Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Browsing Posts published by Val

I am generally not a fan of nonfiction, reading the genre only on recommendation. This book was recommended by a colleague who started reading the book and then realized it would be perfect for me.

In the book, which is broken down into short, manageable chapters with specific examples interspersed throughout, Doctorow extrapolates his ideas about copyright and information distribution in the digital age. As a libertarian, I thoroughly enjoy his discussion about the failures of any top-down system of enforcement when it comes to digital rights management. He provides several examples of “digital locks” backfiring, noting that companies like Apple, not necessarily the publishing companies, are the ones that insist on those pesky digital rights management (DRM). He notes that the age of DRM has angered people: did you know that you don’t actually own those iTunes songs you purchased? Rather, you have purchased a license to use those songs, but they aren’t yours to keep or will to your descendants.

Doctorow also writes of the opportunities afforded by the digital age. Often, websites and projects started as a labor of love can “go viral,” providing fame and an audience for artists. While this doesn’t guarantee wealth, fame is usually a prerequisite for becoming wealthy as an artist. He further notes that most of the time, artists (defined as authors, musicians, visual artists, etc.) working for a large company receive only a small percentage of sales, and all these “digital locks” required by large companies only end up benefiting the companies, not the artists—and they certainly don’t deter people who want to make illegal copies of the material. (For instance, in an experiment, it took just minutes for a DRM song to appear on the black market after its release).

Like a true libertarian (though I’m not sure if Doctorow is one—his ideas in this realm tend that way, though!), Doctorow notes that criminals are going to be criminals, and honest people are going to be honest. DRM won’t prevent a criminal from stealing, and the black market won’t prevent an honest person from paying. In one of the forewords, Amanda Palmer notes that people have come up to her, handing her money and apologizing for downloading her songs illegally. Looking at myself, I always buy the CDs of artists I care about or respect. Same with authors: I prefer to buy their books rather than borrow them from the library, making sure they receive their royalties.

To this end, he discusses the Internet and “going indie” as a way to circumvent the system that is designed to benefit the “big guys” and take as much money as possible away from the actual artists. With digital distribution relatively easy (and fairly cheap), the playing field is becoming leveled for independent artists. With big companies shrinking, talent is being laid off and send into the indie market as well.

I do have to disagree with the author on the topic of net neutrality. He contends that Internet access is a human right, citing studies that show how quality of life improves for those who have Internet access (even when variables such as education and income are controlled). Though I understand his gripe about bigger companies paying for bigger bandwidth, I don’t understand his faith in the government to regulate the industry (even he mentions the rampant cronyism in the FCC). My solution here would be for the government to back off completely—end the subsidies and stop picking winners and losers—and let the free market decide, which seemed to be the author’s point on regulation of digital content—except on net neutrality).

That said, he goes into detail about how policies like SOPA and other policies meant to be harsher about copyright infringement are unfair and counterproductive, punishing people like Internet Service Providers for illegal things done by customers using the Internet through them. He further notes that in true government crony fashion, Obama’s IP czars typically rotate from a job in the government back out into the entertainment industry. With all this in mind, I don’t see how he could trust the government to take over the issue of net neutrality. The government is never looking out for the little guy!

He mentions that increased regulation will likely increase the cost of doing business, and that hurts artists. For instance, he mentions YouTube, started by “three guys.” If regulations increased and YouTube-like services were required to better police their site for copyright infringement, there wouldn’t be many YouTube-like services in existence. This bottleneck would make it easier for big companies (like the Big Five in publishing) to make all the rules. The little guys—the indie artists—would be hurt. As they often are.

I enjoyed his chapter about censorship and copyright: it begins with a well-intentioned desire, such as protecting the world from inappropriate content. But by virtue of a government-imposed firewall, the list of sites that are blocked can NOT be published; otherwise, the government would be broadcasting the very sites it wants to protect people from. But this opens up corruption: why can’t governments then block any sites they don’t like? This happens in places like China. He makes a similar connection to copyright: it begins as a way of protecting people, but then the lines blur.

For instance, should it be illegal to download a digital copy of a movie you already own? How about a song if you already own the CD? He cites examples of countries “enforcing copyright infringement” as a front for culling dissent. In other words, countries pick and choose which copyright infringers to investigate/punish based on how “dangerous” they are to the government. He mentions that even countries as “great” as China, with such heavy firewall restrictions and such massive numbers of engineers, is not fully able to track content and block everything that “needs” to be blocked. His bottom line: no system of blocking content will ever succeed. The implication, I believe, is that criminals are going to break the law regardless.

He mentions scary implications that remind me of 1984. When large companies sue places like YouTube for not doing enough to protect copyrighted videos, the implication is that sites like YouTube should thus be responsible for scanning every single video that is uploaded, even videos uploaded for only personal reasons (to be shared with family). A creepy example would be Amazon and digital copies of 1984 (ironically!). In America, 1984 is not in the public domain. When Amazon got into some legal trouble for selling copies to Americans with Kindles, it decided to “hack” into their customers’ Kindles and remove the book. Amazon later went back in and restored the book, but the scary thing is that Amazon could physically do so. Amazon is not the only company to do things like this (iTunes!!). The author provides an abundance of examples to demonstrate the stupidity of enforcing copyright rules for all users. He provides further examples about how easy copyright “locks” are to break. No system is flawless.

After establishing how easy it is for a computer to be hacked without the owner’s knowledge, he mentions how scary it is to consider what will happen when we have computers in our bodies (for medical reasons, etc.).

The point, he argues, is to “treat copying as a fact.” ​He proposes a blanket license policy, whereby distributors pay a blanket license fee into a collective account, which is then paid to the artists whose music is played. He notes the difficulties with this system. I wasn’t sold on the idea.

The bottom line, though, and the idea he closes with, is this: computers offer so much power, and it’s important that such power does not stay in the hands of a powerful few, for their purpose will become to remain in power, and keep out those who would replace them. Rather, we must use technology as a way to increase freedom of thought and expression, and we should be wary of any policies that try to limit the power of the little guy to express his ideas.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to use candy, whistle, ferry, ring, and kitchen in a story

 

Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.

 

RINGS AND THINGS

By R. C. Bonitz

 

Lavinia stuffed a piece of hard candy in her mouth as the whistle on the teakettle burst into song. She cussed the useless thing; the handle would be scorching hot. She’d let it reach a full boil, which was a big mistake. And that was the least of her worries—her engagement ring had disappeared. She’d been tearing the kitchen apart looking for it, to no avail. It was either buried in the carrot cake she’d made or down the kitchen drain. She groaned. She so wanted to surprise John with a homemade birthday cake when he came in on the ferry.

 

A glance at the clock above the sink chilled her heart. John would be home in ten minutes, fifteen at most. She couldn’t tell him about the ring until she found it. He’d be horrified if he thought it was gone. That beautiful diamond he’d spent so much money on. Good grief.

 

First the drain, that she had to check. With her kitchen tongs she dug around inside the garbage disposal, feeling for the ring. There was lots of soft stuff in there. Carrot scrapings from the cake, she began to pull them out. One strip, two, three, four, five, how many bloody carrots had she used? Finally, all she felt was hard stuff: the disposal, or the ring? She grabbed at anything the tongs hit, but nothing moved, she was grasping for parts of the disposal. The front door slammed shut. John! The cake. But how could she check it?

 

He stepped into the kitchen, a smile on his face as usual. “Hello love.”

 

“Hi sweetie. Happy birthday.” What could she tell him?

 

“What’s for dinner?”

 

Ah ha, that was it! “A special birthday surprise.” She held up the cake.

 

He blinked. “Cake?”

 

“Carrot cake.”

 

“No meatloaf? Lasagna?”

 

“It has veggies.”

 

“That’s original,” he murmured.

 

“Sit down, it’s ready.”

 

“Unique.”

 

Lavinia sliced a large piece and put it on a plate in front of him.

 

“Extraordinary idea,” he said and raised an eyebrow before he shoved a forkful in his mouth.

 

“Take small bites.”

 

“Mhmph.”

 

“Chew slowly. Savor it.”

 

“Unusual.”

 

“Have some more.”

 

“Odd scheme.”

 

She began to eat.

 

“Strange.”

 

It might not be enough; at least half the cake was left. They could have it for desert, too. Where was the bloody ring? She took another bite.

 

“Interesting idea. How did you come up with it?” he asked.

 

“Oh, I just thought it might be fun. Have some more.”

 

He filled his mouth again and stood up.

 

“Where are you going? You haven’t finished.”

 

“Mhmph,” he mumbled and pointed at the coffee maker as he reached for a new filter.

 

She cut him another slice of cake. Coffee was good; it would help to wash down the cake.

 

He pulled the coffee canister from the freezer where she kept it and snapped the top off.

 

She took another bite of cake and chewed carefully. They couldn’t finish the whole cake at one sitting. Could they? Maybe if she sliced it very thin she’d find the ring. Then she could squish it back together. He’d never notice.

 

“Ahem.”

 

He’d been very quiet with the coffee. She looked up from the table. He was smiling, his eyes laughing. “I think I found your inspiration.” The ring sparkled in his hand.

 

 

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

 

Written by Donald Friendman and illustrated by J. C. Suares, this book was a Christmas gift, and I enjoyed it. It’s exactly what it sounds like: an illustrated “dictionary” of dog-related terms. As someone interested in etymology and the origins of language, I enjoyed reading about phrases used from the Middle Ages to Shakespeare to Churchill.

youremydogdawgEven though I was familiar with many of the terms in the book, each entry offered additional insight into common phrases (there are so many phrases we use and simply don’t know why). For instance, not having grown up in the South, I learned late in life what a hush puppy is—a bit of fried goodness consisting of corn bread, onions, and other seasonings. But I learned in the book that “Apocryphal sources claim that slaves seeking to escape used them to calm guard dogs, and Confederate soldiers to prevent the other side from detecting them by their barking dogs.” Even if not true, it’s an interesting thing to imagine.

For a teacher of etymology, this book offers interesting tidbits to share with my students. For a writer, this book offers tidbits of information just detailed enough to spark the imagination—and perhaps I can use some of these phrases in my next volume of Corgi Capers!

The thing I despise most is having control of my life placed into someone else’s hands. It is a certainty in life that not everything is able to be controlled. Nonetheless, there are things we can do to lower risks to ourselves. I found myself in a situation Tuesday morning in which the careless decisions of others put my life in direct danger.

Another Snow Nightmare

I hate snow. I despise it. I wrote a three-part series on my “adventure” getting stuck in snow for half a day several years ago, which was also the result of the decisions of others.

I grew up in Connecticut and experienced enough snow to last a lifetime. As a high school teacher, I have asserted many times that I would rather be in school all winter—no snow days—than have to deal with the cold, white hazard.
Which is why I was not excited about the prospect of “one to two inches” of snow falling on Tuesday morning. As a coworker and I discussed Tuesday’s chance of snow, I noted that the timing was such that the snow would be falling during rush hour—meaning districts might not be justified in calling off school if the snow hadn’t fallen yet—and that I would rather the snow miss us entirely than we be put in a situation where we were forced to drive through the snow, as I worried we might.

Unfortunately, my premonition came true.

I awoke at 3 a.m. on Tuesday morning with a painful sinus pressure—usually an indication that precipitation was on its way. As I passed the window to retrieve sinus medicine, I smiled that the ground was still dark: no snow had fallen. Perhaps we could hold out.

I awoke again at 5 a.m.—when my alarm sounded—to a dusting of snow on the ground, and more falling. Shortly after, I watched the news screen fill with a growing list of districts that had either closed or chosen a two-hour delay. I waited and waited for my school district to join the list. As the hour grew later, I thought, surely, that my district must be contemplating whether to decide on a delay versus a full closure. I went outside with the dogs to note a hearty coating on the driveway and roads. The temperature was cold enough that the snow was slick—both for walking and driving. And it was accumulating.

Surely, I thought, there would be an announcement soon. After all, roads weren’t yet plowed, and I was sure VDOT wouldn’t want thousands of cars and buses on roads that hadn’t been cleared. (Why weren’t roads plowed, anyway? Doesn’t VDOT communicate with school districts?)

At 6:40, I knew it was too late for the district to make the call. All but three of the counties were closed or at least delayed. Our district was one of the three: we would start on time. Buses for the elementary schools would already be on the road. Resigned, I showered.
In response to a coworker’s post on Facebook about dreading the morning commute, I replied. In my reply, I wondered how many accidents would be caused as a result of the decision to follow a neighboring county and hold school at the regular hour. It seemed the district always follows its easterly cousin despite different weather patterns. But in this case, early reports from the roads suggested that both districts were in bad shape. And all around us, districts were changing from two-hour delays to full closures.

A War Prayer

As I got ready to leave—packing a pair of boots, a blanket, a snow shovel, kitty litter, and extra winter gear (I had been stuck once before) as well as an extra-hearty lunch—I stood looking out at my driveway, wondering whether I would make it to school without wrecking my car or being injured or killed. I listened to the soft snow falling—the neighborhood was silent, and it seemed many had chosen to keep their children home from school. What would normally be the muffled calm of a peaceful snowfall sounded to me instead like the nervous silence before an exam or a battle—before a high-stakes situation into which one carried the knowledge that not all would come out unscathed.

My husband’s voice echoed in my head. Before I left, he’d said, “just stay home.”

I didn’t because on days with bad weather, any teacher who doesn’t show up puts more pressure on the teachers who are already there—teachers who show up are often asked to cover classes for those unable to make it to school. Wanting to be fair to my coworkers, and knowing my students would need instruction, I breathed a silent prayer that I would make it to school, stopped my musing, got into my car, and pulled slowly away.

Growing up in Connecticut, my father took me out into empty parking lots during snowy days and forced me to fish-tail so that I’d know how to control my car if I ever skidded. I thank him for that. Although I drive carefully in snow, changing speed or braking very slowly, I did fishtail turning out of a neighborhood on Tuesday morning. The local roads had not been plowed at all. I decided, based on the lack of control I had on such slushy roads (none of which were paved), I would take the main “highway” to get to work. It was a fortunate choice—even though the highway wasn’t plowed, either. Luckily, all the people who chose to take that road were being patient, driving slowly, and leaving plenty of space. The road was relatively straight with gradual hills, and we were all able to stay in the tire tracks of the car in front of us. No one was weaving between lanes, and everyone signaled and waited for “permission” to change lanes. Although I was traveling at a speed of about 4 mph for most of the drive, at least I arrived safely. Two coworkers who took the back road I opted to avoid were not so lucky. One could not control the car and turned back out of caution. Another flipped the car (and luckily walked away).

When I arrived at school, the parking lot wasn’t plowed. I parked as well as I could—next to a van (hoping the van was in the lines). My hands were shaking with the adrenaline of the drive. As more and more teachers trickled in, I noticed many of them were shaking, too—and shaken.

No Consequences

But what I don’t understand is: I am paying taxes to a state and a locality with the implied understanding that the powers-that-be are using my money to make decisions to benefit me. Plowing roads that need to be plowed. Communicating with school districts about whether roads are passable. The worst thing about it was: when I got to school, I was ushered into the gymnasium, told that there were not enough teachers to hold classes. The entire school waited in the auditorium until enough teachers and students arrived before being ushered to first block class.

I had made it on time and was able to help monitor students in the gymnasium. But valiant or stupid?

Attendance in each of my classes was less than 50%, with students either leaving (after seeing that they would be ushered into the gym) or being called for early dismissals by concerned parents. So I risked my life in order to essentially supervise three study halls that day—I certainly wasn’t going to teach new information with more than half of my students missing.

Driving to school, the radio announcer said, “Remember that if you choose to be on the road during a winter advisory [which quickly turned into a winter warning, by the way], you are taking your life into your hands and putting your life at risk. So think carefully before going out.”

Unfortunately, I was not allowed to think carefully. I was doomed to be one of the lemmings who followed the others off the cliff. Both counties (my county and the one whose decisions my county always “copies”) offered half-hearted apologies that do nothing to ease the stress of travel or the burden of those who got into accidents as a result of the decision.

What to Hope for

I would say that I wish for decisions in the future that do not put my life at risk, only I wish for something greater: I wish that our society were not such that we are all reduced essentially to lemmings, following the bad call of (who knows who actually made the call? The blame game passes that around). If only we lived in a society where common sense prevailed.

This incident has increased my distaste for the public sector. In a government, many officials are elected, but many aren’t. With so much red tape and blame shifting, what recourse do I truly have if someone makes a decision to endanger my life by deciding to send us all to school in the middle of a snowstorm? I could be a bad teacher and ditch school whenever I feel the commute is dangerous, or I could be a good teacher and drive to school in any and all conditions.

If I buy a product from the private sector and am not satisfied, I will likely be refunded my money or compensated in some way. (After a disappointing experience with some chicken, I emailed customer service and was mailed a coupon for twice the amount I had paid along with the explanation that my experience was not representative of the brand—and I rewarded the company by applying it toward more of their chicken. And it was delicious.)

If a government official messes up, it really isn’t his money (or hers) being wasted. If an official makes a decision that results in a life-threatening accident, it isn’t his family (or hers) that is affected. They can apologize or evaluate the situation as much as they like, but what consequences are there really? There is no incentive to be efficient. Their government office never has to worry about “going out of business.” The only incentive of a government official seems to be to win favorable public opinion—or avoid a negative one (or avoid a negative opinion on behalf of a boss, department, etc.). But public opinion and results are two different beasts. School officials are criticized for closing schools on days when snow was expected but didn’t end up falling. School officials are criticized for keeping schools open on days when the weather proves dangerous. Simply wanting to avoid blame is not good enough.

In the public sector, there is no way I can prove my loyalty in the way I could purchase a package of chicken as a testament to my satisfaction of the product’s quality. In the public sector, I can voice my concern, I can move on with my life, or I can live quietly content with the sector. There is no way I can show my support the same way I would when I buy a product. Without this constant feedback, there is no incentive, no pressure, that forces the public sector to be more efficient.
School was held that day, taxpayers paid to heat the buildings so students could sit around in a gym, and teachers with Master’s degrees sat around monitoring study halls. As the incident with the snowstorm illustrates, the public sector is owned by everyone and no one, funded by everyone and no one, and run by everyone and no one. No one is to blame, no one is to be rewarded, nothing is truly at stake. It’s the government, and mediocrity is what we’ve come to expect.

Only hopefully next time, it won’t affect me so personally.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “New Year’s” and this week’s post comes to us from Kathy Price.

A Clean Slate

by Kathy Price

 

The snowflakes continued to drift down through the still night. She couldn’t decide if the silence enveloping the woods was a comforting stillness in which she could find refuge or simply a brief pause before the next onslaught, a pause which would allow the storm to gather strength. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she sagged against the pillar on the porch. Were they tears of loss or tears of joy? God knew there had not been enough of the latter in her relationship with Mark. Her shaking hands caused the ice in her glass to rattle as she brought it to her lips. Smooth and cold, she used it to sooth the cut on her mouth, hoping the cold would keep it from swelling too badly. Throwing the drink back in one swift motion, the alcohol burned her throat but did little for her courage. How could she face the chaos in the living room? In the kitchen? She was going to have to do it sooner or later, so, taking a deep, ragged breath, she turned and headed back into the house.

A cozy fire flickered with the promise of warmth and welcome, but then crackled, and spit an ember out onto the hearth. How very well it symbolized her husband, Mark: a promise of comfort but a very real potential for destruction if not controlled or contained. She stepped over his body to brush the ember back into the fireplace and looked at herself in the mirror above the mantle. Already the skin around her eye was turning a deep purple and the eye had almost swollen shut. Her lip was bloody but what made her tremble was the amount of blood splattered on her face, clotted in her hair, drenching her clothing. This was not how she had planned for the evening to go.

“Bong, bong, bong . . .” The grandfather clock in the hallway started to strike twelve, but instead of a passionate lover’s kiss for luck and a sip of champagne to toast in the New Year, Gwen found herself alone, but free. She decided to take a shower and wash it all away: the blood, the pain, the fear. She wanted to start 2015 with a clean slate. Mark was gone and could no longer hurt her. She would face the music of his death with a lighter heart, knowing he would never beat her again.

 

 

The Spot Writers:

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

 

For today’s “Writer Wednesday” feature, I wanted to highlight an anthology I edited called Forging Freedom: Dimensions.

Cover

From the publisher: This anthology is for those who appreciate the freedom in our lives. For those who have seen their freedoms stolen and those who see freedom at risk. For those who have sacrificed their time and energies and risked their lives to preserve freedom. Those who believe that humanity has not yet reached its peak, that there is more to the world than we can currently imagine. This anthology is for those who gaze at the stars and wonder. Available at Amazon.com and Freedomforgepress.com

Dimensions was published by Freedom Forge Press, a company dedicated to celebrating stories of freedom (of all types). When the company put out a call for submissions for its general fiction anthology, an overwhelming number of submissions were speculative fiction—science fiction and fantasy. Rather than turn down so many great stories, FFP decided to publish a separate anthology of exclusively speculative fiction.

I thoroughly enjoyed the range of stories and the different ways in which they celebrated or questioned the idea of freedom. What I love best about science fiction and fantasy is the ability of authors to find true freedom by unleashing the power of the human imagination. So many intriguing concepts are explored in the book, pushing our understanding of the human condition.

I was also pleased to learn that several stories from the anthology were honored as part of the Tangent Online 2014 recommended reading list:

I was honored that my story, “The Fourth Poet,” written to honor Ray Bradbury (I wrote it before his death, as he is my favorite author), was included among those mentioned. Also mentioned were “Bringing Home Major Tom” by Leigh Kimmel, “A Brief Biography of Baron Otto von Korek (1717-1783)” by Donald J. Bingle, “Why Can You Never Escape with Escape?” by A. J. Kirby, “Inhuman” by A. K. Lindsay, “The Rainbow Children” by Leo Norman, “The Pathless Skies” by Neil Weston, and “Amnesty Intergalactic” by Douglas W. Texter. Congratulations to all the authors mentioned. My 2015 to-read list has just expanded significantly!

If interested, you can read a more detailed review of the antho by Ryan Holmes over at Tangent Online.


If you like speculative fiction, keep your eyes open for my upcoming release, The Man with the Crystal Ankh:

crystal ankh-RecovereEveryone’s heard the legend of the hollow oak—the four-hundred year curse of Sarah Willlougby and Preston Grymes. Few realize how true it is.

Sarah Durante awakens to find herself haunted by the spirit of her high school’s late custodian. After the death of his granddaughter, Custodian Carlton Gray is not at peace. He suspects a sanguisuga is involved—an ancient force that prolongs its own life by consuming the spirits of others. Now, the sanguisuga needs another life to feed its rotten existence, and Carlton wants to spare others from the suffering his granddaughter endured. That’s where Sarah comes in. Carlton helps her understand that she comes from a lineage of ancestors with the ability to communicate with the dead. As Sarah hones her skill through music, she discovers that the bloodlines of Hollow Oak run deep. The sanguisuga is someone close, and only she has the power to stop it.

I picked up this book when it caught my eye at a second-hand book store. It’s about a twelve-year-old (Joey) who vanishes during a camping trip. He re-appears two years later, only he’s still twelve and wearing the same thing he was wearing when he disappeared. The rest of the world has grown, and he has stayed the same. He’s also got a weird object lodged in his brain, and his nose keeps leaking brain fluid. His memories suggest that he was abducted by aliens.

I chose this book because I always enjoy seeing how authors treat extraordinary stories that take place within reality. In this case, very few people believe Joey. I usually read these books expecting the ending to return us to the realm of the “real world,” revealing that it was all just a dream, or there is a rational explanation, etc. Think the ending of every Scooby Doo episode.

I’m always thrilled when by the end of the book, it’s still a real ghost, or a real alien, or someone has transcended the laws of reality. This book did not disappoint, though I will not reveal the ending.

It seems like it’s written for 10-12-year old male readers. The book is plot-driven, and at times I wished to know more about the emotions and motivations of the characters. For instance, Joey returns home to find his parents preoccupied with a new baby and their jobs. It seems after being missing for two years, he would find them more focused on him. But he’s off to school in no time, and he’s even punished for leaving the house without permission by being grounded to his room. I would think there would be much more action on the part of his parents and authorities after being missing (and suffering amnesia and other medical problems) for such a time. I realize that in middle-grade and young adult books, parental figures are supposed to be largely absent, but I felt their absence was not fully justified.

Still, I could see a younger reader devouring the book and projecting his or her own emotions on top of the characters. It was a quick read. At 160 pages, I read it in three quick sittings—and if I had more long blocks of time available, it would have been a one-sitting book.

The prompt for this writing is “new year’s”. Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out her books on Smashwords.

 

Smouldering Alive

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Alice wasn’t sure of her plans for New Year’s Eve—or for the rest of the new year, for that matter. Her life hadn’t unfolded as she had hoped. While growing up, she had dreamt of the small, tidy bungalow with the white picket fence and two children (a boy and a girl, of course). But none of her dreams had materialized.

Over a decade previously, she had moved into her late mother’s single-wide mobile home located in Woodside Flats, located alongside railroad tracks with trains that never ceased lumbering by at every ungodly hour. Sometimes she overnighted with either a one-night stand or a horny old man thrust upon her by her pimp, though she wished she could sleep alone, forever in peace and quiet.

She sighed. New Year’s Eve, which was the following night, had arrived faster than she had expected. She had told Lyle, her pimp, she was unavailable that night, and she had no intention of seeking out a strange male. She wanted to do something special, just for herself.

While driving home, she made up her mind. She’d splurge for a luxury room at the Wiltshire Inn. She’d purchase an expensive bottle of wine, perhaps a rich Merlot, and fancy cheese and crisp crackers. And maybe a box of Renoir chocolates for when the clock struck twelve. She might even figure out the rest of her life while she relaxed.

A block before the turn into the mobile home park, she saw smoke wafting into the sky. A sickening feeling washed over her, and she lifted her foot from the gas. Fire trucks roared in the distance and reached her home seconds before she did—not that there was any home left. It wouldn’t take long for an ancient single-wide trailer to collapse into bent metal and burning embers.

Alice watched the flames from the safety of her car, picturing the fire devouring her second-hand sofa and pressboard furniture as if a ravenous brute had satisfied its urges. She could almost hear the Melamine plates and bowls and mugs crackling in the extreme heat and the dime store ornaments toppling into the inferno when the shelves gave way. Clothing would have been licked up instantaneously without a lingering trace. Shampoo and other liquids would have seeped from their plastic wombs when the containers melted in the heat. Or had it not happened that way at all? Would the tangible items, resigned to their fate, simply have given up and allowed themselves to be gobbled in one insane gulp?

She watched while men scurried from the red truck, which was almost as large as her former home, and doused the raging flames.

Stop, she thought. It’s too late.

But the firemen did their job—and did it well—though they couldn’t prevent incensed anger from accomplishing its goal.

She laughed. What a way to end the year: without a home. She wondered where her tears hid. Shouldn’t she be sobbing hysterically at the loss?

But no, she felt oddly elevated, satiated even. Relieved. She could finally move on. The trashy single-wide located in the even trashier trailer park had been holding her back, preventing her from following her dreams. The insurance money would be enough to start a new life.

She giggled. The timer had gone off as she’d been assured it would. Thank goodness for the sleezeballs she bedded. There’d be no trace of mischief, not in that mass of rubble.

While Alice waited for the police to arrive, for surely they would want to interview her, she tried to drum up tears. She’d then splurge on that luxury hotel one night sooner. She had no choice; what else could she do?

 

***

The Spot Writers:

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

http://www.kathylprice.com

 

I’m happy to announce an upcoming release, The Man With the Crystal Ankh, with World Castle Publishing. This is the first in a planned trilogy, which I’m calling the Hollow Oak Chronicles. This book is a young adult thriller:

Everyone’s heard the legend of the hollow oak—the four-hundred year curse of Sarah Willlougby and Preston Grymes. Few realize how true it is.

 

Sarah Durante awakens to find herself haunted by the spirit of her high school’s late custodian. After the death of his granddaughter, Custodian Carlton Gray is not at peace. He suspects a sanguisuga is involved—an ancient force that prolongs its own life by consuming the spirits of others. Now, the sanguisuga needs another life to feed its rotten existence, and Carlton wants to spare others from the suffering his granddaughter endured. That’s where Sarah comes in. Carlton helps her understand that she comes from a lineage of ancestors with the ability to communicate with the dead. As Sarah hones her skill through music, she discovers that the bloodlines of Hollow Oak run deep. The sanguisuga is someone close, and only she has the power to stop it.

 

crystal ankh-Recovere

 

Stay tuned for updates, release date, and contests!

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “new years.” This week’s post comes to us from Val Muller, who wrote the following poem—on the theme of time—in memory of her father-in-law, who passed unexpectedly earlier this month.

 

The Horologist

By Val Muller

 

He was a warden of time,

Counting seconds, days, minutes, hours

With meticulous care.

His favorite color, green, is the hue of life and growth—

Like the internal ticking, the motion of movements and springs,

The eternal return of summers and springs

Even after the darkest winter—the color of forever.

 

A custodian of time, he measured days, minutes, hours,

Shepherding every ticking second

The way he protected his wife, his son, his loved ones.

He wound movements and restored clock faces,

Made memories and left smiles etched on cheeks.

He fixed hour hands and held frightened ones,

Restoring resonating chimes in the silence.

 

A steward of timepieces, he counted minutes, hours, and years.

He fixed broken clasps

And applied bandages to wounded knees.

He replaced scratched crystals and drained batteries,

Nursed his wife to health and helped his son allay fears.

He kept the right pace, luminous paint glowing on watch faces

And his luminous smile glowing through the years.

 

A warden of time, he counted days, hours, years,

Mechanical wonders keeping pace through the silence,

Making sense of Time, too great for our understanding.

He knows eternity now, but the gears he built remain,

His ticking wonders, luminous hands pointing our way

And the incandescence of his memory shining in every sunset

And the chimes of his clocks sounding a bit like forever.

 

Update: For anyone interested, here is an editorial my husband wrote to honor his father and to thank members of the community who supported his father two decades ago.

 

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