Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Browsing Posts published by Val

Spot Writers: The Key

January 30, 2014 No comments

The current challenge for The Spot Writers is to use three of the four words: radio, dress, attic, photo. This week’s writing comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Her most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords:

  The Key

Augustus slammed the journal on the table. It’s blank, fill it up, he said. Tell me what life is all about.

I stared at the leather book. A strip of elastic held the cover closed. What is this, I asked.

I flipped the cover. The pages were empty.  I don’t want this. My thoughts are my own. Private. I looped the elastic back over the cover and threw it back at him. You fill it up. I’ll read your words rather than you reading mine.

Aghast, Augustus’ eyes bulged. I discerned a tear, though why he’d cry over me was a mystery. My doorbell had just rung; we had just met. Augustus stood there when I opened the door. For some reason, I invited him in and led him to my kitchen. Sit down, I said. I’ll make you a cup of tea.

My name’s Augustus, he said.

I’m Florentia.

That’s when he produced the book—the journal he carried inside his coat, hidden from me. Perhaps he thought if I had seen it, I wouldn’t have invited him in. But I would have. I didn’t know the mystery of journals then, didn’t know their power. Didn’t know they harboured secrets—all of our secrets.

When I threw the book at him, he left. Not a thank you for the tea, glad to have met you—nothing. Just got up, waddled to the front door, and disappeared. His cup of tea sat on the table, untouched, as if I had served a ghost, an invisible man. The journal lay behind on the floor—the only reminder Augustus had existed.

I stared at the brown leather journal after Augustus left. The book was easily recognizable as a journal, for it had no lettering on the spine or on the cover. The taut elastic across the front cover was another clue it was something other than a novel.

I tried to turn away from the journal, look somewhere else, but the blank pages drew me toward it, as if a magnet lay on the first page. I couldn’t touch it again. My fingers would surely burn if I did; that was my greatest fear.

I sucked my fingers, as if they had been singed, despite the fact I hadn’t touched the object, then dried them on my lavender dress. The lace edging caught in one of my fingernails, tore it. I picked at the nail, more to keep myself occupied and my mind off the book of empty pages that waited for words to make it whole.

It was necessary I go to the attic—climb those many creaky stairs and enter that dusty storehouse of treasures and memories. Though it had been numerous years since I had been there, I remembered it well: The sole small window, like an ornate framed photo adorning a blank wall, breathes life into the airless room; the trunk sits below the window.

Similar to a cloak of many colours, the trunk holds memories, shades of lives and living preserved forever—until the key is inserted into the lock. Until then, the lid remains closed. I alone possessed that key.

Hidden from view and held within folds of the silky fabric draped over my body, the key’s hardness weighed upon me. Augustus, despite my unwillingness to know the truth—to face the truth—had awoken something in me, had stirred a desire. The key, too heavy to carry any longer, became weightier the longer I dwelled on the situation. The attic beckoned. I had no choice but to face my demons. I’d have to go to the attic, unlock the trunk. Then—and only then—could I write my story.

 * * *

 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/

 

 

Uncategorized none

Book Review: Bloody Jack by L. A. Meyer

January 27, 2014 No comments

This young adult book was recommended to me by a writer friend (who obviously knows my preference in books). I read it (mostly during one snuggly sitting) during a snow day. Bloody Jack is the story of a girl named Mary (later, Jack, Jacky, Bloody Jack, and a handful of other nicknames) who grows up on the streets of England in the 1700s. Although she was raised in a “proper” family, her parents and sister died in an epidemic, and she was left on the streets. There, she encounters extreme prejudice, with adults believing she (and her “gang” of children) were simply begging to earn extra money, or at least that’s how they justified not giving money to her.

She sleeps in a “kip” with her gang of children. They huddle together to keep warm, and they share any food they’ve been able to find at the end of the day. She is constantly losing friends, however, because of starvation and other dangers. The most disturbing danger is a young man named Muck, who sells dead bodies to doctors for use in science experiments and dissections. At times, it seems Muck encourages the death of children so he can get paid for their bodies.

When her best friend, a boy she has a sort-of crush on, dies, Mary decides to run away to better her life. She decides on joining a ship in the Royal Navy tasked with defeating pirates. She cuts off her hair and dresses like a boy. She is chosen from among a pack of “street urchins” because she is able to read. On the ship, she becomes one of six ship’s boys, and she learns about sailing, fighting, music, and reading. Obviously, being a girl presents a special set of problems while aboard a ship full of men, and she struggles to keep her gender a secret. In addition, with no female role models, Jacky is confused about what’s happening to her body, and she has to pay a prostitute on one of their shore leaves to explain it all to her! I won’t reveal too many details here, but I love the concept of a certain boy on the ship developing a crush on “her” and then hating himself because he thinks “she” is a “he.”

I enjoyed Jacky’s voice. She’s honest and genuine. While she grew up educated as a young girl, living on the streets caused her to tone down her dialect a bit (even though she is reprimanded for it at many points through the novel). Her willingness to do uncomfortable things to better her position made her a likable character, and although she’s not outwardly brave, she has a quiet desire to survive that allows her to do things others would not. Though she’s a girl, the book was written by a male author, and the adventures are quite masculine, so I think both male and female young adults would enjoy this book. It’s the first in a series, so the resolution leaves a lot to be decided. Based on a short preview, the second book seems a bit more “quiet” when it comes to plot, so I’d be interested to see what “Bloody Jack” does next.

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Spot Writers: Action and Bustle, Too

January 23, 2014 No comments

This week’s flash fiction comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kids’ mystery series. The prompt was to create a story using three of the four following words: radio, dress, attic, photo. The story below takes place in the world of one of Val’s works-in-progress, a YA post-apocalypse tale on a barren earth, which most humans have abandoned for the promise of an Eden on another planet.

* * *

Action and Bustle, Too

By Val Muller

The wind roared against the house, blasting Abigail and everything with a new layer of dust. Abigail pushed on the door, struggling to open it against the years of debris that had accumulated inside. The door gave, inch by inch, until the space was large enough for her to squeeze through. She stepped onto a soft pad of dust and closed the door behind her, leaving on her mask until the air settled. Only then did Abby remove her lenses and mask and look around.

It was a typical two-room house with a single window facing the south. The boarded window allowed a bit of light through. The room was barren—all furniture likely burned long ago. The chimney itself was full of dust; a huge mound of soft, red dirt pooled around the hearth.

The people who lived here had abandoned the house long before the extraction. They had probably died before the strange ships from the stars descended and promised to take everyone to a better place. Better for them—lucky to have died without having to make such a choice. Abby shuddered, thinking of her mother and the others who were duped into believing such a promise.

The second room was a kitchen. Part of a dilapidated countertop was all that remained. The sink had likely been traded, as well as the stove. That, or looted. This was a waste of time. There were no spare parts here, no rope. Nothing. Abby took up her mask again and her goggles, but she stopped when she pushed the door open. The ceiling was low, but the roof was high.

There had to be an attic.

Abby returned inside and jumped onto the remaining countertop. Part of the ceiling wasn’t wood at all, but a dilapidated piece of corrugated metal—like the one at Pap’s house. It pushed upwards easily, and Abby hoisted herself up into the beams.

The attic was tiny, and she had to duck in order to fit. She needed to use her flashlight, too, despite the preciously low battery. Attics were rare in these types of houses, and they usually hid many a treasure. In the corner was a dust-covered box. Abby blew at the dust, tightening her mask to save her lungs. The air settled, revealing a black and silver device. Abby squinted hard. She knew what this was. She had read about it somewhere. It started with an “R.”

Repo—

No.

Radia—?

No.

Radio!

That’s it. It was a radio. A communication device. They only worked when there was more than one, but one was better than none, and think of all she could learn taking it apart and putting it back together! Besides, Wade would love to take it apart. If she ever found Wade. She thought of the intelligence and drive in his eyes, the way its incandescence radiated through even the dust. Something she hadn’t seen in anyone since he’d left. She stuffed the radio under her arm. The radio alone made the entire trip worthwhile.

The attic grew taller in the center of the house, and Abby could stand without stooping. She swept the room with her flashlight and shuddered at something human-sized standing at the center. She shook off her fright. Whatever it was had stood there for years.

She removed a cover of dusty burlap to reveal an old mirror, nearly her height. She’d read of these, too, but the closest she’d ever come to seeing her reflection was the tiny peeks she’d get in the shards of metal used to signal each other in the dust. Beneath the mirror was a box—a trunk. A nice one, too, but too heavy to travel with. The trunk contained only one item.

It was only a dress. Her mother had worn these things, and Abby had always wondered what good they were. They were inconvenient for running, for exploring, and for riding horseback. Still, she’d never had her own before, and the house provided a nice shelter from the dust.

She stripped off her dusty clothes and admired her form in the mirror. The fabric was once white, though the dust had dyed it a reddish cream. She danced in front of the mirror, highlighting the billowing fabric with her flashlight. Her limbs tingled. She felt light. She felt alive. She felt—like a girl. Her mind rushed with thoughts of Wade, and she blushed despite her solitude. How nice it would have been if he had just stayed with her. If neither had agreed to their quest to seek wire and motors and nuts and bolts. If they had agreed to live their lives in peace—even if it meant being the last of humanity on earth.

She imagined herself as her mother, raising children in blissful ignorance of the terrors in the skies. Calmly singing, rocking her children to sleep even as their own destruction was planned in the cities and the skies. Abby swallowed hard and removed the dress, packing it away for later. As she dressed, she remembered a quote from one of her books, a quote spoken by her namesake, Abigail Adams. “Calm is not desirable in any situation in life. Man was made for action and for bustle too, I believe.”

With a quick zip of her pack, Abby ducked down the hole in the ceiling and out the door into the world of dust, donning her lenses and mask. Wade was out there hustling, trying to mold his discontent into purpose. And so, too, would Abby. And she walked into the dust, bustling into action, looking for the next find.

* * *

 

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/

 

flash fiction none

Book Review: A Dog’s Life: The Autobiography of a Stray by Ann M. Martin

January 20, 2014 No comments

I found this middle-grade book in the independent reader section of a used book store and picked it up because I love dogs and I love reading authors’ takes on animal “voices.” As the title suggests, this book is told from the point of view of Squirrel, a stray dog who spends most of her life in the wild and outskirts of civilization.

tale of a strayI bought the book without looking inside and was pleased to find I enjoyed Squirrel’s voice. So many people nowadays have Facebook and Twitter accounts for their pets, and they all speak in “lol-cats” voices, such as “I can haz cheezburger?” A Dog’s Life was a refreshing break from that. The dog’s voice was genuine, simple, and eager, making her a likeable character from the start.

Squirrel is one of the two surviving dogs born to her mother’s last liter. Her brother, Bone, lives with Squirrel and her mother in an abandoned shed of a summer home until their mother disappears. Bone decides it’s time to leave the safety of their shed, and Squirrel (loving her brother more than anything) follows. Their journey is full of dangers, including rabid foxes, hungry packs of feral dogs, busy highways, and humans of various levels of intention. I won’t spoil any more of the plot for you.

What I enjoyed was the author’s take on the various humans involved in Squirrel’s life. Some were well-intentioned, but Squirrel, being born in the wild, simply didn’t trust them. Others, whom Squirrel was forced to trust, turned out to be irresponsible (or jerks). Of course there were plenty of well-intentioned and helpful humans, but it was interesting that a few “lesser” humans were enough to make quite an impact on Squirrel. My favorite part (and here’s a tiny bit of a spoiler) is when Squirrel grows old and finds herself at the house of an equally old woman. It’s quite a touching ending.

The book is good for dog lovers. I can see non-dog-lovers rolling their eyes at some parts, though, because the story does revolve around the life of a dog—humans are secondary. It would be a good book to read to children night by night as it offers an opportunity to discuss different perspectives as well as the huge responsibility pet ownership actually is.

I’ve read a handful of similar dog books, and this has been my favorite so far because the voice of the narrator is “just right.” It’s not too cute nor too adult. It’s just the way I would think a dog would be.

book reviews none

Spot Writers: Dimensions

January 16, 2014 No comments

This week’s haunting flash fiction comes to us from RC Bonitz, using three of the four following words: radio, dress, attic, photo.

 

 DIMENSIONS

By RC Bonitz

           Richard Jacobs stares at the kitchen radio, its silent display showing 91.5. It’s been set to 88.3 this past month. The change doesn’t bother him much after the events of recent weeks.

There is no point in checking the house again. He’s done that every day recently, starting upstairs and working his way down, finishing in the kitchen. Everything is always the same; no sign, no change. The dry cleaning is on the couch where he left it that last day of March, undisturbed in its plastic bag.

He and Harriet began as most do, happily in love, lusting for each other. Thirty years ago that was. She wanted a big wedding with all the trimmings; fancy dress, fancy photos. The dress is in the attic, the photo album on the coffee table. He’s been going through it, studying her face for indications, hoping for something, anything to help make sense of this damn business.

Evolution, that’s the word he’s always used. Their marriage evolved. It’s a pseudonym for failure, which is the true state of affairs. There were clashes at the start; normal adjustments Harriet had called them, but adjustments never resolved. Money, chores, and responsibilities were fair game all, but it was the years of criticism and recrimination that ultimately did them in. No one would ever know why they didn’t divorce, but they might as well have for all the good they had together.

He was as good as she at the blame game, but even that was abandoned, replaced by the few words absolutely necessary for coexistence. It’s only now, since this business began, that he’ll acknowledge the chip on his shoulder. He’s damn sure she has one too, but doesn’t much care anymore.

“The Business,” as he calls it, is hard to believe, no less describe. Still sharing meals, making sporadic fruitless attempts to spend time together, life had become at best a taciturn affair. Then it started.

He didn’t even notice at first. She’d acknowledge him in the morning with words too soft to hear. He’d ask what she said and get a repetition equally as vague. Aggravated, counting it a deliberate provocation, he’d ignore her. Then one day they brushed each other in the hall and the touch was like a feather floating by. He noticed then how transparent her skin was, how she seemed almost an apparition, and wondered what she was doing to herself. She moved through the house that day, and the next, without sound, but he never mentioned it, certain he’d get another vague response.

Breakfast that first morning in April was when it happened. They’d been using separate bedrooms. Preparing the coffee, he expected a momentary appearance, but she did not come. Mornings he made coffee and she entered the kitchen when it was ready. That was the routine, every day, no matter if they were not speaking. She was a little late occasionally, if he started early or she wanted extra sleep, so a brief wait was appropriate before he checked her room. Her nightgown lay across the rumpled pillow. Her slacks, and blouse and shoes were gone.

That was a hard moment; believing she’d walked out, assuming divorce was on her mind. Mistress Freedom, long a dream, suddenly did not appeal, perhaps because the women of his dreams had no real form to comfort him.

Returning to the kitchen, he felt better, but only briefly. A dirty frying pan on the stove, empty juice glass in the sink, and a half empty coffee pot told him she was there. Then his stomach rolled and the world turned upside down. The bed check had taken two minutes, no more. Two minutes to fry eggs make toast and eat. Not possible he knew, yet she had done it, and once again without a sound. He sought her out, needing explanation, but could not find her in the house. That was the day he began calling it, “The Business.”

Her bed was disturbed each morning. Untended, the washing machine or radio would turn on. Groceries and a bottle of wine appeared in the pantry, not purchased by him. A breath of air would pass as he moved through a room, and he sometimes felt warmth nearby, as if she were beside him. Yet, she was not.

“I am losing my mind,” he thought, “Did she die and come to haunt me? What is happening?”

The business defied intelligence. If she had left him, there would be a call, a divorce notice, something to say she was alive. She was not dead. Couldn’t be. Her car sometimes departed and returned, and friends called as if they’d spoken a short time before. She wasn’t dead, hadn’t left, but what was he to think?

He called her friend Janet, to ask if she’d heard from his wife. She laughed.

“Of course. We went to lunch yesterday,” she said.

“You did? Where is she?”

“What do you mean? I dropped her off in the driveway when we got home. Didn’t she come in?”

“Uh, yes, but I don’t know where she went today,” he lied.

“She’ll tell you when she gets home. I never knew you were a worrier,” the woman laughed.

He let that go, but as later questions came, found the situation impossible to explain. He took messages for her and left notes, and found others telling him a friend had called. Janet’s car would pull into the driveway, and minutes later, pull away as if she had picked someone up.

Passing days brought more change, subtle, but riveting his attention. The morning bedcovers no longer showed the imprint of her body, soon offering only small wrinkles and then no sign of use at all. Appliances no longer startled him by running unattended, but that only made the business worse. She seemed to be in the house and yet was not. Why couldn’t he see her? Could she see him? He thought of nothing else.

Then, in early May, as he cut the lawn one day, a neighbor stopped to talk.

“Good to see you, Richard. That’s a nice thing you’re doing,” said the man.

He’d become non-committal with the neighbors by now, but the comment was puzzling. “Nice thing?” he asked.

“Yeah, coming back to do the lawn. Most guys leave the ex-wife on her own. Where are you living?”

“I- I don’t know what you mean.”

The man gave him a strange look. “Angie said you moved out. I thought she talked to Harriet yesterday. Jeez, are you all right? You look like hell.”

“I’m okay. Thanks for stopping,” he said and turned back to the lawnmower. Waiting for the man to drive away, he dashed for the house, stumbled up the steps and into the front hall.

He started with soft shouts, fearful of the neighbors, but wanting to reach her, wherever she was. “Harriet, where are you? Harriet, please answer. What are you doing, Harriet?”

Silence reigned, but he kept at it, calling softly, then in full voice, calling, calling. Nothing. He stopped often, waiting for replies, became hoarse, and turned too soft whispers, reaching out in the only way he could imagine. “Harriet, Harriet? Can you come back?” One day became two, two became three, and then they were a blur.

“Harriet, please dear, Harriet. Please come back.”

Still calling, leaving notes on tables, a message on the answering machine, he kept trying. Frightened, he wanted answers. That was what he told himself at first. This was impossible and needed explanation. That was all he wanted. But then there was more. He found an album of photos they had taken, and thumbed the pages. There she was, toasting someone at a party, and again, sitting on a beach in Bermuda. That was their tenth anniversary, that trip. Same year, the two of them dancing, smiling at the camera. He pulled that picture from the book and walked the house, showing it to her. “Look Harriet, how nice it was. We can dance again, Harriet. We can really. Please come back.” A vague whisper fluttered by instead, so soft it seemed imagined. “Harriet, did you call? Harriet?” There was a stirring then, as of a murmur from another world. Then silence.

That’s how it went, one day, followed by another, with vague echoes never formed. He too grew silent.

This morning, the radio is tuned to 91.5. Her station. Suddenly, it begins to play.

* * *

 

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/

 

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Book Review: The Forestwife by Theresa Tomlinson

January 13, 2014 No comments

I found this book in the YA section at a used bookstore and picked it up because of its content and its accolades as “an ALA Notable Book.” The Forestwife is a twist on the mythos of Robinhood, following a young woman named Mary as she escapes betrothal to a much older man after a shameful family situation. She runs away to the woods, finding her former wet nurse, Agnes, who has followed her.

Agnes leads them to the realm of the Forestwife. At first, Mary is afraid because of the tales of witchcraft following the legend of the Forestwife, but she quickly learns those tales have been encouraged to keep people away. The Forestwife, in reality, is a kindly woman who lives in the forest and provides help to all who seek her—a blessing and a burden all at once. Mary and Agnes find the elderly Forestwife dead, and Agnes takes over her role, burying the old woman and helping those who need it. In the meantime, Mary takes on the name Marian, and Agnes dyes her purple cloak green. Thus, Marian soon takes on the identity of the Green Lady in the Woods.

Without spoiling the plot points, I’ll say that besides Maid Marian, Tomlinson creates a subtle explanation for both Robinhood and the Green Man of  mythology. I especially enjoyed the author’s “Afterword,” in which she explains some of the research that went into the book and how she sought to research instances in England of strong women throughout history.

I enjoyed the tale, and the 170-page book was a quick read. I would have preferred just a bit more imagery. Being an American living in the 21st Century, I wanted just a bit more concrete imagery to help me understand what the forest looked like, especially when so many people moved in, as well as what castle life was like for the few scenes that took place closer to the castle. Other than that, though, I enjoyed the story. It would be an appropriate story for readers ages 13 and up, and I would expect it would appeal to females rather than males, with some talk of love and childbirth woven in. Researching the book, it appears it is part of a trilogy, so I’ll have to put the other two books into my TBR pile.

book reviews none

Spot Writers: The Corkscrew

January 9, 2014 No comments

This weeks’ story, on the theme of holidays, comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Her most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords:

 

The Corkscrew

by Cathy MacKenzie

 New Year’s Eve usually ends with a bang, the New Year rolling in like an eel on a waterslide. Funny how everyone’s so gung-ho that last night of the year—ready to give up cigarettes, booze, and everything fattening that tastes oh so scrumptious. Then, barely before one’s eyes are open that first day of the new year, resolutions are flushed down the sink, just like that half-empty bottle of wine you dumped the prior night after several too many, when you knew you were going to make that resolution to quit drinking and figured you’d get a head start.

That’s the way it is with me, at any rate.

I needed to quit drinking before I ended up like my dear, sweet mother—drunk pretty near every day of her life, sloshing words, stumbling about the apartment, sleeping with a different drunkard every night—dead at forty-nine of cirrhosis of the liver. But she didn’t care. She believed life was to be enjoyed to the fullest, and she’d live her years doing whatever she wanted. Drat the consequences.

Like Ma, I had too many sexual partners; unlike her, I hated myself after each encounter. I had never taken a sip of an alcoholic beverage until I was in my fifties, long after Ma had passed on. Perhaps I had always worried I’d end up like her and had been afraid to drink. Like mother, like daughter.

Despite my sexual escapades, I first needed to reform my drinking. Later, I’d tackle the sex problem.

I started my New Year’s resolution early. After Boxing Day, when the stores first reopened after the holidays, is when I quit cold turkey. That morning after my shower, I dumped the four unopened bottles of wine and the two half bottles—one white and one red. Down the drain they disappeared, the liquid gurgling from the bottles like a belching boozer. Then I attacked the boxed white wine. I dug the knife into the cardboard flaps, pulled out the bag, and slashed a hole in the plastic. The liquid gushed from the bag like a faucet without bladder control.

Relief and a sense of satisfaction washed over me. I skimmed above the clouds, like a hundred bricks weighting my chest had been lifted. Unfortunately, the euphoria lasted only until two o’clock that afternoon. Just one drink. Just one.

I hopped in the car and headed to Sunnyfield Mall, where I parked in the lot just outside the liquor store. The flashing neon lights, bright and tempting, were blazing, even in daylight, likely on purpose. I hesitated several seconds until my willpower won.

The cashier knows me by name, which is embarrassing. I’m the type who likes to lurk, sight unseen, in the background; throw a dark, all-encompassing shroud over me anytime and I’m happy. I nodded at her greeting, certain she knew of my New Year’s resolution, certain she knew I was in the process of breaking it, certain she knew I’d be a drunken toad yet another night.

I continued to the wine section, where I ambled down the aisles. My mouth salivated. I licked my lips, savoring the taste of the sweet nectar which was sure to come once I had made a selection and was back in the privacy of my home. I picked up a bottle of merlot, put it back, and picked up a bottle of chardonnay. No particular brands. I was like a kid after Christmas with grandparents’ money to throw away on candy or useless toys.

I eyed the boxed wine, but a bottle contains less than a box, of course. If I was careful, I could make a bottle last the week, unlike a four-litre box of wine, which could be stretched for a month—not under normal circumstances, mind you, just with my new, half-baked resolution gone astray. Surely I could ration a half glass a night and keep to some sort of plan. Couldn’t I? I snatched a bottle of sauvignon blanc and headed to the cash register, my New Year’s resolution gone “somewhere.”

Standing behind several people, I scanned the various items on the racks either side of me— small inconsequential items, meant to entice one while waiting—miniature bottles of liquors, fancy gift bags, corkscrews, and wine nozzles. I selected a glaring red corkscrew, which I fingered while watching the two people ahead of me, one an obese woman with unruly gray hair. I peered around. No one looked my way. Nonchalantly, I slid the small item into my coat pocket. No one saw. No one paid any attention to me; no one ever did.

You dumb fucks. I could steal a dozen of them if I had wanted. No one would have been the wiser.

“Excuse me,” I said. I inched my way around the two individuals behind me—an elderly gentleman and a teenager who likely wasn’t a teenager since he gripped a bottle of rum—and returned to the wine section where I replaced the bottle.

Still no one paid any attention to me. The cashier who had called me by name was nowhere to be seen.

Back in the car, I removed the flashy corkscrew from my pocket. I stared at it for several minutes before I tore it from the cardboard backing. I liked buying new items and discarding the excess materials. What a waste, I’d think many times, but manufacturers continued to wreak havoc on earth’s ecosystem.

I felt oddly exhilarated and refreshed, just as I had when I dumped the wine earlier that day. I had never stolen anything before, not even a lollipop or a pack of gum that my friends used to brag about. I was on a high, like I had smoked several marijuana joints. Perhaps I could keep my New Year’s resolution after all.

 

The Spot Writers- our members: 

RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Deborah Dera
http://www.deborahdera.com

 

 

Catherine A MacKenzie, flash fiction none

Spot Writers: Frozen Rescue

January 2, 2014 No comments

Happy New Year! This week’s post, on the theme of holidays, comes to us from Val Muller, author of the children’s mystery series Corgi Capers. You can learn about her other work at valm16.sg-host.com.

* * *

The Frozen Rescue

by Val Muller

Katy stepped onto the walkway. The frigid air felt good after the heat of thirty drunken bodies packed into Beth’s apartment. Colored lights from Beth’s LED tree lights reflected on the snow, and for a moment it seemed like Christmas again.

But it was New Year’s, Katy’s least favorite holiday. It was like a really big Sunday night, and a frigid one at that—an end to vacation and magic and time with family. A return to the hum-drum. The ultimate lead-up to a never-ending Monday morning. If Katy had her way, she would have spent the evening on the couch watching Doctor Who, drinking root beer, and working on her illustrations.

But of course Beth would hear none of that. “You can’t work all the time,” she’d said.

“But I like drawing,” Katy had reminded her. “It doesn’t feel like work.”

“It’s still work. Besides, you’re never going to meet anyone if you never leave your house. You’re coming to my party. You’ll like it, and maybe you’ll meet Mr. Perfect. He’ll help you forget about the Creepster.”

Katy shook her head, drawing her leather jacket against the chill of memory. Beth was, of course, referring to her last dating debacle. Sylvester had started out boyfriend material, but he got creepier as the year went on. Katy broke it off right before Thanksgiving. He’d unofficially moved in, so there was much sorting out to do, and she was finally feeling over it. But now she needed Katy time—not a party.

A rowdy couple burst out the door behind her, two drinks in the female’s hand, and a cigarette and lighter in the male’s. They were laughing hysterically, and the woman slid into a snow pile at the edge of the walkway, snapping the heel of her shoe. That brought more raucous laughter.

Katy sighed and shuffled down the walkway. The stars peeked out from a gossamer veil, backlit by the nearly-full moon. She remembered her childhood fascination with wishes and wished this year for a chance with someone like Sylvester, only not so creepy. Beth lived in a small housing development in one of two rows of townhomes. Katy knew the path well, and she decided to walk the loop to kill time before midnight. No way would Beth let her leave before then. At 12:01, Katy promised herself, she could go home and maybe work on an illustration or two before bed.

She sauntered past the mailboxes, enjoying the Christmas décor everyone had left out. That was what she missed most about childhood: time with family. Real, true family she cared about. She wondered if she’d ever meet someone who would feel like family.

A hiss-screech interrupted her musings, and she paused, pricking her ears. She held her breath to make out the sound. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say it was a mouse singing—too much Nutcracker Ballet this year, she scolded herself. Katy shuffled along the path, trying to keep her boots as quiet as possible on the pathway. This hiss-screeching continued.

“What is that?” she asked aloud.

It was coming from an alley, a narrow, paved access leading to the community’s dumpster. The back of the alley was lined with a row of bushes, a buffer between the residents and the dumpster. The hiss-screeching grew louder. Katy knelt down near the bushes and pulled back a snowy green branch. This time it was she who screeched. What she saw was a gray-and-black striped cat, its eyes frozen open, its tongue hanging out, blue.

Katy squealed and propelled herself upward involuntarily, slamming into something. She screamed again and trashed her arms. Strong hands grabbed her own.

“Calm down,” someone said. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to startle you. I heard a hissing, screeching noise, and I came to check it out. Was it you making that noise?”

Katy shivered, tears already forming in her eyes. “No, it wasn’t me. I mean, I came…I came to check it out, too, and yes, that was me screeching just then, but no, no—it wasn’t me.”

“Whoa, there, calm down,” the voice said. “Take a deep breath.” Katy breathed long enough for her brain to register who was talking to her. It was a man, a bit taller than her. His face looked kind, but concerned. He wore a red and black knit cap and a long wool coat. “I’m Kent,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Katy said, trying to speak more slowly. “I mean, you did scare me, but that isn’t why I was scared.”

“What?”

“Just look,” she said, pointing to the bush. “Wait, no—don’t look!”

But it was too late. Kent had already moved past her and peeked at the dead cat in the bushes. “Good grief,” he said. “No wonder you were spooked. That’s so sad. Poor cat looks like it froze to death. I wonder why it didn’t seek shelter somewhere.”

A hiss-screech interrupted his musing. “There’s something else,” he said.

“No, don’t look again!”

“It’s okay.” He reached into his pockets for a pair of leather gloves, which he slipped on. He took a deep breath, and Katy could see the hesitation in his face, but he moved quickly, with resolve. “Don’t look,” he said.

Katy turned away, but she could hear him moving the corpse.

“Oh my!” he said.

Katy spun around to see him squatting over. He stood slowly, his hands full of something. The something was hissing and squealing.

“There are two kittens here,” Kent said. “It’s why the cat didn’t move. Why she froze to death instead. She was protecting her kittens. Poor thing—I’ll come back tomorrow to bury her.” He brought his gloved hands closer to Katy, displaying two tiny kittens. “These were all that were there.”

“Oh!”

“I’m going to take them home with me—nurse them to health,” he said, examining them.

Katy’s mind flashed with something Beth had said. “Why don’t you get a pet? At least then you’ll stop thinking about Sylvester?”

“I’ll take one,” Katy offered. “That is—if you don’t want two.”

Kent smiled. “I knew there was a reason I left that party. I mean, aside from my usual dislike of parties. New Years has always been such a sterile holiday for me. Nothing magical ever happens. Not like Christmas.” He looked up at Katy. The moon reflected on his face. “Except tonight is different, I guess. Must have been some left over Christmas magic this year.” He looked around and smiled. “It’s still an hour or two until midnight. These kittens need to be somewhere warm, but I’m not bringing them back to the party I was at. I live not too far from here—in a townhome in the next development over. Not a far walk.”

Katy reached out to pet one of the kittens, and she grabbed Kent’s arm to steady herself. “I drove here,” Katy said. “I’ll get my car. I’ll drive us.” They walked to her car together, Kent holding the kittens, and Katy couldn’t help feeling like a kid again—the whole evening fitting as comfortably as family.

***

The Spot Writers- our members: RC Bonitz http://www.rcbonitz.com Val Muller https://valmuller.com/blog/ Catherine A. MacKenzie http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/ Deborah Dera http://www.deborahdera.com

flash fiction , , , , , , ,

Spot Writers: Lincoln Logs

December 26, 2013 No comments

                                       LINCOLN LOGS

 by R.C. Bonitz, author of A LITTLE BIT OF BLACKMAIL, A LITTLE BIT OF BABY, and A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.

The pre-Christmas sale at Denby’s Toy Shop had attracted crowds of shoppers, but Mike was paying no attention.

The crowd parted briefly and he saw her, just for an instant. Searching, he spotted her again, at the far end of the aisle, talking to a flashy looking blonde. Dark hair, pretty as all get out; she seemed soft and self-contained, not out to impress. That was his heart’s opinion; the normally logical organ between his ears having suddenly shut down. He slipped through the crowd, heading in their direction.

 

                                                          ****

 

“I like toy stores at Christmas time, with all the lights and decorations. Those great big “Sale” signs just don’t do it for me.” Kristi swept stray strands of long blonde hair from her eyes and grinned at her friend Beth.

“The crowds are just as big though. I suppose you like that?”

“Don’t be sarcastic. You are such a grouch today. What’s wrong?”

Beth sighed. “Jim walked out the other day.”

“You told him about Ben?”

“What else? You tell a man you have a child and that’s it, he’s gone.”

“He was a jerk. He’s what, the third guy to bail out on you?”

“I’m not counting. I usually tell them when we meet, but I held off with Jim, hoping he’d get to caring or something, so he’d be all right with it. If they’d only give Ben a chance they’d like him, you know?”

“It’s not Ben. It’s raising someone else’s child.”

“Sometimes I almost wish I’d kept Hank around.”

“Don’t even think that.”

“Is it me, Kristi? Am I doing something wrong?”

“No way. These guys just want one thing; and it isn’t responsibility.” Kristi gave her a hug and smiled. “At least you got married once.”

“Big success that was. Listen, if you’re going to buy Ben a Christmas present we better get going before all the good toys are gone.”

Kristi squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry, hon. What should I get the little guy?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Sure, but mom’s know best. Does he like trucks?”

“All little boys like trucks. He has a zillion of them.”

“Well, what else is good?” Kristi said.

“They like Lincoln Logs.”

Kristi swung around. The voice belonged to a guy, a tall and handsome guy wearing a mischievous grin. Beth stared. There was something about him, something special. Charm, or maybe that smile that lit up his eyes. Whatever it was made her insides tremble. She turned away. Kristi had caught it too; Beth could see that in the flirting look that broke out on her face. Dark haired, he was one hunk of a man, with drop dead sexy eyes and a dimple in his chin.

“What?” Kristi asked, and then went silent, just smiling sweetly at him.

“I said, little kids like Lincoln Logs.”

“Oh, sure, of course. Who are you?”

“Mike Hartnett.”

“I’m Kristi Morgan. Hi Mike.”

“Who’s your friend?”

Kristi turned, took Beth by the arm, and swung her back to face the man. “This is Beth. Beth Tompkins.”

Beth gave him a tiny wave. Why get excited- he’d just dump her over Ben. If he was even interested at all.

A fleeting look of confusion crossed his face and disappeared. He offered his hand. “Hi, Beth, nice to meet you.”

Beth met his eyes with a noncommittal stare but did not take the hand. That smile, the easy way he held himself; if he wasn’t a one-night stand type she’d be totally surprised. “Hi.”

His face faded to bland, all the sparkle lost somewhere. His glance held steady though. It stayed on Beth, studying her eyes. Not her curves, not her breasts, just her eyes. She shivered, wished her breasts were more his interest. She could get mad at him for that, could choose to be insulted if she wanted to. But this was worse. It was as if he could see into her heart, and her heart began to thud hard enough to shake her.

“Are you buying presents?” Kristi asked with a twinkling smile.

He released Beth’s eyes and turned back to Kristi. “Presents? Yes.”

“Not a toy for you?”

Mike laughed. “Not for me. If you’re asking whether I’m single, the answer is yes, I am now.”

“You’re divorced? Me too,” said Kristi.

That drew a groan from Beth, only in her head she hoped, but Mike Hartnett glanced in her direction with another smile. It was just a flash and then he was back to Kristi.

“Yeah. Three years ago.”

“It’s been two years for me. It’s ancient history now,” Kristi said.

“Can I buy you guys a drink or something?”

It was Kristi’s turn to grin. “That might be arranged.”

He glanced at his watch. “Happy hour soon.”

“Today? Why not, let’s do it.”

“Beth? Will you join us?” he asked.

“No thanks.”

“Can’t I twist your arm? I really wish you’d come.”

She stared. He seemed so earnest, almost pleading. A spurt of hope tickled her heart. Well, no sense in getting her hopes up for nothing- might as well lay it on the line. “I have to warn you. I have a four year old son.”

Mike broke into another smile. “Does he like Lincoln Logs?”

“What? I don’t know. I guess.”

His eyes sparkled, his smiled widened. “My daughter has a set.”

Beth’s breath caught. “You have a daughter?”

He nodded. “Yup. Now, can I buy you that drink?”

 

 

***

 

The Spot Writers- our members: 

RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Deborah Dera
http://www.deborahdera.com

 

 

 

flash fiction

Book Review: Emily Gets Her Gun… but Barack Obama Wants to Take Yours by Emily Miller

December 23, 2013 No comments

Note: I originally wrote this book review for Freedom Forge Press, a publisher celebrating freedoms of all kinds. The review is reprinted here with permission.

Emily Miller is a journalist and a resident of Washington, D.C. When she found herself defenseless as criminals broke into a friend’s home, she decided to go through the red tape required to purchase and possess a legal firearm in Washington, D.C. This book is her nonfiction account of her journey (of several months) to navigate the red-tape aimed at making legal handgun possession too difficult for most people to achieve.

The narrative is told in alternating chapters, with Miller interspersing her personal journey for firearm possession with the recent incidents involving politicians and the media, many of which seem to be aimed at grabbing the guns of law-abiding Americans. Her style is easy to understand—it’s almost as if she’s sitting down with you for a chat. The speeches, laws, and documents she cites are extensively documented, so it’s easy to do further research on any of the points she makes.

I met Emily Miller at a book signing earlier this fall. I was amazed by how crowded her signing was!

I met Emily Miller at a book signing earlier this fall. I was amazed by how crowded her signing was!

Her personal journey to legally register a gun is frustrating, to say the least. She had to spend hundreds of dollars in fees (not counting the purchase of the actual gun), take time off work, navigate officials ignorant of the actual laws and regulations, and jump through many hoops—when in the very same city, criminals and non-criminals alike refuse to register their guns. She proves, once again, that only the law-abiding citizens are being punished by strict gun-control measures.

And yet the focus of the book isn’t just about guns. The last paragraph of her book summarizes her primary purpose in writing the book. While it’s a book about her fight for personal gun rights, she notes, “A gun is just a tool. The fight is for freedom.” Before experiencing the frightening break-in at her friend’s house, Miller had never shot or even held a gun before. Her motive throughout the book is emphasized as wanting to help law-abiding citizens secure the same rights that criminals seem to have—the ability to carry a firearm. She notes how anti-gun legislation doesn’t make anyone safer; it simply removes freedoms.

Throughout the book, she also explains how many of the politicians and “anti-gun” advocates seem to know little, if anything, about guns. For instance, many anti-gun lobbyists seem to believe that Americans can still purchase automatic weapons (think: Rambo). She reminds the reader that the most “dangerous” weapons Americans can possess are semi-automatic, meaning one trigger pull equals one bullet. She also points out that many gun laws seem arbitrary. For instance, when legislation was recently passed in New York, politicians mandated that residents could possess magazines able to hold no more than seven bullets. Had they done their research, they would have seen that seven-bullet magazines generally don’t exist for most calibers. The law was amended to allow residents to possess magazines that hold ten rounds, but only fill them with up to seven bullets. As she points out—a criminal will not abide by the law and will (a) secure even higher-capacity magazines by any means possible and (b) will not think twice about placing more than seven bullets in the magazine.

This point, that laws restricting gun rights only hurt law-abiding citizens, is proven time and again in this book.

She mentions also the arbitrary nature of some of the “assault weapons” legislation aimed at limiting the types of weapons people may purchase. The gun she chose to purchase, for instance, was allowed in the District of Columbia in all black, or in black with a silver accent. But the same exact model was not allowed in the “Scorpion” version, the only difference being cosmetic—the “outlawed” version is earth-toned tan. The same is true for rifles. Many assault weapons are banned simply for having one or more cosmetic features. The type of grip, for instance, could make one gun outlawed but another, of the same exact caliber and functionality, would be legal. Adjustable stocks are also a big “no no” when it comes to legal. It’s ironic that an adjustable stock simply makes it easier for a smaller person—such as a female—to comfortably hold the gun. Things like adjustable stocks and variable grip positions do not give criminals any advantage. Rather, they help disadvantaged people—like small women—hold the gun more safely and effectively in use against a criminal. Once again, the people creating the laws seem to have no practical knowledge of guns, or what specifically makes them dangerous.

As is proven many times in the book, none of the laws deter criminals from possessing or using guns. The point is—criminals are criminals. Murder and theft are already illegal. Criminals ignore those laws. Even police officers surveyed admit that gun bans and stricter gun laws will have little impact on criminals using guns. In fact, politicians usually ignore the most important points, which is that there already is a background system check in place for gun purchasers. The “gun show loophole” only actually allows an extremely small percentage of people to buy guns without a background check, and mental health checks—largely ignored, as states fail to upload important mental health data into the already-existent national background check—are the most important factor of keeping guns out of the hands of people who would most likely misuse them.

There’s also the argument that gun-free zones become like a playground for criminals. Knowing they won’t be confronted by any concealed-carrying  citizens, criminals feel free to shoot as many people as they like without fearing the consequences. Just look at the crime rates in Washington, D.C., and Chicago. Miller also makes the point that even though gun sales have skyrocketed lately (with the threat of gun bans), crime has been steadily decreasing. Increased gun ownership has not increased gun-related crime.

The examples go on and on. (Someone could write a book! Oh wait, someone has!)

Toward the end of the book, Miller cites examples of veterans arrested for arbitrary reasons—one for having three unregistered guns in the city, one for having several loose rounds in the bottom of a backpack (but no weapon). She tells how celebrities and people with political connections do not have to go through the same scrutiny. For both veterans, who were not committing any actual crimes, jail time, extensive legal fees, and undue stress was required before they were finally cleared of (most of) the charges.

Miller notes that she could easily move to Virginia, where gun laws are much more fair to law-abiding citizens, but she chooses not to: she wants to stay in Washington, D.C., and continue her fight for gun rights. She notes that, although she is allowed to keep her gun in her home, she is not allowed to carry it outside, even into the lobby of her apartment. Along her journey to become legally armed, she has met many people who have confided in her, and her goal continues to be helping others exercise their Second Amendment Rights without unnecessary restriction. She is truly a freedom fighter, and one worthy of two thumbs up from Freedom Forge Press.

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