Val Muller

Welcome to Spot Writers! The prompt for this month is to use at least three of the following words: tremble, start, tiptoe, yank, dresser. This week’s contribution is from Kathy L. Price, author of Down the nanoTubes (www.kathylprice.com), soon to be released.

Tommy

by Kathy L. Price

She had thought everything was under control so she had slipped down to the basement for a minute to start the next round of laundry. It was too quiet, she thought, as she ascended the stairs. Her sixth sense had prickled and she was suddenly on edge. With an infant, a toddler and a six-year-old in the house, there should have been more noise. Brad had been watching a video in the living room. Tommy had been in his room and while it was supposed to be “quiet time” he had been making “zoom, zoom, brrrrrrrrring” noises as he ran his trucks and cars around on the floor.  She’d fed the baby and had put him down for a nap, so she didn’t expect him to be fussing yet, but still, there was something wrong.

 

As she reached the top of the stairs, Carla glanced out the kitchen window. Brad had taken advantage of her brief absence to escape to the back yard and was out on the swing. He wasn’t supposed to go out unless he told her he was going, but she’d deal with that later. At least he had turned off the TV first. She’d have to praise him for that but she wanted to check on the younger boys before going outside.

 

Quietly slipping into the baby’s room, Carla tiptoed to the crib, hoping the old wooden floor wouldn’t creak. He appeared to be fine – sleeping peacefully. She watched him breath softly for awhile, just to make sure, and a tiny bubble burst from his lips. Could she love him any more deeply? For a woman who had sworn she would never have children, here she was with three, each one special, each one precious. She blew him a little air kiss and moved back into the hall.

 

Tommy’s bedroom door was open but she couldn’t hear anything from inside. Maybe he had fallen asleep. He was still young enough to need a nap but always resisted when she cajoled and pleaded with him to lie down. She’d found the best tactic was to just tell him to “play quietly” so he wouldn’t wake his new brother and he’d usually fall asleep on his own.

 

What she saw when she entered the room shattered her world. There was blood everywhere. The tall, narrow dresser lay on the floor. Tommy must have pulled open the drawers and used them as stairs to climb to the top of the dresser. It couldn’t take all that weight, high up on the front, and had fallen forward, pinning Tommy’s legs and smashing his head into the heavy wooden toy box at the foot of the bed.

 

“Nooooo,” Carla cried as she raced to her son. The old dresser was heavy but she lifted it off as gently as she could, trying to keep the top drawers from falling out so they wouldn’t hurt him again. Her lower lip began to tremble and her hands shook as she turned back to her little boy.

 

“Mommy?” he said, as he opened his eyes. “It fell.”

 

“I know, baby. Just lie still.” She grabbed a freshly washed, neatly folded pillowcase that had fallen from the top of the dresser to the floor. She needed to stop the bleeding but was afraid to move him in case he’d broken his neck. What was she to do? She had to stop the bleeding but she also had to get help.

 

Moving him as little as possible, she gently slid the cotton pillowcase under his head, thinking ‘direct, even pressure, direct even pressure, direct even pressure’ as she’d been taught in an emergency first aid class decades earlier. Head wounds were notorious for bleeding profusely and Tommy had already lost a lot of blood.

 

“Lie still and wait here a minute while Mommy calls Uncle Scott,” she told him. Carla raced out to the kitchen and dialed 911. The paramedics, Scott and Sue, lived just across the street but Carla didn’t know if they were home or not. She gave the necessary information to the 911 operator, then yanked opened the kitchen door to call out to Brad.

 

“Chowder,” she yelled. It was their family code for an emergency situation. It was not to be used lightly, but when it was issued, the response by everyone had to be immediate, with no questions asked and no dawdling.

 

Carla raced back to Tommy, Brad following behind.

 

“What’d he do?” Brad asked.

 

“He climbed the dresser and it fell. Go wait by the front door for Uncle Scott or Aunt Sue.”

 

The chaos of the next few weeks merged into a large blur of doctors, hospitals, and eventually, the mortuary. It was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do – to pick out such a tiny casket, to bury such bright-eyed potential. There’d be no more little butterfly kisses on her cheek or chocolate chip cookie parties or discovering new bugs in the backyard. She tried hard to rally for baby Aaron’s sake, to make good memories for him, and for Brad, but the hole in her heart made it hard for her to smile.

 

Despite people telling her it was a tragic accident, “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she couldn’t help but blame herself.  It would have been such an easy thing, to have attached the dresser to the wall: a few minutes of her time, a simple bracket, a couple of screws.

 * * *

 

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

Welcome to Spot Writers! The prompt for this month is to use at least three of the following words: tremble, start, tiptoe, yank, dresser.

This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie, who used all five of the prompt words. Cathy writes poetry and dark fiction mainly aimed toward women. Watch for her next two books of short story compilations. Out very soon!

 

***

 

Hiding Places

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

When I was small, before I started school, I’d sometimes tremble and shiver so horribly as if I were surrounded by sheets of ice. Those days I tiptoed around the house, pretending if Rob didn’t hear me, that he couldn’t see me either. Even if he were deaf, which he wasn’t, he still had eyes, so he saw me and, when he did, depending upon his mood, he might yank my arm and shove me out of the way. Once he did that, though, I was safe, and then I’d race off as fast as my little legs would take me.

Rob got drunk often. I don’t know how Mama put up with him. He didn’t treat her very well, either, but for some reason—perhaps because she didn’t want to be alone—she put up with him. I don’t remember how long he’d been in our lives. It seemed as if he’d been living with us forever. I don’t remember if Mama had a man before him, but I guess she must have ‘cause where would I have come from if she hadn’t?

Mama moaned about being alone, in the past and in the future. “I don’t want to be alone again, Carrie,” she had said, “so we have to put up with certain things in life.”

“But Mama,” I had replied, “he’s not nice to you.”

She had laughed, tousled my hair, and had said, “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. If he ever touches you, though…”

I didn’t dare tell her he had touched me, hurt me. No, not sexually, although at five, would I have known what that meant and tattled? No doubt he would have threatened me and put such terrible fear in me that likely I would have kept mum. I didn’t want to ruin Mama’s life, which I was sure I would do, had I told how he threw me around.

One day, I happened to be in the kitchen when Rob entered. His walk was unsteady as if he was drunk. Mama was outside in the yard. He ignored me as he delved into the fridge for a beer. After a few swigs, though, he took notice of me. I felt cornered where I stood and had nowhere to go. While I cowered where I stood, he lunged toward me. Before I had a chance to move, he heard Mama’s voice outside and turned away. I seized my chance although there was nowhere to go. He blocked the only exit from the kitchen. Before I had a chance to think, I escaped behind the door under the kitchen sink. By grabbing hold of the towel hook, I pulled the door shut after me.

The scene played out in slow motion but happened within seconds. I opened that cupboard door without thinking. That evil look on his face was scarier than previous looks, and I knew I had to hide.

There was silence for what seemed like forever. I heard his feet shuffle and a gasp, then sensed him wondering where I had disappeared to. Perhaps, in his drunken stupor, he thought it a dream I had been there. Or maybe he knew I hid but was unsure where.

I heard him walk from the kitchen, but the next room was carpeted so I couldn’t tell if he had left. I sensed him lingering though. I’d have to stay hidden until I was positive I was safe.

I waited a long time and soon fell asleep. I awoke suddenly when Mama shrieked.

“What you doing in there, Carrie?  Oh, my god.” She pulled me out and gathered me in her arms and kissed my cheek. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

I sobbed.

“Carrie? She paused, then dawning registered on her face. “Rob? Were you hiding from Rob? Oh, my god,” she shrieked again. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing, Mama. Nothing.  I was just scared. He looked mean. I was afraid.”

“Oh, sweetie.  I’m so sorry. He won’t be back. I promise.”

“Where is he?”

“I’ve had enough of him. You were right. He shouldn’t have been treating Mommy that way. He’s gone. He won’t be back, I promise. I have to clean out the dresser and the closet, but I’ll drop his stuff off at his friend’s place….” Mama jabbered on and on, more information than a preschooler needed to know, more than she wanted to tell me or should have told me, but I was smart and remembered most of it although, of course, not word for word.

Life was fine after that. Mama finally met a nice man, and we live happily ever after as if in a fairy tale. I’m ten now.

 

 *** 

The Spot Writers—our members:

 

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

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

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

 Kathy Price: www.kathylprice.com (Website in development)

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month the prompt is to use three of the following words in the story- tremble, start, tiptoe, yank, and dresser.

 Today’s contribution comes from Val Muller, who you can stalk at valm16.sg-host.com. The story takes place in the world of her current work-in-progress, a middle-grade novel with a scifi twist.

It’s in the Basement

By Val Muller

Mel kept still in the giant queen-sized bed. Her grandmother was snoring now, a good sign that Mel could sneak away. But she shifted a bit and found the sheets were tucked in too tightly. Grandma always tucked her in like that—like a mummy. The sheets didn’t let in any air, and Mel started to sweat. She should have tried harder to convince Grandma to let her sleep on the couch.

Dad, you owe me, she thought as she wriggled out of the tightly-tucked sheets. She got one leg out, and Grandma stirred next to her, clicking her tongue against her teeth. Grandma adjusted the blanket a bit and rolled onto her side. Mel stilled again, waiting for Grandma’s breathing to become regular again.

Finally it was, and she tiptoed across the floor. She didn’t remember what part of the floor creaked, but she knew it did. She tried each step before she committed, remembering all the spy movies she’d ever seen. Spy Kids. Yep, that was her. She was living a ten-year-old’s Mission Impossible.

Luckily, Grandma’s bedroom door never fully closed—the wood was too swollen—so all Mel had to do was pull it open. But she was so concerned about creaking floorboards that she slammed right into the dresser. Her side exploded in pain, and she bit her cheek to stifle it. She didn’t know which hurt worse, now. She’d be bruised in the morning, and salty foods would sting for the next few days.

“Danny,” Grandma muttered in her sleep. “Danny.”

Danny was the name of Mel’s grandfather, a man who had passed away before Mel was born. It was Danny’s pictures Mel was going to steal. No, not steal, she reminded herself. Borrow. Dad said it was a travesty for those historical photos to waste away in the basement. But Grandma didn’t like to let anything go. Dad had bribed Mel with a new Wii if she was able to sneak into the basement, retrieve the pictures, and get them home—all under the guise of a weekend at Grandma’s.

These were photos from Grandpa Danny’s time in World War II. He’d taken them in the field, and he’d put them in an old suitcase when he came back from the war. He never liked to talk about them, Dad had said. But they were too important to be left in the moldy basement. Dad wanted to scan them into his computer and maybe even publish them. Mel wondered what Grandma would think of that.

But why did they have to be kept in the basement? Of all the places in the world, the scariest was Grandma’s basement—and at night, it was even worse. Mel crept to the basement door. She trembled.

Grandma kept flashlights all over the house in case of a power outage. Mel took the one from the kitchen counter. The moonlight was just enough for her to see her way around the house, but the basement had only those two tiny windows. There would not be enough light. She couldn’t risk turning on the bright florescent lights, either. They made this awful hum-snap when they warmed up. No telling what might wake Grandma.

She flipped the flashlight on. It was an old, metal one, and it clicked so loudly it seemed to echo through the house. She stuffed it under her shirt to hide the light and listened to see if Grandma had heard. The silence was almost deafening—so dense. She thought she heard Grandma’s steady breathing, but her ears strained. Then the refrigerator motor started up, and Mel realized it was now or never.

She crept down the basement stairs, directing her flashlight beam before her. Her heart leapt, and last night’s dinner touched the back of her throat. In the darkness, the shapes in the basement lurked like monsters. A dressform hovered like a ghost under its protective sheet. An exercise bike laden with coat hangers looked like a scary dinosaur. Shadows shifted behind boxes, and everything seemed to be moving in on Mel.

She would remember this night as the first time she was ever drenched in sweat. How would she explain it to Grandma? She directed the flashlight at the wall. There, under an ancient Monopoly game, was the brown suitcase, just as Dad described it. Inside it was a shoebox of pictures. All Mel had to do was grab it and be done. She yanked the suitcase, but the board game on top of it toppled over, crashing to the floor. Monopoly money and playing pieces scattered around. She froze, turned out the flashlight. Waited for Grandma.

#

When he came to pick her up, Dad kept eyeballing Mel, his eyes asking the question he dared note speak. Did you get them?

But Mel just averted her eyes.

“You should take Mel to the doctor,” Grandma told him just before he pulled away. “I caught her sleepwalking.”

“Sleepwalking?” Dad asked.

“Could have broken a leg on those stairs,” Grandma said.

“What stairs?”

“She sleepwalked all the way into the basement. Was trying to play Monopoly at midnight!”

Dad bit his lip and frowned. He had long told Mel how hard it was to sneak anything out of Grandma’s house. Oh, well. There was always next weekend.

 

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: (Website in development)

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month the prompt is to use three of the following words in the story- tremble, start, tiptoe, yank, and dresser.

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

 Because of Maude

 by RC Bonitz

I wake up with a start. Noise, some kind of noise has broken my dreams. Just as well–I was dreaming about the woman down the street. Maude Fremont, my friend, seventy-eight years old, the poor thing was raped and murdered in her bed just a week ago.

I’ve been having nightmares ever since. Tonight’s dream probably woke me. I’m all ears though, always am when the house starts talking to me. My imagination takes flight when that happens. Drives me crazy for a while until I work up the courage to get up and check the doors and windows. I–

“Crash, tinkle, tinkle.”

That’s not imaginary, that’s glass breaking. Downstairs, at the back door. Oh God, someone’s breaking in? I try to still my breathing but I can’t, it’s echoing in my ears. What am I going to do?

 I bought a gun this week, because of Maude. I can dial 911 and defend myself until the cops arrive. I hope. I’ve only had one lesson on how to use the gun.

A slash of moonlight slips between the heavy drapes and scores the rug with faint illumination. I fumble for the bedside phone with trembling hand; knock the damn thing to the floor somewhere in the darkness. I have to turn the light on, have to but I shouldn’t, he’ll know where I am.

But I do it. Push back the covers and drag my legs out, turn and slide off the bed, grab the phone off the floor. Push the “on” button. Stab it again. No dial tone- it’s dead. Oh my God, he’s cut the wires. Where’s my cell phone? In my purse. Downstairs in the kitchen. Where he is.

My heart is pounding, panic rising in my belly. I hear him, walking, checking out the house. What’s he looking for? My bedroom? I turn the light off again. Want to curl up in the dark and disappear.

I need that gun I bought the other day. Which is in the dresser all the way across the room.

I tiptoe toward the dresser, listening for him. The floor creaks. I stop, wait, strain my ears. He’s not moving either, probably listening just like me, Oh God. I’m sweating, can’t think of anything but getting to that gun. With slow small steps I start again. Something crashes to the floor downstairs. He’s moving too. Fast.

I throw myself at the dresser, yank open the drawer. Where’s the gun? Tangled in my undies. He’s coming up the stairs!

Tearing the clothes away, I scrounge for the clip, the only one I bought. It’s there. I shove it in the gun and turn as my bedroom door flies open.

Huge, he’s silhouetted in the nightlight from the hall. I raise the gun. The safety? No time, I fire. He fires. I empty my gun into the shadow of his body. He falls.

Shaking, I draw a deep breath. It’s over. Is it? My nightgown is wet. I’m bleeding.

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

(Website in development)