediately that…”

Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART. His latest book, DANGEROUS DECISIONS, has just been accepted for publication by REBEL INK PRESS.

THE BODY IN THE MORGUE

by RC Bonitz

As the policeman pulled back the sheet she knew immediately that something was terribly, horribly wrong. Was she dreaming, or hallucinating, whatever, she could not believe her eyes. The body on the gurney couldn’t be there. It absolutely couldn’t.

Heart hammering in her chest, she stared at the cop. He was going about his business as if he hadn’t noticed, as if this was just another stiff to deal with, get the name and cause of death, all the normal stuff they went through every other time.

She pinched the flesh on her arm and winced at the sudden stab of pain. It couldn’t be a dream if it hurt, could it? Unless… she might be dreaming the hurt along with all the rest. She could only pray it worked that way. It had to. A shudder wracked her body. She could not look at that face again.

Detective Duncan shook his head. “What a waste, a good looking woman like this murdered and for what. I wonder. Was she a Miss or a Mrs.? Kids and a family or a loner?”

She didn’t answer, simply stared at him in wonder. He hadn’t noticed, didn’t see anything unusual? She forced herself to look at the body again, staring hard this time. The face was the same, it hadn’t changed. How could he be so casual? Then she saw it, an old-fashioned identity bracelet on her left wrist. She leaned over and read the name engraved in the silver. The words “Marlene Burns” stared back at her. She gagged on the knot in her throat. It couldn’t be. This had to be a nightmare. There had to be a way to end this.

“Let’s take her fingerprints,” she croaked, struggling to get the words out.

Duncan glanced at her and grinned. “You figure she has a record? Or maybe she was a cop?”

She choked but he seemed totally blasé.
“What do you mean a cop? Why did you say that?”

He grunted. “If she didn’t have a record you gotta have something to check her prints against, right? Cop’s prints, mine, yours, they’re all on file.”

A cold chill ran up her back. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps but he didn’t seem to notice. “How did she die?”

Duncan thumbed through a sheaf of papers on a clipboard beside the gurney. “Here it is. Hey, it happened just up the block from here. She was on the street when some guy walked up and shot her point blank.”

Her stomach roiled, she couldn’t heave her guts out in the morgue. “I need some air,” she gasped and reached for the door, threw it open and dashed outside.

“This is weird,” Duncan went on, oblivious, his eyes still on the papers. “This says she was killed at nine-twenty tonight. It’s only quarter after right now.”

The Spot Writers- our members.

RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Deborah Marie Dera: www.deborahdera.com

This book had been on my “wish list” for several years, but I finally decided to buy it for myself. I love the movie The Mothman Prophesies, (I lost the DVD when I moved!) simply because I love the mystery surrounding the legend of the Mothman. I’ll admit I’ve watched various documentaries on the phenomenon, each one examining different histories and possible explanations behind the mysterious being. I was excited to read another take on the monster.

For those of you who don’t know, the “Mothman” is a creature reported at the Point Pleasant area of West Virginia in the 1960s. The figure was reported to have large wings (like a moth) and glowing red eyes. It was seen by many people during the span of a year or two, and they all described it as a man-like moth or like a large bird. The sightings are linked to the collapse of a nearby bridge, which killed several dozen people (and supposedly the Mothman has not been seen since that). If you are interested, you can Google the term. There are dozens of conspiracy theories and works inspired by these sightings, and it has been elevated to an urban legend, with statues and festivals in its honor.

Return of the Mothman is a fictional account that follows a West Virginia native, Ted, who is drawn back home after learning that his grandmother is sick with terminal cancer. The first phone call he receives has this weird static and a voice informing him that his grandmother is in trouble. I enjoyed the creepy suspense of the phone call, which repeats several times throughout the novel.

I don’t want to spoil anything about Knost’s interpretation of the creature. I will say, for a fan of the Mothman mythos, it was a fast read, and I enjoyed being taken into West Virginia, being exposed to a character who has a long history with West Virginia (and already tried to escape). I enjoyed the creepy moments of the book and even wish there were more of them. In fact, I wish the book were a bit longer to allow for more depth to be added regarding the mystery of the situation. I especially liked being taken into the claustrophobic coal mines and would have liked the pace to slow once or twice to allow me to linger there and feel the terror building.

Although I did wish for more moments of creepiness, I was pleasantly surprised by the depth of the characters. There was more to this novel than just “hack and slash” horror, and each character had a back story. In many ways, Ted has returned to his home town to slay his demons—both literally and metaphorically, and I appreciate the depth the author put into the characters’ back stories and motivations. Because of the effort put into characterization, I feel that I could recommend this book to general readers as well as horror lovers. It wasn’t super gory or “can’t go to sleep” creepy, though it did contain plenty of suspense and horror, so I could actually recommend it to my friends who are adverse to horror novels. I, on the other hand, like things very dark, and I could have gone darker.

For today’s Fantastic Friday post, I wanted to share some Memorial Day thoughts:

Each year growing up, I biked several miles with my parents to watch the huge Memorial Day parade. It was a big deal, and of course to a kid, it was a day to have fun. It started with Dad putting the American flag up on our house. I wasn’t sure why—I assumed it was because Memorial Day ushered in the start of summer, and it seemed the Fourth of July was right around the corner.

When we got to the parade, it felt more like summer than anything else. There was such energy and happiness. Kids ran around discussing summer plans and counting down to the end of school. I remember vendors selling inflatable animals, cotton candy, and all manner of colorful treats. I never understood why my parents only ever let me buy one thing, though: a little red poppy.

am-flag-thank-youAnd Dad didn’t buy the poppy for me, either, even though he usually made the purchases. He gave me money and told me to hand it to the person selling the poppies, and to say “thank you.” I even remember being small enough (and shy enough) that he held me in his arms as I made the purchase. I’m sure he tried to explain what the poppies were, and who made them, but as a little girl, I was more interested in the bright red color and the way I could bend the twisty wire to attach the flower to my bike helmet or handlebar. There was something unique about my having to purchase the poppy myself, but combined with the excitement of the day, it became one of the quirks of childhood I shrugged off: some kids got inflatable bears, and I got a poppy. I didn’t dwell on it—I focused instead on the colors and the sounds and the fun of the holiday, knowing that summer was just around the corner.

But when the veterans marched by in the parade, Mom and Dad always said how sad it was. I didn’t understand: what was sad about people marching in a parade? It’s a parade, for goodness sake! My parents told me it was the veterans NOT marching by that tinged the day with sadness.

I didn’t get it at first, but the year I did, it sent chills down my spine as I rode home, and suddenly there was much more depth to my little world: it was because of those NOT marching that I could ride my bike down the street, and stop at McDonald’s for breakfast, and cheer on the parade with friends, and go home to have a cookout.

This is one of those holidays that words can’t really capture.

The greatest gift one human can give another is the gift of freedom. Though he admits to being against war in general, Thomas Paine said it eloquently in The Crisis when referring to the American Revolutionary War:

“a generous parent should have said, ‘If there must be trouble, let it be in my day, that my child may have peace;’ and this single reflection, well applied, is sufficient to awaken every man to duty…. Let it be told to the future world, that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive, that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet and to repulse it.”

Those who made the ultimate sacrifice understood this concept and bore more hope for our future than anyone else—for they saw something in our future worth fighting for, worth dying for.

As Memorial Day fades into summer, let us remember their sacrifices—and in doing so, make our futures and our world something that would make them all proud.