Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Browsing Posts published by Val

Spot Writers: Kamikaze Bambi

October 2, 2014 No comments

The prompt this week was to write about a car. I was going to write about my beloved 1989 Camry… until this happened. This story comes to us from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter, Faulkner’s Apprentice, and the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series.

Bambi Kamikaze

By Val Muller

It’s late September, and Autumn is just starting to color the trees

Like the first startling traces of gray in the mirror.

The trees bend across Dry Spring Road,

Enclosing cars in a woodland embrace

That blocks away highway traffic to the north.

It is a commute that sees horses and fields and sometimes cows,

A commute that sees thick mist evaporate in the low morning sun,

That smells of manure and pollen and fireplaces,

A commute that forgets the city is only an hour away.

But the city is close enough to make cars forget

That the woods once owned the road

And may yet again.

And then, a blur of tan,

A spotted white, determined muzzle—

It’s Kamikaze Bambi

Racing my car.

The hanging trees do not care

Whether I swerve over the yellow lines

Into oncoming traffic.

So I continue on the fast, dangerous asphalt

And the tan streak continues toward my car.

Two thundering hoofprints echo against my heart and my door

As I speed onward, leaving a gyrating tan sphere in the rear view mirror,

Recovering from the dangerous high five

Exchanged with my car.

 

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

 

flash fiction, poetry none

The Prickling Time of Year

October 1, 2014 No comments

Happy October!

For those of you loving sweaters and pumpkin spice everything, happy October! For those of you dreading the snow and plummeting temperatures—enjoy October while you can. And for those of you (like me) who miss summer already, just be glad it’s not winter quite yet—and “we are closer to spring than we were in September.”

Despite the sorrow of packing away flip-flops and swimsuits, I do enjoy the chills of October, especially the metaphorical ones. To me, October has a “twilight” personality—the purple feeling at the end of the day with just a prick of dread that darkness is coming. Something about the chill in the air warns us to prepare. But for what? Is it something baked into our biology? Something about stocking up for the winter?

Since we’re fortunate enough to live in a world that manages to function even in the deep of winter, there’s not a whole lot of preparing to be done—check on that old snow blower, buy salt or sand or ice melt before everyone else does, air out those blankets from the attic…

But our biology still pricks us at this time of year, tries to scare us a little bit. Thus, the propensity for scaring ourselves. We love seeing jack-o-lanterns and ghosts, spider webs hanging from trees, glowing purple and orange candles in the window. We love the sweet scent of leafy decay, the crunch of leaves and the plunk of acorns, the chill in the air that makes it feel so good to wrap in a comforter and sip mulled apple cider.

largeillustrationWhen I wrote Corgi Capers: Deceit on Dorset Drive, I channeled my childhood experiences with Halloween and autumn. Adam’s imagination wanders much as mine did. The spooky time of year tickles the suspicious parts of his brain. He wonders, as I did, if his neighbor was secretly a witch. And on Halloween, he endures a terrifying ordeal when a white van attempts to kidnap him—or at least pretend to. This is incredibly frightening—as I know from experience. That Halloween when I was growing up is seared in my mind… the way the white van pulled up at the edge of the driveway. The way the side door seemed to open on its own. The way a creepy voice called out to us in the damp mist of the dark: get in.

Luckily, things turned out okay for me (and my fellow trick-or-treaters), though the evening ended up with some very concerned parents and police officers meeting with us in the living room of a friend.

Writing Faulkner’s Apprentice, I had a darker fear in mind: the fear written about by Sophocles in Oedipus Rex and anyone who has ever written a tragedy since then—the fear that we may unwittingly bring about our own downfall. To me, this is the scariest possibility of all—that despite the fact that we (like Oedipus) try to be good and do the right thing, we may be forging the path to our own demise. I wrote about this dark fascination through Lorelei, the main character in Faulkner’s Apprentice, a tale that questions the cost of over-ambition.

This October, you can read either the kidlit mystery Corgi Capers: Deceit on Dorset Drive or the grown-up supernatural chiller Faulkner’s Apprentice for just $2.99.

Corgi Capers for Kindle

Faulkner’s Apprentice for Kindle | for Nook

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the chill in the air!

Halloween, holiday, musings none

Spot Writers: 1949 Mercury

September 25, 2014 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about a car…

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

 

1949 Mercury

by RC Bonitz

Today’s theme is to write something about a car. Well, I think modern cars are boring. Reliable for the first hundred thousand miles, too complicated for the average home mechanic to repair, they actually get you where you’re going. Not so much when I was young.

My first car was a 1949 Mercury bought for $300 when it was nine years old. It had all of 54,000 miles on it, which made it a relic at that time. Its front bumper was bent outwards on one end where someone else had caught it with their car. Bumpers then were made of heavy steel, so straightening it wasn’t easy.

That car was a survivor. The day my first child was due home from the hospital I polished it up so it would look its best in honor of the occasion. No sooner had I picked up my rags and wax and stepped up on the curb than a guy came round the corner and smashed into the driver’s door. And the center post. And the rear door. Lovely. After a fight with his insurance company I got enough money to buy two doors at a junk yard and repair the car myself. Did a good job if I do say so myself.

Shortly thereafter the car began to stall at random times. I was working part time as a gas jockey, so began expensive (for me) attempts to fix the problem with the help of my boss. A new fuel pump and a few other repairs I no longer recall did not solve the problem. Then one day the car wouldn’t start. I turned off the ignition switch, turned it on again, and behold, the engine roared to life. Aha, said I, perhaps? Sure enough, a $1.19 ignition switch (things were cheaper then) solved the problem.

There were more adventures to come. The time it overheated in traffic on a NYC bridge. The temperature gauge (yes, cars had gauges back then) went right to the top and stayed there, but the engine kept running. When I finally reached a gas station and poured water into the radiator all sorts of rust and other gunk erupted from the fill pipe. Though it seemed nothing could be left of the engine, regular use of a radiator sealer (a common product at the time) kept it purring like a kitten. Except when the fuel pump failed. And the transmission burned out. Back to the junk yard I went and fixed them both.

Don’t let me mislead you. Old Betsy wasn’t always broken down. I just didn’t have any money. In college at the time, married with two kids, I was borrowing to live. Even normal maintenance on the car was a problem. When the heater failed I didn’t have the three bucks it cost for a new thermostat. So, I rigged a wooden board to block the radiator to make the car run hotter. Of course, the defroster never quite got warm enough to clear the windshield of winter snow and frost, but who had to see to drive?

After three years I sold the car for $75, then saw it in a parking lost a couple of years later. The new owner had destroyed the interior, which had been immaculate when I sold it to him. It broke my heart to see that, but the car was still running which was some consolation.

Ah, I loved that car. Never felt that way about another. There’s nothing like the magic of your first car. Especially when you had to put so much of your heart and soul into keeping it alive.

 

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

 

flash fiction none

Flash Fiction: Silver Flash

September 18, 2014 No comments

Welcome to Spot Writers! The September 2014 prompt is to use the following five words: bubbles, airplane, attention, facts, solved.  This week’s contribution comes from Kathy L. Price. Initially being lazy, Kathy used all five words in one sentence:  I solved the problem of having bubbles develop in the model airplane fuselage by paying close attention to the application directions and reading the facts listed in the epoxy brochure. Here’s her short story:

Silver Flash

by Kathy L. Price

 

Silver Flash, an old Cherokee 140 airplane, sat on the tarmac at a small airfield in New Brunswick, Georgia, patiently waiting.  He was up for sale and knew his owner was expecting a potential buyer to show up later in the evening. In preparation, Flash had been washed and fueled, vacuumed and polished. He hoped the person coming to see him tonight would be a good pilot. Everyone who had come to look at him so far had very little experience and were looking to buy their very first airplane. He was tired of their lack of confidence. Flash had done his share of teaching but he was older now and just wanted to be able to relax with someone at the controls who knew what their were doing. He hoped the person coming to look at him tonight would be someone who really knew how to fly and liked to go places. Flash’s current owner was competent but had gotten busy with other things and did not seem to have a lot of time to take him flying. That meant Flash spent at lot of time on the ground and he had become very bored.

Flash began plotting how he could get rid of this buyer if it turned out he, or she, wasn’t very good. He thought about how he might put bubbles into the fuel and cause the engine to quit. If he did it when they were up in the air, it would let him know right away if this potential buyer really knew how to fly or not. He wouldn’t let them crash, though. He’d make sure they all came through safely. Maybe it was selfish and mean, but he was getting too cranky to patiently put up with all the mistakes new pilots typically made.

Finally, a car pulled into the parking lot. A man and woman got out, made their way onto the airfield, and eventually wandered over to where Flash was tied down. These people had to be the potential buyers. Flash listened intently as they looked him over and it sounded as if the man knew a lot about airplanes. He pointed out to the woman all the good things he saw and even showed her, to Flash’s embarrassment, some of his warts.

After a few minutes, Flash’s owner showed up and talked briefly with the buyers. They discussed Flash’s history and exchanged the pertinent facts about engine time, the airframe, and all the equipment on board. Finally, his owner said, “Let’s go flying!”

Flash’s owner was a little on the heavy side. The potential buyer was no light-weight, either, and his wife wasn’t slim. Flash’s tanks were full of fuel, which weighed 6.5 pounds a gallon, and with all three of the people on board, Flash knew he’d be over his manufacturer’s rated weight limit. He was strong, though, and was confident he could handle it.

As Flash raced down the runway, he quickly reached airspeed and, despite the heavy load, leaped easily into the sky. He loved to fly and wanted it to show. He belonged in the air. He didn’t want to stay tied up on the ground.

The timing and the weather this evening were perfect, too. Flash couldn’t have asked for better and he climbed out just as the sun was setting in the west. It painted the sky with pink and orange, lavender and gold. As they banked out to the east, over the Atlantic Ocean and the barrier islands just off the coast, the sky darkened to a deep, deep blue. The big, full moon reflected beams of silver which danced like diamonds on the water below. It was all very romantic. He hoped he was making a good impression.

The potential buyer’s hand were steady, sure, and confident on the controls. Flash had been able to tell, right away, the man had a lot of experience, a lot hours in the air. He asked Flash to do some Dutch rolls to demonstrate his coordination and a stall to see if Flash was rigged efficiently. Flash easily passed all the tests with flying colors and he decided he wouldn’t have to put bubbles in the fuel after all. This man knew how to fly!  After an hour or so cruising along the coast, they turned and headed back to the airfield. By now, it was dark and they used the radio to click on the lights for the runway. The man landed him perfectly.

The buyers agreed to meet his owner again in the morning and took Flash’s log books back to their hotel. Flash knew there had been some manufacturing recalls which had been fixed and a few minor mechanical problems had also been solved over the years. All of the information should have been entered in his log books, though, and he hoped they were in order.

Early the next day, Flash saw the man and woman meet his owner in the parking lot. He hoped so much they would buy him. They didn’t come out to see him again and Flash wondered what was happening. All night long Flash had been on pins and needles, thinking up all sorts of exciting new adventures he might have if they did. Where did they live? How often would they fly? Where would they go? To interesting places? Or would they just stay in a small area, landing at the same old airfields over and over again?  That would be boring. Had they decided not to buy him after all?

Days went by and Flash was left to wait and wonder. He didn’t see his owner again or the new people and his hopes began to fade. He began to feel like he was going to sit in the same old spot on this same, boring little airfield forever.

Finally, early the next Saturday morning, he saw them in the parking lot: his owner and the new people. They talked for awhile then came over to Flash.

Hurray! Hurray! They’d bought him after all. The new owner, Ron, climbed into the cockpit. He took Flash up into the air and they flew off together to a new life full of travel and adventure.

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: Kathylprice.com(Website in development)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uncategorized none

In Memoriam: A Teacher of Human Beings

September 17, 2014 No comments

The dedication to The Scarred Letter reads:

To Dolores Phillips, who taught me more in three months than most people do in a lifetime.

I was lucky enough to have Ms. Phillips as my first grade teacher from September until late in the year, when she passed away. Even though she was only my teacher for a brief time, I learned more from her than I remember learning from any other teacher.

For one thing, she was primarily a teacher of human beings—not a teacher of knowledge. I remember an impromptu lesson: two students were bickering about skin color. I don’t remember that they were being racist about it—only that they were making a big deal out of the difference between a very dark and a very light student in the classroom. I’ll call the students Joe and John.

Ms. Phillips promptly called the class to attention. She asked both of the students to come to the corner of the room, where she had a closet full of art supplies. She held up a piece of white paper, right next to the first student’s face. She asked the class, “Does this student look white to you?”

We answered in unison, “No.”

She repeated the same with a black sheet of paper, holding it up to the other student, who, incidentally, didn’t look black to us, either.

“Of course not,” she said. “White and black are colors. Joe and John are not colors. They are people.” Then she held up a sheet of brown paper, placing it between Joe and John. “You see, they are variations of the same shade.” Indeed, as a first grader, I could see it. They were both colors of brown. She went on to inspire me with a short speech about character being the only important element to consider when judging a person.

She taught me several other lessons, too. The most frightening involved the possibility of cutting off one’s finger if playing with the paper cutter (you can bet I never tried!). The most memorable was when she had us sewing yarn designs into scraps of burlap. They were meant to be gifts for the holidays for our parents. While most students made Christmas trees, I told her I wanted to make something special, my dad being Christian and my mother being Jewish. She helped me think about the solution: a menorah in the center and Christmas gifts all around. Needless to say, my parents were thrilled. But I remember something else about that project:

There was a student who never dressed very nicely, and I wasn’t sure about his home life. It was clear he needed extra attention. She took him aside and showed him how to make his burlap design so that it was reversible. (Mine, like my classmates’, was a tangled mess of rainbow yarn on the back.) When all of our projects were completed, this boy stood at the front of the room to show his project, and we all applauded. It occurred to me that that was the first time I had seen him smile that year.

Ms. Phillips always knew what to do to help us harness our full potential. A future best friend and I were both taking ballet lessons at that time, and she let us watch The Nutcracker. She even brought in marzipan candy for us to try, and for decades afterward, my friend and I would exchange small boxes of the candy for Christmas.

But the most inspirational thing Ms. Phillips did for me concerned my writing. We studied poetry extensively, and I was thrilled by the sounds and rhymes of it. Ms. Phillips, like so many of my teachers, saw my writing talent even before I did. I had written a poem about Halloween, and at my mother’s suggestion, I brought it in to show Ms. Phillips. That very day at school, she marched me down the hall and had me read it to the fifth grade teacher, who stood amazed. It was such a big deal (fifth graders were sooo big!) to me that I can still remember what each teacher was wearing, the expression on their faces, and even the throat-noise that the fifth grade teacher made after I had finished reading her the poem.

It’s this type of inspiration—seeing the best in each student and helping each reach his or her fullest potential—that I tried to capture as I wrote The Scarred Letter. Protagonist Heather Primm fights for what she knows is right in a world that seems content to live a lie. Though the path is difficult for her, people like Ms. Phillips help her stay (mostly) on track.

In The Scarred Letter, there is a minor character named Ms. Phillips, and this is certainly a nod to my most memorable teacher. Of all the teachers in Heather’s school, Ms. Phillips is the only one who does not judge. Her classroom is always welcoming, and the walls are covered with inspirational quotes and posters encouraging students to be true to themselves. In fact, it is Ms. Phillips’ advice that leads Heather to follow in her footsteps, becoming a teacher at the very end. In writing The Scarred Letter, I hoped to provide to the world a little taste of the inspiration and wonder that Ms. Phillips instilled in me.

For the rest of this month, September 2014, you can download the ebook version of The Scarred Letter for just $2.99 at Amazon and anywhere else ebooks are sold. You can also purchase a copy of the book (paperback or ebook) directly from the publisher for 50% off the cover price.

And, as always, you can read the first four chapters here for free.

Happy reading, and live always for strength and truth!

inspiration none

Book Review: The Dragon Fyre Blade: Lycanthor the Werewolf by Aiden Storm

September 15, 2014 No comments

I received an advance review copy of this book in exchange for my honest opinion.

This is a short (PDF at 65 pages) read that opens with a prolog: Jasyra being confronted by the Demon King, who breaks all protocol by breaking the Dragon Fyre Sword and scattering it in many pieces across the world. Jasyra’s life is spared, and her quest begins. While the prologue was action-packed, I wanted to know a little bit more about the world and characters. Much of what I pictured in my head relied on stereotypes from other fantasy works. Though I did appreciate the imagery the author provided, I wanted to know a bit more about what made the characters unique. (I did especially enjoy the idea of razor-sharp feathers and colored dragon fyre.)

The story then moves to the modern world, where our hero, Jack, is bored spending the rainy summer with a relative. Investigating the attic, Jack finds himself drawn into a strange world in which a familiar green man and bossy girl (not to mention a giant wolf) take him into a world of fantasy—the same world we entered in the prologue. While I enjoyed the story, I was never completely pulled in, and I think that’s because of the short length of the piece: it wasn’t long enough to become a full-fledged fantasy—so I guess what I’m asking for is more J

I found a lot of frame construction slowed the narrative: “Jack looked at the green man, who smiled” or “Jack saw her eyes flash” slowed the narrative (Why not just “The green man smiled” or “Her eyes flashed.” If we’re in Jack’s POV, we know he’s seeing these things because he’s looking.) That, plus the almost non-stop action without much character development, is what prevented me from rating this book higher.

Still, I enjoyed the concept behind the story. Jack learns that he must help Jasyra retrieve each of the pieces of the sword, and each seems to be guarded by some type of beast. In this book, it is a werewolf, and Jack’s luck, developing skill, and knowledge from watching cheesy black-and-white werewolf films helps him help his new companions.

The book almost reads like a video game adventure, and I could see it capturing the interest of young gamers, hopefully bridging the gap between RPG adventures and reading.

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: Paper Airplanes

September 11, 2014 No comments

Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. The theme for this month is to use the following five words in a writing: bubbles, airplane, attention, facts, solved.

Cathy has two new short story compilations coming out soon. Watch this space for this news!

 

 

Paper Airplanes

by Cathy MacKenzie

I came to attention when Mr. Foggles bounded into the room, announced it was 9 o’clock, and told us to shut up. “Class has begun,” he said in his monotone voice. He then rapped his desk with his cane as if he were a judge presiding over a courtroom. The others came to attention, as well. No one fooled around in the presence of Mr. Foggles.

Before our teacher entered the classroom, we were tossing paper airplanes we had made from pages torn from our scribblers—throwing the planes overhead, watching them soar, and catching them when they dropped. My plane, as if possessing an engine other than the strength of my clumsy hand, flew across the room and landed in the vicinity of Mr. Foggles’ desk. My attention span had been lost with the ill-fated flight when the beautiful Susie Harper began talking to me. By the time I realized Mr. Foggles had entered, it was too late. Of course, Mr. Foggles would have to arrive at precisely that moment. Everyone’s airplanes were safely stowed away—everyone’s but mine—since the others had aimed perfectly. I wondered where mine had landed and if Mr. Foggles would notice it. If he did, we’d all suffer for it, though I didn’t think anyone would tattle, not that anyone would actually know I was the culprit. The plane could have belonged to any one of us.

But Mr. Foggles seemed oblivious. Had it slipped underneath his desk where he’d never see it? Or had it landed the other side of his desk where neither of us could see it?

I glanced over at Susie to see her smiling at me. I smiled back. It’s okay, she mouthed. Susie knew I hadn’t retrieved my flying object. I nodded.

Mr. Foggles coughed and harped about the previous day’s assignment and what a rotten job everyone had done. He quoted facts and figures, scrawled on the chalkboard, and occasionally glanced at the bored faces of his students.

“Does anyone know the solution to this problem?” he bellowed. Everyone was silent. He scraped the chalk across the board, giving everyone the shivers.

“Thomas, do you?”

“Ah…no. Maybe…. Twenty-nine?” I sputtered. Why had he picked on me?

“Perhaps you should return to grade three and review the basics of mathematical equations,” he said.

I heard giggles. Everyone enjoyed it when someone other than themselves was being ridiculed. I hated math. Problems were there simply to be solved, and they were a load of crap most times.

Next thing I knew, Mr. Foggles bent down to pick up the chalk he had dropped. When he stood, I heard him bellow my name again.

“And what is this, Thomas?” His spittle flew across the room as my plane had earlier. Bubbles formed at the corners of his mouth.

He brandished my paper airplane in the air as if he was about to play with it. I half expected him to throw it at me. How in the world had he known it was mine?

“Sir….” I stumbled and then stopped, not knowing what else to say.

“Is this how a tenth grader acts?”

“No, sir.”

Susie snickered at my plight. So did a couple of others.

“Come and get it.”

Come and get it? Get what? The plane or my punishment? It was a stupid, worthless paper airplane. Was I going to be punished for something that frivolous? Besides, class hadn’t even started when we had been playing with them. I still hadn’t figured out how he knew it was mine.

I walked to the front of the room.

“Here you go,” he said and handed me the folded paper. When I reached toward it, I saw the tell-tale sign. The page I had torn from my scribbler was one with my name scrawled across the right hand side. Darn, I thought, stupid me.

“Show us how it works,” he said. “Give us a demonstration.”

A demonstration? He wanted me to throw the paper into the air?

“Come on, Thomas. We don’t have all day. Class will be over before we’ve begun.”

I adjusted the wings, crisped the centre fold with my fingers, and then tossed it. It flew up and then nose-dived to the floor.

Snickers erupted. My face turned crimson, and I felt the red, hot flush cover my too-pale skin. I even heard laughter from Susie. Funny how one second I had wooed her, the next second I was centre stage making a fool of myself and she was laughing at me.

“I guess you need more practice, Mr. Thomas Kramer.”

More giggles.

“Take your seat.”

“With my plane?” I stupidly asked. More laughter, even louder than the previous time. It was a dumb question, but I didn’t know what to do with the thing. I figured I’d be chastised if I took it with me, and if I left it, where was I supposed to leave it? In hindsight, I should have walked to my seat, plane in tow, without a word.

“Yes, you’ll need it to practice.”

I never was the brightest kid in the class. Nor was I great at throwing paper airplanes.

 

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: Kathylprice.com(Website in development)

 

 

flash fiction none

Book Review: The Water Tower Ravens by Sandra Kovacs Stein

September 8, 2014 2 comments

I read about this book in one of my local newspapers. It was written by an author who lives in a town nearby, so I wanted to check it out. She decided to create this picture book when a pair of ravens decided to nest in a water tower near the balcony of her home. Stein is a photographer, and she became captivated photographing the ravens. She then used the photographs to create a narrative about the lives of the raven couple and the new offspring.

I really enjoyed the photography, especially the pictures of the ravens spreading their wings. As Stein documents, the young ravens learning to fly would often fall to the ground, and the town put up a warning sign to prevent drivers from accidentally hitting the birds. The narrative gives the book meaning for younger readers, and the photos will interest older readers. A fun read!

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: Just the Facts

September 4, 2014 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to: use these five words: facts, solved, attention, airplane, bubbles. Today’s tale comes to you from Val Muller, author of the YA Scarlet Letter reboot, The Scarred Letter, available this month only for only $2.99 ebook (Amazon) (B&N), or for 50% off the cover price directly from the publisher with code BRP3YEAR.

Just the Facts

By Val Muller

Jerry couldn’t believe he was here, picking up his own kid from the very same kindergarten classroom he had frequented so many years ago. And Mrs. Harrison was still there. He thought she would have retired years ago. Maybe even died. She seemed ancient when he was five.

But there she sat, sitting behind that same wood-worn desk, that same cheery, welcoming smile, those same red-framed reading glasses slipping down her nose. He felt small again as he entered the classroom, his hand behind his back gripping the book.

Buddy grasped his other hand, pulling him forward like an enthusiastic puppy. “Lookit what I made today!” he cheered, pulling his father to the almost-recognizable drawings of fruit, pizza, and sandwiches hanging on the wall behind Mrs. Harrison. “I drew the ice cream!”

Jerry ran his fingers through his son’s hair. “Looks great,” he said, but he wasn’t even looking at the drawing. He devoted all his attention to Mrs. Harrison, who still sat there smiling.

“I remember when that was you,” she said. Her voice sounded only a smidge deeper than he remembered, but it carried the same excitement as always. “Your first drawing was a bunch of colored bubbles. Your parents thought they were—”

“Balloons,” Jerry said. “I had forgotten about that. Mom and Dad thought they were balloons, and you helped me explain to them. They were colored bubbles.”

“From a different planet,” Mrs. Harrison added. “You always had such a vivid imagination.” She smiled again. “I always knew you’d be a writer.”

Jerry pulled the book from behind his back. “You already know?”

“I try to keep track of all my students.”

Jerry let go of Buddy’s hand. Buddy ran to the block section of the classroom and began stacking colorful blocks. Jerry shivered with the memory of building his own castle with those blocks—could it be those very same ones? He remembered building—

“A castle on an alien planet,” Mrs. Harrison said. “And the walls of the castle filtered the air for the aliens…”

Jerry looked at the cover of his novel. “Just like in my book.” Another shiver. How could a kindergartener have conceived such a concept? “I brought you a copy. As soon as I discovered you were still teaching here. In fact—” He fumbled with the cover. “I dedicated it to you.”

Mrs. Harrison took the book, smiling. It was the same smile she’d given him when he drew pictures for her, when he did math for her, when he volunteered to pass out the milk at snack time for her. He turned toward the door, but he didn’t call for Buddy yet.

“There’s one thing I always wondered about.” He still faced the door. “It was a day that I think changed my life. It was the day I became a sci-fi writer. I’ve played it over in my mind many times since childhood, but I can’t make sense of it. When I was a kid, I accepted it as part of the magic that makes up the kid-world. But I figured, maybe now the mystery could finally be solved.”

He turned to Mrs. Harrison. She was still seated behind her desk, but her smile seemed to have grown.

“One day, it was first thing in the morning, if I remember, we were having play-time, and you called me to the window. You took my hand, and you pointed out that the moon was still hanging there in the sky. It was almost a full moon, but not quite. You pointed up at it and told me if I looked really carefully, I would see something from another world. I looked up, and I swear I saw—”

Buddy looked up from his blocks. Jerry lowered his voice. “A spaceship.”

Mrs. Harrison raised an eyebrow.

Jerry felt his cheeks burn. “I thought somehow I was seeing a UFO. But maybe—probably—it was just an airplane. But I distinctly remember you pointing up to the moon and telling me to look. And then I looked down at my hand, and there were these three colored bubbles in them. Green, pink, and blue. The blue one popped first, and it smelled just like fresh air. Then the pink one popped, and it smelled faintly of chemicals. The green one popped last, and it smelled like ozone, I think, only I was too young to place the scent.” He searched her eyes. “Was that all in my imagination?”

She rose from her desk and put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you for the book.” She walked him toward the door. “I like to think that all the creativity that happens in this classroom is all part of the magic of childhood. Don’t you?”

They both looked at Buddy. Jerry smiled and nodded. It was a silly question, but he was glad he’d asked. He’d always had the vague idea that Mrs. Harrison had been some kind of extraterrestrial creature. It was silly, sure, but so were lots of things in childhood.

Buddy took Jerry’s hand and started pulling toward the door.

“Thank you again,” Mrs. Harrison said. She held Jerry’s book in one hand, and she reached out her hand to shake his free hand. He shook and smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you lots this year.” She looked down at Buddy and then released her hand.

Outside, in the daylight, Jerry looked down. His hand was still warm from the handshake, and he examined his palm just in time to see the green bubble she had left in his hand burst.

He inhaled the familiar scent of ozone before he smiled and walked Buddy to the car.

 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

 

flash fiction none

Book Review: Confessions of an Imperfect Caregiver by Bobbi Carducci

September 1, 2014 No comments

Confessions of an Imperfect Caregiver by Bobbi Carducci

Anyone who has ever been a caregiver can relate to this book. Though nonfiction, it’s told in the first-person point of view in a narrative style that reads almost like a novel as it chronicles the struggles of author Bobbi Carducci as she spent years caring for her physically and mentally ill father-in-law.

The book celebrates the joys of caregiving while being honest about the struggles. Though my family only had glimpses of caregiving, the struggles Carducci went through rang true. At times—and this is why I primarily read fiction—it was so real that I could feel my blood pressure climbing in sympathy with the author, especially when the frustrations of caregiving caused conflicts in her home life. It was frustrating to me that she quit her job to become a full-time caregiver, only to face countless challenges along the way. Of particular interest and concern were the “challenges” of the healthcare system (Rodger was treated as a vet through the government healthcare system). Through this all, of course, Carducci fought as his advocate—and he was lucky to have her.

Of course we can never know until we’re in that scenario, but think I would have given up in such a situation, so I give Carducci much credit for sticking with it through all the difficulties. I especially enjoyed the glimpse into Rodger’s past to see how his experiences had molded him.

I recommend the book to anyone who has been through caregiving or anyone who is currently going through it. It’s a slice of Carducci’s life and the life of Rodger, her father-in-law, and it’s a reminder of the fact that human beings share universal struggles and dreams—and aren’t so different after all.

book reviews none
Powered by WordPress Web Design by SRS Solutions © 2025 Val Muller Design by SRS Solutions