Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

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Flash Fiction: Demon Spawn

April 30, 2015 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is to use “he threw open the door” in the writing. 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.

Next week’s story will be 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.

***

Demon Spawn

by Deborah Dera

The howling from the back seat unnerved me. Brandy, for the most part, would strike you as the most docile cat you’d ever met. Until you tried to take him to the vet, anyway.

It wasn’t the cat carrier that set Brandy off. She actually enjoyed the confined space, as she did any other box, and she didn’t seem unnerved by short car rides. Just a few minutes, though, and she was done. Longer and she knew she was in for something unpleasant.

The howling got louder. My heart was racing and my palms were sweating as I finally found the vet’s office and turned into the lot. Lugging the carrier into the office was no small feat, as Shadow was thrashing around, moving from side to side, front to back – trying to assess his surroundings and plot his escape at the same time.

Inside, the receptionist gave me a sideways glance as I set the carrier by my feet.

“This is Brandy. I… uh… I mentioned on the phone that he generally doesn’t like going to the vet. He sort of turns into… well… demon spawn.”

She nodded with a smile, as if she knew something about handling my cat that I did not. “Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll take good care of him. You look rattled. Would you like to sit down in the waiting area for a bit? I’ll take him back to be examined.”

“You… don’t want me to go with him?” I felt a mixture of guilt and relief.

“No, no. We’ll be just fine. You take a few minutes and we’ll let you know when the vet is ready to speak to you.” She smiled confidently as she came around the desk and reached for the carrier. Brandy mewled and howled from the inside, but was still.

I moved to the waiting area and waited for the games to begin. The howling grew louder and I could hear the voices of the vet and at least one tech, maybe two, in the exam room; the shuffling of quick feet moving around as the howling turned into a screeching.

I wondered if any of them had thought to put on heavy leather gloves.

Taking a deep breath, I waited for the inevitable. From the sound of the hushed but hurried voices, I imagined there were probably four people in the room now, attempting to give him a simple exam and draw the blood work 6 vets before them had not been able to. I was assured this office was the one.

The howling and screeching became absolutely blood curdling. I heard a groan of frustration and what I was sure was a string of profanity.

Finally, I looked up just as he threw open the door. The scratches on both of the doctor’s arms were fresh, oozing. The doctor stood in the entry to the exam room, his dark eyes boring holes into me. “You. Come and get your cat. Now.”

I rose slowly, calmly, with calculated movements. Confidence oozed from my pores as I moved past him into the tiny room where there were, as I’d imagined, four techs still in the room, all standing along the walls as Brandy pressed herself up against the underside of the exam table, hissing. This was the easy part.

I quickly pulled the carrier down and placed it on the floor in front of her. I opened the door. “Ready to go home?” I cooed at her. “Come on, sweetie…”

Brandy’s body visibly relaxed as she watched me toss a treat into the back of the carrier. She pushed herself off the wall and dove into the carrier, not caring that I’d shut the door and trapped her inside once again.

Standing, I placed the carrier on the table and turned calmly to the doctor. “I assume you were not able to do the exam. There will be no charge today, correct?”

“Just go. Get that thing out of here.”

Heaving the carrier back off of the table, I exited the room and walked calmly past the receptionist, who no longer had the smug, confident smile she’d sported earlier. This time, I smiled. “Thank you, anyway.”

Brandy didn’t make a sound the entire ride home.

***

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/

Deborah Marie Dera:  www.deborahdera.com

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Book Review: Eleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell

April 27, 2015 No comments

This is a young-adult modern(ish) love story with a twist. The story takes place during the days of cassette tape mixes. Eleanor, an awkward redhead, co-stars with Park, an Asian boy who loves punk music. The two find themselves on the bus together one day, and the relationship grows slowly and awkwardly at first.

Eleanor lives in a broken home. Her mother has remarried (he’s a jerk!), and Eleanor is forced to live in a bedroom with several young siblings. Eleanor’s father seems to be much better off but has no room for Eleanor in his new life. For a year, Eleanor lived with a foster family, but now that she’s back with her mom and stepdad, things are more awkward than ever.

There is one bathroom in the house, and there isn’t even a door. Eleanor and her siblings are always hungry. She wears clothing she or her mother scrounged up at the thrift store. All of this has left her feeling awkward and lacking self-esteem. It doesn’t help when the rest of the school makes fun of her, either.

As the story develops, Eleanor and Park fall in love, and Park slowly discovers just what a difficult situation Eleanor deals with each day.

I enjoyed the strong voices of each character—chapters alternate in each character’s voice. I also enjoyed the character of Park’s mother. I’m not sure I’d want to be friends with her, but she would be fun to watch. I found myself being drawn into the story as it developed. At first I was rolling my eyes a little, thinking it was just a typical love story, but there are many twists and elements that make it unique, and they hooked me so that I finished the second half of the book in one sitting.

I recommend this book for young adult readers or anyone simply wanting to witness an author who has really good control of voice.

This book is one of the 2014-15 Loudoun County Battle of the Books selections. The selections are as follows. Since The Scarred Letter was chosen as one of the selections, I will be attending the competition and will also be reading the rest of the selections. Books I’ve reviewed from this list are hyperlinked:
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Fantastic Friday: When Heather Comes to Life

April 24, 2015 2 comments

Battle of the Books

botb_invite

This year, I was honored that Loudoun County Public Schools chose my novel The Scarred Letter as one of its ten Battle of the Books selections. Battle of the Books is a competition in which students at all high schools across the county compete by reading all ten books and answering trivia-style questions in a series of five-person rounds.

The Battle is a great way for students to experience the thrills of competition without having to be involved in sports. It’s also a great way to foster reading and camaraderie. This year, I was invited to the County’s final battle and watched as the top six teams competed for the trophy. I’ll admit it was surreal hearing questions asked and answered about The Scarred Letter, but I enjoyed it.

I loved seeing the teams on stage sporting their colors and whispering excitedly to corroborate on the answer to each question. They competed with sportsmanship and positive attitudes. The hosting school, Briar Woods, also did an amazing job decorating the stage and library. (A copy of The Scarred Letter was set up on stage right next to—you may have guessed—The Scarlet Letter.)

The Chocolate Icing

After the competition, all the participants and volunteers were invited to eat lunch in the library, allowing time to socialize and celebrate. (Dessert was a chocolate cupcake—zero calories, I’m sure—with chocolate icing). As part of the reception, students were invited to chat with me about The Scarred Letter and writing in general.

I love meeting aspiring writers, and I enjoyed discussing all aspects of writing—from drafting to beta readers to finding a publisher. It was also amazing to hear feedback from young adult readers and witness how the ideas from my head made it onto the page and were able to resonate with readers. I was glad to hear that readers relate to Heather and Adam, their different strengths and struggles, and the issues they face.

My favorite comment about the book was, “Adam is so bae.” (I’ll admit, I had to look up what that one meant. Later, to further clarify, I asked several students. But that’s what I love about interacting with young adult readers: I keep up to speed on current language, trends, and issues!) My favorite question was about the future of Adam and Heather’s relationship. I won’t answer that question here, but I will say there are two clues that answer it within the novel—one in the middle of the book and one at the end.

I will have to say, however, that my absolute favorite fan interaction is pictured here. During the reception, this young woman came up to me with her face decorated in the letter T—just like the protagonist on the cover of the book. Yes, Heather Primm came to life, it seemed, in more ways than one. It was amazing chatting with this reader and her friends, seeing the excitement in their eyes as they talked about the characters and Heather’s strength and struggles in a world that seemed stacked against her.

Heather in real life
Being part of this competition, and discussing the world of The Scarred Letter with these eager students, made me feel a strong connection with my readers and the struggles and triumphs of high school students in general. As a writer, I serve my readers; as an introvert, I have never been one to seek fame or attention. While I sometimes hesitate at being the center of attention, I felt completely at ease discussing my characters and books with readers.

20150422_112634Instead of being an author talking to readers, I felt like simply one human being talking to other human beings about collective truths—sharing in characters’ struggles and victories as we see their lives as mirrors of a little piece of the human condition we share. And really, that’s the purpose of literature. In the course of one (or a few) sittings, we can share the experiences tackled and wisdom gained by countless characters—without having aged ourselves. Each piece of literature resonates with a small part of us, bringing a crescendo of wisdom into the song in our souls, the song that transcends time and age and gender and race and creed.

I applaud the Battle of the Books for bringing together avid readers around common literature to foster discussion and teamwork, and I sincerely thank Loudoun County for inviting me to be a part of it. The students’ enthusiasm made it clear that the time and resources devoted to the program by sponsors, teachers, librarians, and volunteers was well spent. As I told the young readers I met, great readers make great thinkers—and for great thinkers, the sky is the limit.

Congratulations!

I wanted to think of a special “prize” for the winning team of this year’s battle. I decided that the winning team would have their school’s mascot and colors featured in my upcoming young adult novel The Girl Who Flew Away (coming in 2016 from Barking Rain Press). Like The Scarred Letter, the book features a protagonist seeking to find her strength while the foundations of her world are falling apart.

So speaking of strength: A special congratulations to Tuscarora High School, home of the Huskies. Their black and blue school colors—and their Husky, of course—will be featured in The Girl Who Flew Away. I enjoyed watching the team during the competition. Their enthusiasm and knowledge certainly took them far, and I applaud such avid and engaged readers.

About The Scarred Letter

The Scarred Letter is the story of a high school student who adamantly sticks to the truth, even when the rest of the world wants to live a lie. It’s inspired by Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. To learn more, read a free preview of The Scarred Letter, and receive a 35% off coupon, visit Barking Rain Press.

 

Happy Friday, and Happy Reading!

contest, event, Fantastic Friday, inspiration, The Scarred Letter, writing none

Flash Fiction: Caught in the Act

April 23, 2015 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is to use “he threw open the door” in the writing. Today’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy has recently branched out into children’s picture books and several will soon be published. Check out her website for updates!

***

Caught in the Act

by Cathy MacKenzie

I was caught unawares when Fred threw open the door and shrieked, “What are you doing?” I must have blushed. For sure my arms fell to my sides like limp noodles though I was unaware they had fallen until I raised my arms to protect myself. But, no, Fred was my husband. He wouldn’t hurt me.

Still, I’d been caught in the act. And by my husband, the one person I tried to impress.

“What are you doing?” he repeated.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, surprised I could even speak.

Fred glared at me for a second before disappearing down the hall to his office.

I slumped into the chair, swallowed the mush in my mouth, and licked my fingers.

I was filling in at Fred’s company while the receptionist was ill. I wasn’t doing much besides answering the phone and offering up greetings when someone entered the building. I’d much sooner be home in my own routine, but I had agreed to help in his time of need.

When Fred caught me in the act, I was devastated. I didn’t know what to do. I almost cried but then reconsidered. What good would tears accomplish, except to run my mascara and ruin my foundation? And what had I done, really? I hadn’t stolen company funds, nor was I snooping into financials. No, I had simply been caught—literally—with my hands in the cookie jar, to use a cliché.

I had been gorging on donuts—donuts Fred had brought in earlier that day for the guys in the warehouse.

But it was his fault! Despite knowing I have no willpower, he had left the box of confectionary goodness with me at the front desk. I’ve been married to him for almost forty years. Shouldn’t he have clued in to my faults by now?

Yep, you guessed it. I didn’t take those twelve luscious, mouth-watering globs of goodness out back as I had been instructed. I had stuffed my face, was on donut number ten, actually, when he unexpectedly entered the office at 10:35. He wasn’t supposed to have returned until early afternoon when he was going to take me to lunch. I had already rationalized I’d have a diet soda and salad for lunch, so I wouldn’t consume more calories.

Funny, though, after Fred disappeared to his office, I didn’t feel guilty. I had been on a diet for three weeks. I hadn’t eaten dinner the previous evening nor had I eaten breakfast that morning. I was starving; I had to eat, and there was nothing else available but those donuts. I couldn’t leave the office, not when I was manning the premises. And the boss’s wife couldn’t starve, could she?

“Help yourself,” Fred had said that morning though neglecting to remind me to take the box to the warehouse as he had done previous mornings. Of course, “help yourself” didn’t mean to scoff a dozen donuts. One morning he had even snickered when he dropped the box on my lap, tempting me. “Smell good, don’t they?” he had said before disappearing.

I looked inside the box, stunned to see two lonely donuts. Had I really eaten ten? Gah! How many calories had I consumed? No matter. I might as well put the pair out of their misery. Too late for the box to go to the warehouse. Ten hulking guys couldn’t share two.

The sweet mixture soothed my feelings of inadequacy. Gah, they were good! Lunch be damned. I’ll take donuts any day over a salad and diet pop.

***

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/

Deborah Marie Dera: www.deborahdera.com

Catherine A MacKenzie, flash fiction none

Book Review: Being Henry David by Cal Armistead

April 20, 2015 No comments

The main character (we’ll call him “Hank”) in this young adult novel wakes up at a train station in New York with a bump on his head, a copy of Walden beside him, and a little bit of money in his front pocket. He can’t remember who he is or why he’s there.

I did end up enjoying this book. It took a while to “sell me” on it, though, and here’s why: the main character could not remember who he was, and so as a reader, I was distrustful. I didn’t want to allow myself to “like” him or his current personality lest I find out something that contradicted the character I came to like. So I tried to keep my distance.

At first, “Hank” (he takes that name after Henry David Thoreau) bumps into two homeless kids his own age. They have fallen in with the wrong crowd, and they both help him and hurt him. Hank ends up jumping onto a train and running to the site of Walden Pond—he feels guided by the book in his possession. While there, he runs into some people who help him (I won’t spoil anymore), including a girl he falls for.

I found myself enjoying the story much more after he regained many of his memories. It’s a well-written book, and I always felt compelled to continue reading in order to see if Hank ever regained all his memories. It’s a quick, suspenseful read, and I enjoyed the last scene very much.

 

This book is one of the 2014-15 Loudoun County Battle of the Books selections. The selections are as follows. Since The Scarred Letter was chosen as one of the selections, I will be attending the competition and will also be reading the rest of the selections. Books I’ve reviewed from this list are hyperlinked:

 

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Fantastic Friday: Back to Nature

April 17, 2015 2 comments

I’m not sure whether I have seasonal affective disorder or what—but during those long, cold winter months, I feel cut off. Cut off from what? Nature? It’s more than that. I almost feel—cut off from my soul.

I always forget just how many hours of my free time I spend outdoors when I’m able to. The dark winter months fill me with such nostalgia. It’s around the time that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be warm—I mean to legitimately feel warm sunlight on my skin—that the pain of being stuck indoors really hits. The house becomes a prison, and my sentence—time away from nature—is far too long.

Thankfully, there is always a reprieve.

This week, spring truly arrived. The grass shed its lifeless color. Flowers poked strongly out of the ground. I set up my hammock and brought a notebook outside—I’m often inspired to write while outdoors. But I didn’t write anything. I just sat and enjoyed nature. Watched how blue the sky could grow. Felt the breeze cool my skin from the sunlight. Listened to the birds.

I was so overwhelmed by the peace of nature that I put on my running shoes and ran. I’ve been running a mile or two lately, but this time I decided just to run. I ended up running six miles, and it felt amazing. I didn’t feel like I was exercising. I wasn’t counting minutes or laps or thinking about burning lungs or aching muscles. I was enjoying the privilege of being outdoors. I smelled manure and fertilizer. It smelled delightful. I smelled early spring flowers. Even more amazing. On one section of road, tiny sprouts of green grass were peeking out from a deep pile of sand left from winter snow treatments. Life had returned. I heard barking dogs and playing children and music pounding out of wide-open windows of cars.

This tree hasn't sprouted its leaves yet, but the bird singing atop it provides its own prelude to nature's magic.

This tree hasn’t sprouted its leaves yet, but the bird singing atop it provides its own prelude to nature’s magic.

And then I came back from my run and called my dogs to my side, and the three of us sat in the hammock and listened forever to the sound of a bird. Maybe the three of us were channeling Thoreau, but there was something completely magical and tranquil about that bird. It calmed even the dogs.

I’m not sure what it is about nature, but on days like this one, it makes everything seem more reasonable. Bad news never seems as terrible when contemplated out in nature. Things Worried About never cause as much stress when out in nature. Maybe the outdoors helps us feel connected to that marvelous spirit or force or being from which society pulls us.

Earlier this week, one of my classes asked if they could have their class discussion in the courtyard outside. The day was overcast but pleasant, and the cool breeze calling them through the window seemed much more inviting than the stale air reeking from the radiator. I thought about my hammock and my dogs and my bird, and I smiled at them.

How could I say no?

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Flash Fiction: Getting Down to Business

April 16, 2015 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is based on “he threw open the door…” Today’s story comes from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter, the young adult reboot being featured in next week’s Battle of the Books competition in Loudoun County, Virginia.

Getting Down to Business

By Val Muller

He threw open the front door. The scent of home hit him in a wave of nausea. Not nostalgia. More like returning to the scene of torture endured too many years, a place repressed but not forgotten. And he was here to confront his oppressors.

It was the familiar musk of pot—his parents’ perpetual weekend recreation. The beaded door to the kitchen swung in the draft from the open door, click-clacking in a slow, lazy way. From the open kitchen window, mellow guitar riffs wafted inside, revealing his parents’ location. It was May, after all, warm enough that they’d spend much of the next five months outdoors.

Nature was their time machine.

A glance at the seventies-green chair and ottoman brought memories of stained-black feet, skin covered in layers of dirt and grime from going barefoot. Memories of ironic pleading to be allowed a bath. Memories of dismissive laughter. Stop being so establishment.

Hippies apparently were immune to germs.

A splattering of small, round mirrors hung on the wall above the piano, and Ron glanced at his reflections. That’s right—he was Ron, not Phobos, the name they’d forced upon him. Ron: a respectable, normal, American name. Ron was not the name of a hippie.

It was the name of a businessman.

The man reflected in the scattered circles was a businessman, too. He was clean-shaven with hair sculpted and short. His polo and khakis were what his parents would call “a uniform,” and maybe they were right. It was the uniform of a businessman, at least on the weekends. The hair—he could almost hear his mother already. A buzz cut? Have you enlisted? She’d ask this while looking at him over—literally—rose-colored glasses, her hair long and gray and bound in a colored headband of paisleys or flowers or psychedelic splotches. He could already hear her deep laughter—as if ready for Ron to reveal the punchline, that he was just kidding after all.

He could see his father, too, a gray, thinner Jerry Garcia, strumming the guitar and glancing up at Ron with mellow eyes. Would those eyes flash in disappointment, a sudden jolt of adrenaline disrupting the cosmic balance they’d been working so hard to achieve in this house since the Sixties ended?

Ron cleared his throat, glancing at himself once again, rehearsing his announcement. “Mom, Dad—” he refused to call them Sapphire and Unity anymore; they were his parents, dammit!— “You wanted me to go to college to find myself.” His voice wavered. “And I have. I’ve decided on my major. I’m going into business.” He flashed a smile at himself in the mirrors, steeling himself against their inevitable reactions. Then he glanced toward the kitchen’s back door.

The patio, the warm breeze, the doped-out parents awaited. He could delay reality no more. If they freaked, he’d go back to school and spend the summer in Brent’s apartment. But they needed to know. They’d spent their lives in search of the truth, and this was his.

He inhaled once more, straightened his posture, and stepped to the back of the kitchen.

Then he threw open the door.

 

 

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/

 

Kathy Price: http://www.kathylprice.com

 

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Book review: Stupid Fast by Geoff Herbach

April 13, 2015 No comments

Written in the voice of 15/16-year old Felton Reinstein, this story is told as Felton looks back upon a very trying summer he’s had.

When he was five (we learn in the very first few pages), Felton opened the garage door to discover his father had committed suicide. His mother raised him unconventionally, asking to be called “Jerri” instead of “Mom.” But this summer is the most uncomfortable of his life. Felton has experienced a growth spurt, and none of his clothes fit anymore. Everyone at school seems to be crazy about his growth spurt, asking him to go out for football and track (he’s “stupid fast,” it turns out). But worst of all, his mother is acting crazy. Literally. Drinking. Allowing bad behavior. Locking herself in the bedroom.

All this when Felton needs her the most.

I enjoyed the voice in the story. Felton speaks honestly, and he mentions the gritty parts of being a teenager, but because he’s relatively innocent (as his love interest tells him), it’s kept toned down for the reader. Profanities are used—but only when needed. Other books I’ve read contain so many profanities that they lose their meaning (granted, some teenagers do have “potty mouths”).

I read the novel in about a day. I hadn’t meant to, but it was difficult to put down, building steadily as it drew toward the end. While I could definitely see that this book targets male readers, I could also see female teenagers being captivated by his story. Aleah, his love interest, helps to keep him grounded.

It’s always interesting to read a young adult book as a “grown-up” because I have such a different perspective in looking at the adult characters. Reading from a teenage perspective, I want to hate Jerri for failing to keep it together for her children–after all, they are her responsibility. But as an adult, I can see how hard it must be struggling with a mental illness (long in the making) while putting your two sons in front of you. I enjoyed the tension caused by trying to understand both sides of the fence.

 

This book is one of the 2014-15 Loudoun County Battle of the Books selections. The selections are as follows. Since The Scarred Letter was chosen as one of the selections, I will be attending the competition and will also be reading the rest of the selections. Books I’ve reviewed from this list are hyperlinked:

 

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Fantastic Friday: Survive and Thrive

April 10, 2015 No comments

Life is beautiful. It wants to thrive no matter what obstacles are thrown its way. It’s why we hear miraculous stories of survival.

Recently, I dabbled in a new martial arts/dance form known as capoeira. Though its roots are mysterious, it’s thought the musical fighting form came from Brazil during the 16th Century, during which time slaves had to disguise attempts at fighting/escape with entertainment (dance). It’s a beautiful and powerful art form, even more so because it illustrates the human will to survive and throw off oppression using any means possible.

The etymology of the word “survive” comes to us from Latin and means “Live” “beyond.” Etymologically, “thrive” is an Old Norse word that meant “To grasp or take hold of (oneself).” I love both of these roots. Both of them carry the connotation of reaching beyond ourselves and pushing ourselves to do more than we thought possible.

This winter was an especially trying one, with snow and cold snaps seeming never to end. But there’s a tenacious little plant, a grouping of daffodils, in my front garden that beautifully illustrates the beauty and strength that flows through life:

It started with a few green sprouts peeking out at the beginning of February. I wanted to shout at them that it was too early; February is the worst month for snow, and I was afraid they might be killed by the terrible cold snaps.

almost

Sure enough, the snow came. Again and again. At first, I couldn’t even see the green sprouts. But then in March–yes, we had our final snow in late March even this far south–they were visible with the starts of flowers.

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Spring–bringing life–wants to succeed. The very next day, the snow melted, leaving:

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They were safe and sound. And soon enough, this happened:

almost004But it was so cold that they remained yellow and unopened for over a week. I worried that the cold might have damaged the flowers. But I was reminded that life likes to survive and thrive:

almost005In the throes of demoralizing winter, it was difficult some days to imagine that spring would ever arrive. The cold was so intense, so bitter, that it was easy to believe it would last forever. It was easy to forget what it felt like to feel warm–and hot–as a result of the sun. It was easy to believe that the Arctic blasts would kill all the plants. But life is stronger than that. And so is hope.

So Happy Friday, and as you go through each day, enjoy all the ways you’re pushing beyond what you thought possible, taking hold of yourself and your life.

Survive.

Thrive.

Live.

Fantastic Friday none

Flash Fiction: A Stranger at the Door

April 9, 2015 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story including the line “He threw open the door…..

 

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.

 

            A STRANGER AT THE DOOR

by RC Bonitz

 

Ring, ring.

 

The doorbell? Who in the world could be out in this weather? And at his door. His driveway hadn’t been plowed; the sidewalk was knee deep in snow.

 

Jim struggled up out of his TV chair, stuck the crutch underneath his arm, and hobbled to the front door, dragging the cast on his left foot across the floor… Damn nuisance, whoever it was.

 

He threw open the front door and stared at the Eskimo in front of him. Well, the guy looked like an Eskimo with his fur-lined hood pulled up around his head, his parka snugged up tight…

 

Up to his knees in snow, the guy gave him a beaming smile. “Shovel your walk, Sir?”

 

Jim stared. That voice. It sounded like… It couldn’t be, could it? “Are you a woman?”

 

She frowned. “Does that make a difference?”

 

“Well, no, of course not. I’m just surprised.”

 

“I need the money, so here I am. Looks like you could use the help, what with that cast and all.

 

“My plow guy hasn’t shown up. His equipment broke down.”

 

“Well then, I’m just the woman for you.”

 

Jim shifted his weight, stalling for time. Hire a woman to shovel for him? He’d never live it down. What would his buddies say? He shifted again and fell hard against the doorframe.

 

“Are you al—” the woman said, but a sliding, roaring sound cut her off as a pile of snow cascaded off the roof, down in front of the front door. All over her.

 

Jim stared, horrified. “Are you okay? I’m sorry.”

 

Up to her waist now, snow clinging to the fur around her face, she grinned at him.

 

“I was going to tell you. I clear roofs, 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/

 

Kathy Price: http://www.kathylprice.com

 

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