Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

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Spot Writers: Family Secrets

December 19, 2013 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers segment for this week. This week’s contribution comes from Deborah Dera. The prompt for the past few weeks has been to choose an item and write about why your character stole it. Deborah’s piece morphed a bit from the prompt, and is in no way, shape, or form a true story.

 

Next week’s prompt will come from RC Bonitz, author of A LITTLE BIT OF BLACKMAIL, A LITTLE BIT OF BABY, and A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.

 ***

 Family Secrets

 

I knew there wasn’t much I could do about it, but I always convinced myself I had to try – again, and again, and again. The private conversations worked for a couple of days, resulting in the sudden disappearance of his secret stash and several hours of lucidity. Family interventions resulted in tears, promises, and – at most – two or three weeks of cleanliness. Getting picked up for possession should have resulted in about a month of sobriety, but it didn’t. There were too many suppliers in the prison.

When Rex was up for release, my mom asked if I’d take him in. He’s always looked up to you, she said. He’ll listen to you. You’re a great role model.

And I believed her. For some reason, I really believed her. I convinced myself I could rehabilitate my baby brother; make him see the right path.

For a little while, it seemed to be working. Rex lost his license, so I was driving him to work each day. Most nights, after work, I’d drop him off at his meetings – a different flavor for each night of the week. He started drawing again and spent some of his spare time helping me with lawn upkeep and chores around the house. He seemed happy.

Then – out of the blue – he just wasn’t. He’d sulk when I dropped him off at meetings. At night, he’d shut himself in his room. It got to the point where I wasn’t even sure he was consuming more than coffee each day.

Maybe he needs a really good inpatient program, my husband suggested. I can talk to him.

 I didn’t want to hear it or believe it. I didn’t want it to be real. Things had been going so well and all I wanted was for my baby brother to be whole again.

So that’s why I did it, really. I had a good reason.

It was the night I went to pick Rex up from a meeting and found he wasn’t there. He was always waiting outside promptly at 7:15pm. There were always stragglers inside, socializing, but he never wanted to participate. After waiting for 10 minutes, I put the car in park and headed inside. I pulled a tall, lanky woman aside and asked if she knew where Rex was.

Rex? Rex hasn’t been to a meeting here in… oh… 3 weeks or so.

 My heart sank.  I drove aimlessly around the neighborhood that night, trying to remember where some of his old haunts were. My stomach knotted when I spotted him across the dark school playground, huddled near the slide with two other guys. I circled the block and pulled up slowly near the playground gate. I rolled the window down enough for him to see who it was and parked my car at the curb. I waited.

Rex had his back to me but looked around as the others noticed me. I watched as he made some sort of exchange with the guy to his left, then shaking hands with the guy to his right. He turned towards me, head low and hands shoved deep into his pockets. He opened the passenger door and slid in nimbly. He seemed sober.

Hey, sis! I remember the cheer in his voice; his happy-go-lucky attitude. He really didn’t know what was wrong with the situation.

 I took a breath. I don’t know what was going on there, and I don’t really want to know. What I do know is that you broke the terms of our agreement. So when we get home, you can pack your shit and get out of my house.

 Rex looked stunned. No, sis, no. You don’t understand. I’m totally clean. Totally. I just… I have to pay a few people. I owe these guys some money and…

He trailed off, realizing how ridiculous it sounded, telling me he’d shifted from user to dealer. My heart broke into a thousand pieces.

At least… can I at least have until morning? I need to pack up and make some calls in the morning. Just until morning?

 I nodded my agreement. I was angry, but not completely cold-hearted.

We parted ways as soon as we got out of the car. I didn’t want to look at him. I felt betrayed. I went into my room and cried until my husband came in. He listened and didn’t judge, and then suggested I talk to my brother to find out if he was in real trouble. If for no other reason than to make sure we weren’t going to find trouble.

An hour later, I crept down the basement stairs and softly spoke his name. No answer. I gently knocked on the makeshift door, but still no answer. I pushed the door open, carefully and quietly, and flipped the switch inside. Rex wasn’t there.

I’ll never forget what I did see, though. Dozens and dozens of dime-sized baggies. Pills, powders – spread around his room. My brother really had shifted from a user to a dealer and I stood, stunned, as a wave of emotions coursed through my veins. Then I saw it – the syringe – and I realized I was only fooling myself. Neither was great, but knowing he was using and dealing was even worse. Suddenly, holding onto my anger like it was a lifeline, I turned heel. In the basement utility closet I found a 13 gallon garbage bag. I went back to my brother’s room and put every single baggie, box, and related supply into the bag, knotting it tight at the top.

Flipping the light off on my way out, I stopped at the closet and grabbed another bag, dropping the first one inside. I had an irrational fear of the first bag ripping.

I barreled up the stairs and marched past my bewildered husband, straight out the front door and to my car. Peeling out of the driveway, I drove straight past the town dump – too easy. I hopped on the highway and drove for 45 minutes – north – I don’t know why I chose to go north. I chose an exit, at random, and drove around until I found a big box grocery store. At the back of the building, I found the dumps to be about half full – and that’s where I tossed the bag.

When I arrived home, two hours after leaving, I stayed silent. I kissed my husband gently and went straight to bed. The overwhelming anger turned into utter exhaustion, and I was consumed by a deep, dark sleep.

The next morning, Rex was nowhere to be found. When I checked his room, it looked like it had been ransacked, though I suspected he was the only one to blame. He was, very likely, too high to realize what he’d done with his stash, but he remembered me telling him to leave.

I haven’t seen him since.

 ***

 

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

Deborah Dera, flash fiction

Spot Writers: The Vase

December 12, 2013 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt is to have a character explain why they stole something. 

Today’s contribution comes from Catherine MacKenzie. Her most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords: 

 

 ***

The Vase

Fragmented snakes twist around broken and chipped Chinese men. Hopelessly, their glossy faces—both snakes and men—glare at me, perhaps begging to be put out of their misery. I want to help, but it’s too late. At one time they were safe—when, healthy and whole, they leered from a two-foot-high porcelain vase. Now, it’s a puzzle as to where one slimy snake begins and another ends.

The vase belonged to my mother, passed down to her from her mother, though it had been a wild ride to her home. At first, it had been in the possession of my maternal great-grandfather until stolen by his disgruntled housekeeper. After his death, the thief had taken pity on his widow, for one day it appeared in a crate on my great-grandmother’s doorstep. The vase had been carted to England, Scotland, Portugal, Canada, China and the United States—not necessarily in that order—and to some places more than once. Surprisingly, the object remained in perfect condition.

Of course, all that was hearsay, since the tale had been passed down from the generations. But it makes for interesting talk.

My mother thought the ornamental object to be worthless. I knew otherwise. My three siblings were clueless and only vaguely knew the item existed.

I wanted the objet d’art. Badly.

Today, I see my mother’s face every time I enter my apartment. Those once-intact Chinese faces have morphed into hers. Too many of them, all sneering at me, as if they know the truth. In my defense, she wasn’t supposed to get hurt. And the vase wasn’t supposed to have broken.

Sometimes, however, you can’t control events. Sometimes life doesn’t play out like you envision. Sometimes you’re left with nothing but regrets.

My mother protected the vase the night the masked man broke into her home. The intruder fought back, selfishly determined to have what he desired. In the end, no one won. The almost million dollar ornament cracked into several pieces when it hit the floor. My mother, devastated—not because of its monetary worth but for sentimental reasons (for if she had cared about its dollar value, it would’ve sat in a vault)—picked up the poker resting by the fireplace beneath the mantle where the vase had been displayed. The intruder, instinctively protecting himself, fought back. The poor woman didn’t stand a chance.

I snatched a hunk of the porcelain before I raced off that night. The large shard now rests on my mantle, a memento as fragile as breath.

***

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

Book Review: Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

December 9, 2013 No comments

I’m on a “kick” of reading or re-reading dystopian-style novels, including 1984, We, Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead, and Brave New World. It’s interesting that they all have so many themes in common. Certainly, the later dystopias have been influenced by the earlier ones, but I’m fascinated by the common threads running through each—and the applicability to our current world.

Published in the 1930s, this dystopian novel takes place in London, where humankind has created a perfect society free from change, unpredictability, sadness, and freedom. Though the writing style and outdated vocabulary makes the book a bit difficult at times for a general reader, the implications of this book are frightening.

In this society, which has replaced “God” with “Ford” (as in Henry Ford), and replaced the cross with the sign of the T, and started counting time at the invention of the Model-T, everything is planned, from being “born” in a hatchery to dying in a death center. Life, in essence, is like living in an assembly line. Some characters are named, and their names seem significant: one of the main characters’ last names is Marx, for instance, and the female lead’s name is Lenina, as well as John, the noble savage. There are more that you could research if you were feeling up to it.

I can’t help but compare Brave New World to 1984, which also takes place in London. But whereas 1984 controls the population with vinegar, Brave New World uses honey—which in many ways is more frightening. People are so inundated and stupid that they no longer care about anything.

John, a “savage” from a “reservation” in America, is taken to London and treated with both fear and curiosity as somewhat of a celebrity. His mother Linda was born in London, and she became trapped on the reservation during a vacation there. Left pregnant without the possibility of an abortion, Linda is horrified. The idea of a live birth, or a mother, for that matter, is horrifying in this world. Here, everyone is a “test-tube” baby, designed to fit into a strictly-defined caste system with intelligences from Alpha Plus to Epsilon (semi-moron). From “birth,” babies are conditioned to love their place in life, disliking all other social castes just enough to eliminate any possibility of envy. They are conditioned in all things society deems appropriate, including an addiction to soma, a drug with no side effects after the “trip” has passed, and sex—encouraged with sex-hormone chewing gum, rampant birth control, and a conditioning to desire many and frequent partners. Like other dystopian novels, this society frowns upon “alone time” and attachment to one particular person. The best way to be happy is to remain social on a superficial level. And if things do get frightening, there is always soma.

The most disturbing type of conditioning in the book, I think, is the death conditioning. People in this society are kept “young” until they are sixty years old, at which time their bodies are ready for death. They are placed into dying centers, and young children infest these centers like lice, watching death as it happens. To complete the conditioning, which removes the fear of death, the children are given chocolate éclairs at the time of death, so in their mind, death is comforting and sweet.

Anyone who doesn’t fit in such a society is sent to one of the world’s many islands. Though not many details are given about these islands, I imagine them to be somewhat like Galt’s Gulch in Atlas Shrugged—places where independent thinkers are left alone to invent and produce, with no contact with the outside world. Our savage John, however, is not allowed to go to such a place. He is seen as a social experiment—someone born and raised without any social conditioning. John is addicted to Shakespeare. His mother gave him the only interesting book she could find on the reservation, a copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and John compares everything he encounters to a Shakespearean play or character (hence the title). In the end, guilt at witnessing his mother’s death and witnessing the dystopia of London, he punishes himself physically but even then cannot get through the conditioned skulls of London’s inhabitants just how frightening their lives are.

As in most dystopias, common threads prevail: no alone-time, as mentioned. No independent thought. No sadness. Time occupied by superficial business. When John finally does confront the population, he realizes they actually fear freedom. They do not want to make decisions. They do not want responsibility. They do not want “the freedom to be unhappy.” He criticizes their society as “infantile” and “too easy,” but none of the general population seems to care. The “Alpha Plus” caste is limited to a small percentage of the population because people of such high ability have the potential of becoming sad and discontent, proving that this society believes that ignorance is bliss. But ultimately, readers are left with the question: if society has “perfected” life to such an extent that we can live as perpetual infants, without any time delay between our desires and fulfilling those desires, what then is the point of living at all?

In making connections to modern life, I see “instant gratification” in such things as Twitter, Facebook, and other apps. If we are discontent or alone, we need not sit and think, or read, or contemplate meaning in life. Instead, we can click onto our phones and see what superficial things one of our 842 Facebook or Twitter “friends” are up to. Government subsidies largely provide phones for all members of the population unable to afford the technology on their own. As John notes, literature of the past has been replaced by “feelies,” smut-filled, plotless, mindless drivel. Reality shows, anyone? Technology has indeed kept us younger longer, and our capitalist society, as of now, has allowed us to find most of what we desire relatively quickly. The only thing we’re missing is conditioning that removes our jealousy of other “classes.” To me, “honey” is the scariest way to control a population—as in The Fountainhead, the population will be so brainwashed that they will “ask” those in power to deprive them of freedom and the rights and responsibilities that come with it.

book reviews, dystopia none

Spot Writers: Stealing Time

December 5, 2013 No comments

The following tale is told by Abigail, the main character in Val Muller’s work-in-progress. It’s a post-disaster sci-fi tale in which Abigail struggles to keep a barren earth from falling into a complete wasteland. You can learn more about Val at valm16.sg-host.com or www.corgicapers.com, with holiday sales going on at valm16.sg-host.com/store.

Stealing Time

I took it. No trade, no payment. I just took it and ran. But I had to.

The wire coil was in the best shape of any wire I’ve found. It’s just thick enough to do the job, and there’s enough of it. I’m one step closer to the desalinizer now. That is, I’ll be one step closer assuming I make it back. I’m sure Herrity will discover it’s missing soon, and of course he’ll know I took it. But I couldn’t pay him. Not in any of the ways he wanted. I’m hoping he sleeps through to the dawn. Then I’ll be long gone.

See, I’m traveling all night. Can’t afford to sleep on the road—not being alone with no one to keep watch, and not with Herrity close enough to track me. He’s got that awful hound. It’s safer to walk. The moon is full, and the night is still. I will likely hear a stranger approach—and certainly Herrity or his pooch. Pop would be furious, of course. He still thinks I’m with Ryan. But Pop would understand.

Besides, him and Daddy taught me well. Daddy would be proud, too, wherever he is. I learned from him. I travel light. Have to. Which is why I had little to trade. I couldn’t give Herrity my canteen, though he would have traded for that. My backpack is almost as valuable. Thing is, Herrity doesn’t even need anything. His shop has the most artifacts of any I’ve seen. He can trade anyone for anything. He has two backpacks and three canteens. There’s nothing he could want.

Almost.

I felt his eyes licking my body as soon as I walked in. I’d been warned about him, too. But I’m going to build this machine if it kills me. Still, there’s a limit to what a girl will do. Even in a desert wasteland.

I even told him about the desalinization machine I’m building. I figured he’d understand, want to do something for the greater good. I mean, if I succeed at this, the water will help him, too. You’d think he’d want to help. The wells are going dry. Those left behind are dying. There is no time. The wire to me—it’s time.

But he wanted something too costly.

I had a knife in my boot, and I thought briefly about using it, but I’m not sure Herrity deserved it—even with the reputation he has. Daddy always told me be careful who I judge. So I thought it better to sneak in while he was sleeping. Luckily he’s a heavy sleeper.

I’m still shaking, but the brisk walk helps still my nerves. It was a close call, sure. He could have woken up. And I’m still not sure how I would have reacted. The knife in my boot… or would I have given in? Those rough, crawling hands of his… How far would I go for the desalinizer? When time is not on my side, how far? How far?

I know the answer well. And it scares me to no end.

And so I’ll pick up my pace under the dry pallor of the moon and try not to think about what might have been—and focus instead on what will be, on what I will make become the future.

 

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 none

Book Review: The Tenth Power (Chanters of Tremaris, Book 3) by Kate Constable

December 2, 2013 No comments

I’ve previously read and reviewed book one and book two in this trilogy. This review of the third and final book in the series will contain some spoilers, though I’m trying to hold back.

Where we left off, Calwyn, a once-powerful and talented chanter, has lost her powers. She no longer senses magic in the world, yet she is still on a mission to defeat Samis, the antagonist from the first books who seems bent on using magic to dominate the world. Calwyn’s love interest, Darrow, left her in book 2 in order to return to his homeland. She longs to be reunited with him, but she is ashamed that she has lost her power.

Without giving away too many plot points, Calwyn eventually regains her powers but has to find out how to deal the world. A snow-sickness is spreading to all chanters, and it has affected Darrow, who is an ironchanter. Calwyn cannot touch Darrow until she heals him, but even with a talented healer, Darrow’s time is running out. Too much else is revealed in this book that would ruin the plot for you, so I’ll stick with critique for the rest of this review.

I enjoyed the first book in the series the best. I thought Calwyn was portrayed clearly and effectively in that book. In the second two books, the plot seemed to get in the way. There was also a budding romance between Calwyn and Darrow in the first book, and I actually felt the romantic tension between them. The feeling dwindled in the second book (because of the plot), but in the third book, it’s implied that a romance exists, though I wasn’t feeling any of it. (This is for younger readers, so I’m not looking for an all-out romance, but I want to feel something between the characters.) As a counterpoint, Calwyn is at one point kidnapped by Samis, and there is a brief romance that develops between them, and I felt much more tension there than I did at any point with Darrow.

I did like the idea Constable wove into the conclusion of the book (brief spoiler ahead!). We learn of the origins of the two feuding factions—one originated from the tree people, the native population of the world, while the other came from space—the space between the stars. There’s even a spaceship at the end. Really.

Another really great aspect of the book–but a huge spoiler: the tenth power Calwyn had been seeking was actually the written word. It was a new concept for the world in which she lives, and once she discovers the written word, she realizes that knowledge can now be written down and passed on truthfully from one generation to the next; knowledge no longer has to be lost, and superstitions don’t have to be perpetuated as they were in our own Middle Ages. This was a great concept.

My favorite scene, however, was the dancing scene at the end. I won’t ruin why the scene was there, but the imagery contained is amazing.

This was a quick read, and despite my disappointments with some of the characterization, I am glad I finished the series.

book reviews none

Mordle on the Shelf

December 1, 2013 No comments

Have you ever heard of Elf on the Shelf? It’s that game where parents buy an elf and then arrange it at night doing weird things—which the kids can then find later on. Well, my husband has created his own version… using Mordles.

It started a while back—with a dream, actually (you can read about it here). My husband bought me a set of blue Mordles and gave it to me right away (before I exploded with excitement). After that, he started doing weird things.IMG_0670

He bought a Mordle egg, for storage. One evening I found the egg sitting on my pillow with a Mordle sitting on top of it. I picked up the egg and shook it. Nothing. I put the Mordle and egg on my dresser and went on with my day. The same thing happened for several days. One morning, just when I was disarmed enough, I shook the egg on my dresser, and it rattled. Inside was a Mordle of a different color. This process happened on and off for the entire summer, and eventually I had a set of Mordles in dark blue, pink, green, and yellow.

mord hatching

Life continued on, and the Mordle craze cooled for a bit, but from time to time I would check out the website (toyfinity.com) to see if any new colors had appeared.

Well, on my birthday we awoke at 3:45 a.m. The furnace was half broken, and the repair person (who would not be able to repair the furnace until an ordered part had arrived) said if it got too cold outside, the heat pump would stop working, but the electric furnace (the backup) would not be able to come on because that was the part that was broken. We awoke to a rumbling in the attic—the temperature had dropped, making the heat pump fail. The electric furnace was trying to come on but failing. No heat. I buried my head under the pillow while my husband turned off the furnace for safety—and I prepared a cold start to my birthday. (Luckily, we have our main furnace in the basement—the broken one is just for the upper-level of our home). There, in the cold darkness, my husband whispered, “You are being watched.”

I turned on my lamp, and sure enough—a blood red Mordle was sitting there on the book I had been reading before bed—watching me. The discoveries continued throughout the day. There was a red Mordle on the dog treat jar, on the hook where I hang my keys. Even one in the fridge! By the end of the day, I had found all ten of them.

Red Mordle chilling in the fridge!

Red Mordle chilling in the fridge!

I also found a few more in a packet labeled “Happy Birthday!” Apparently, my husband had contacted John at ToyFinity about purchasing the Mordles, and he sent a few as a birthday surprise!

Anyway, I brought them upstairs, where all my Mordles from the summer were stored in two egg containers. I dumped out one of them, and put a brown explorer Mordle, a red Mordle, and my original Mordle that I still have from the 1980s on top. I said, “I wonder if anything will hatch.”

The next day, the egg was cracked open, and a midnight black Mordle was sitting in the middle of the ruin. It’s probably the coolest of all Mordle colors. Black as midnight and very sinister. When I came home late after a meeting, the black Mordle was sitting on the dogs’ food bin next to a black permanent marker. It was sitting on a sheet of paper with strange markings on it (that looked similar to WingDings font):

 

A mysterious message

A mysterious message

When I finally decoded the message, it told me that the black Mordle and its nine siblings were hiding—three on each level of the house, all hiding in blackness. I searched the house, and the midnight Mordles were hiding in shadowy darkness: on the black leather chair, on the black DVD player, in the folds of a black umbrella.

IMG_0937

It reminded me of the Elf on the Shelf game: some were sitting there watching TV. Others appeared to be reading or watching the dogs. I think the Mordles could give Elf on a Shelf a run for its money. Someone should write a book: Mordles in the House. Start a new tradition good for any time of year. Heck, maybe I’ll do it.

IMG_0936

Anyway, here is a glance at my Mordle collection as of now. There are still a few colors missing:

IMG_4495

The biggest surprise of my birthday, however, was a special chocolate chip cookie cake (my favorite kind of “cake.”). My husband asked if I would go get him a glass of milk, which was odd—why would he ask me to get up and get him something on my birthday? It’s uncharacteristic, and also suspect because he was already in the kitchen and I was in the other room. I knew it was a trap! There on the counter below where the milk glasses would be, was a photo-cookie-cake featuring… the Mordles (the “crawler edition” blue—my favorites)!

Mordle Chocolate-Chip Birthday Photo Cake FTW!

Mordle Chocolate-Chip Birthday Photo Cake FTW!

IMG_0928

 

Keep calm and Mordle on!

Keep calm and Mordle on!

Uncategorized none

Thirty Days of Thankful

November 30, 2013 1 comment

Thirty Days of Thankful

As Thanksgiving comes around once again, many people have been posting one thing to be thankful for each day in November. I’ve decided to condense mine to a list of 30 things I’m thankful for. I wrote one each day, and they’re not necessarily in order of importance or thankfulness; rather, they correspond to what I was thinking about each day in November:

  1. Electricity: This came to light after thinking about things that have happened around this time of year in the past—the terrible devastation of Hurricane Sandy, the pre-Halloween snowstorm a few years back that downed tree branches and power lines… Although I didn’t lose power this year, I’ve been without it for a week two or three times in my life, and it’s not fun. Food storage, light, and heat—thank goodness for those!
  2. Shelter: As the weather tries to decide what season it is, I’m thankful for the creature comfort of shelter. Thankfully, I have a warm, safe place to live.
  3. Car: I’m thankful for the freedom and convenience offered by my car. Groceries, job, shopping… I sure couldn’t walk!
  4. Sun: Every winter, I remember how much I love the sun. I’m so happy in the summertime, and part of that is because the sun. It’s hard to explain how I feel during the months of low sunlight. A mix of despair and sadness, like something has been lost and will never return. But that’s okay—it makes golden, sunny days all the more valuable. After all, “nothing gold can stay”…
  5. Mother: Aside from countless acts of caring during my childhood, I am thankful for my mom for being someone to talk to, someone who spent 2 days of her summer helping me paint our huge living room and hallways, and someone who will always be there for me and will always hold me in her heart.
  6. Friends: November 6th is a good friend’s birthday. In fact, so is November 3rd. Growing up, both of these friends always nurtured ideas and embraced creativity. Although I’m a solitary creature by nature, I do appreciate having caring friends and coworkers to help me through life’s ups-and-downs.
  7. Freedom: Above all, I’m thankful for freedom—for the ability to speak my mind without fear of repercussions (and I hope I may always be thankful for this).
  8. Father: My father is full of wisdom and advice despite his penchant for teasing. He’s been called a “writer’s gold mine” and is a constant inspiration for ideas, many of them planted by him while I was a child. He is largely responsible for my creativity.
  9. Sister: “Friends and sisters; not just sisters, but also friends.” My mother used to sing this song to me and my sister when we were kids. It’s true we had our fights, but they were never vicious. Now, we’re even better friends than before, and I’m thankful we can call each other up for support whenever it’s needed. Also, I’m pretty sure if the apocalypse ever happens, we’ll have each other’s back.
  10. Food: I don’t always enjoy eating, but the fact that it sometimes feels like a chore to me make me thankful—it means I have enough of it to be healthy and content. I’ve felt true hunger only a few times in my life, and it was never a serious situation—just a product of inconvenience.
  11. Veterans: I’m thankful for my husband, and all Veterans, for dedicating themselves to making this country a safer place.
  12. Dogs: Not only did my dogs inspire me to write the first novel that was accepted for publication, but having dogs is a constant joy. No matter what kind of horrible day I’ve had, and regardless of whether I’ve been gone for five minutes or five days, the dogs always greet me like my presence is the best thing that could have happened to them. Thank goodness for unconditional love.
  13. Books: Books don’t require electricity, and there are no commercial breaks. I read a quote somewhere that nothing furnishes a home so much as books, and it’s true. When books are around, I am comforted by the fact that I can travel anywhere in my mind with their help. I can stretch my brain and fly around the world without leaving my seat.
  14. Job: As much as we complain about our jobs, we shouldn’t take them for granted. All it takes is being jobless to realize how much a job—even a job we would otherwise complain about—means. As I hear about growing unemployment numbers, I am thankful to have a stable job in which I feel like I am making a difference.
  15. My publishers: I’m thankful to Dancing With Bear Publishing for taking a chance on Corgi Capers and giving me the first opportunity to succeed as a novelist, and also for Crowded Quarantine, World Castle, and Barking Rain Press for current and upcoming releases.
  16. Music: It never ceases to amaze me how music—and all art—can reach across decades and centuries, even after the composer has died, to inspire and entertain us. I write this as I’m listening to Vivaldi’s “Winter” from The Four Seasons. It truly represents the resilience of the human spirit to transcend all limitations, including death.
  17. Mind: I am thankful for my mind. I’ve been blessed with an unnaturally creative and imaginative mind. I am never bored because even when I have nothing to do, I can escape to the recesses of my mind.
  18. Husband: It can’t be overstated that I love living each day with my best friend, a constant support.  
  19. Heat: There’s just nothing like cuddling under a blanket and feeling the warmth of the heat coming out of the vents when the rest of the air is chilly.
  20. Health: I waited for my birthday to write about this one, but it tops my list. To paraphrase F. Scott Fitzgerald, there is nothing more stark than the contrast between the healthy and the sick. All the things we complain about might seem irrelevant to someone fighting for his or her life. It’s easy, being healthy, to lose perspective. And it’s easy to forget that, as my parents used to remind me, we’re all here “but for the Grace of God,” meaning we can never take tomorrow for granted. Although I hate the idea of birthdays, my parents like to say, “would you prefer the alternative?”
  21. Capitalism: I truly believe that there is no better system in the world for bringing equality of opportunity and a better quality of life to the entire population than free market capitalism. Though we don’t live in a world free from cronyism or harmful overregulation, I am thankful that we come close, and I wouldn’t trade the benefits of our system for any other.
  22. Sleep: I didn’t always sleep well. I’m sometimes either excited about a writing idea, kept awake by a book, or kept disturbed by stress or worries, so when I do get to sleep—that really deep, restful sleep, I really appreciate it.
  23. Thinkers: I am thankful for the people who think—who actually use their brains to have engaging, meaningful discussions with me. You know who you are—those I feel free to talk to on a weekly, or even daily, basis. Thank you for not drinking the Kool-aid.
  24. Snow Days: While I don’t think we’ll be having a November snow day this year, there’s nothing like the unexpected gift of time. It’s the only thing in life humans truly have no control over—it passes regardless of our efforts, and we can only control how we spend it. A snow day, to me, represents the invaluable gift of time, and mine are never squandered.
  25. Then Again, Days That Aren’t Snow Days: Even before I got stuck for 12 hours in a car during a (not even that bad) snow storm (people cannot drive in snow and had abandoned their cars in the middle of roads), I’ve hated snow. It’s dangerous. Not having to shovel feet of snow, or figure out what to do until a snow-related power outage ends makes me thankful to be at work!
  26. Human Achievement: I am not a big government supporter, and I believe what we have accomplished as human being comes despite the government, not because of it. I am glad that, despite stupid (even if well-meaning) decisions, corruption, lobbyists, dictators, tyrants, serfdom, and other forms of oppression man has historically allowed, humankind has always held onto that spark that makes us great, that makes us fight for freedom for ourselves and each other, and I hope that this world will never meet something so oppressive as to extinguish that spark.
  27. Memories: Memories can bring me comfort even in the worst of times, and I am thankful that my life has been blessed with mostly happy memories to cherish.
  28. Family: I am grateful each year to be able to spend Thanksgiving with loved ones, and remember those who are no longer with us.
  29. Contact Lenses: A conversation during Thanksgiving reminded me how much better I am able to see thanks to the contact lenses I have been wearing since late high school.
  30. My grandfather: Though I never met him in this life, my grandfather has been a comfort and an inspiration in my dreams, and I truly credit him for my newfound peace with my job and for my budding success as a writer. I don’t purport to understand the mysteries that are out there, but I am thankful to him for showing me that whatever it is, it’s a comfort, not a fear.
musings none

Spot Writers: The Confession

November 28, 2013 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week, the prompt is to have a character explain why they stole something.

 Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A LITTLE BIT OF BLACKMAIL, A LITTLE BIT OF BABY, and A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.  

 The Confession

 It’s the weirdest thing. I never did anything like this before. Maybe it was the challenge, you know? I mean wind chimes make  noise when you touch them, right, so I had to be real careful. And the shop was small- I wasn’t very far from the woman at the cash register.

I’m not a thief. I just love wind chimes and they’re so damn expensive. I had one you know, a nice big one with those silvery pipes, hanging from my front porch. Somebody stole it last week, so maybe I just wanted a little payback.

Anyway, I picked out one that had that same pipe design, but was small enough to slip in my purse. Then came the tricky part- how to grab it without being seen. I waited ’til another customer started talking to the woman at the register. Then I pretended I was looking at the chimes and made a lot of noise. Grabbing the one I wanted, I squeezed it tight together so it wouldn’t chime and stuffed it in my bag. A couple more tinkles and clanges on the other chimes and the woman paid no attention to me.

My heart pounded like a hammer as I ambled out of the store. It was so hard to play it cool, but of course I had to, until I was in my car and driving away. Then I got such a rush I almost ran into another car.

Wouldn’t that have been something- getting into an accident with stolen property in my car? Not to mention wrecking my car. But the excitement- it was worth it. Except- now I’m afraid to hang it up where people can see it.

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, RC Bonitz none

Book Review: Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

November 25, 2013 No comments

It’s fitting that my birthday is surrounded by two reviews of books by Ayn Rand. Rand is an author I greatly respect, despite her tendency to be verbose. Yes, Atlas Shrugged breaks the 1,000 – page mark. I won’t even try to summarize all that happens in this novel. The film series being released as a trilogy is a good way to become familiar with the plot, but the films cannot do justice to the original.

The book is Rand’s imagination extending policies of collectivism and examining how they could impact our economy and society. Told largely through the eyes of Dagny Taggart, the book follows the struggle of industrialists like Dagny as they try to keep their businesses running efficiently and productively despite increasing government regulations.

But it’s not just about government versus individual. It’s about two groups of people who represent two different philosophies, which Rand treats as moral codes. One is the looters /moochers, represented people like the appropriately-named Wesley Mouch. These are people who either have no talent of their own or no care to develop a talent, and who resent or fear the rise of talent in others. These are politicians who gain power by making social connections and then creating and imposing arbitrary rules designed to harm productive members of society while allowing loopholes for anyone who wishes to grovel. The looters take money from those who produce and essentially destroy it. They do not care whether they better their own position in life so long as they better their relative position in life, destroying others before succumbing to their own flawed policies.

The second group are the individualists. These are the people who recognize that an objective reality exists, and they work under the normal rules of the universe, ignoring (or succeeding in spite of) the irrational regulations imposed by man. The individualists do not care what others think. They have enough self-esteem to recognize greatness in themselves and others. They do not fear those who are better or stronger than they; the individualists embrace the greatness of others. All individualists in the book are producers of some sort, and they recognize that a positive side effect of greatness is that everyone benefits.

Rand creates her story as a mystery, opening with the phrase “Who is John Galt?” This phrase embodies everything Dagny hates, as people use the phrase as a shrug–a question that means, “why ask why?” or “what can one do about it?” To Dagny, this is the worst attitude. Embodying Rand’s philosophy, Dagny understands that to be truly human, one must have a goal and work toward achieving that goal. A person without a goal is a person without purpose–and therefore, not a true human being. The individualists understand that their visions are worthwhile enterprises. They are uncomfortable at parties, as they can feel their time literally wasting. They work hard all the time–their brains are almost always calculating how to better their business endeavors–and though they do not resent working all the time, they expect to be rewarded appropriately (assuming their endeavors succeed).

The premise, without giving too much away, is that the great thinkers decide to go on strike. They are led by (you may have guessed) a man named John Galt, who began the strike and convinces other great thinkers that the only way to fix the world and the world’s destructive policies is to stop giving in to them. By performing greatness under the weight of oppressive and unjust policies, the thinkers are essentially giving their consent, allowing a corrupt system to continue. Dagny is the last of the great thinkers to resist this idea, as she cannot believe that the world is full of people who are maliciously trying to bring her down. Through Dagny, the reader experiences Rand’s beliefs about humankind: that the general population craves leadership and likes being directed how to think, and the looters/moochers of the world use this to their advantage, creating policy by suspending logic and reason and stirring people into irrational frenzies that allow subtle (and not-so-subtle) policies to be passed that restrict freedom and destroy achievement.

Although the book is an obvious exaggeration, there are passages you’ll read slowly and then feel your grip on the book’s spine tightening as you’ll recognize the snippet of a conversation, or experience deja vu, recollecting a news story or other bit of policy that seems to resonate stupid decisions made in our very own world. You should also experience a dissonance of feelings for the more noble characters: they struggle to keep what we consider to be valiant efforts, but the point Rand is making–that they should stop helping the looters helps themselves to other people’s talents–gets you to question the characters’ premise as well as your own beliefs and assumptions about society. You’ll likely go about your day asking whether you are actually giving your consent to stupidity from time to time, allowing ineffective or even malicious policies to thrive against your talents.

This is one of those books that should be on your bucket list, one of those books that can change your perception of the world–and I would suggest reading it sooner rather than later.

book reviews none

Spot Writers: The Holiday Miracle

November 21, 2013 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers segment for this week. This week’s contribution comes from Deborah Dera. The prompt for the past few weeks has been “magic brew,” and Deborah found it challenging to work the theme into her piece so far after the spooky Halloween season. She hopes this piece sparks a little bit of holiday magic.

Next week’s prompt will come from RC Bonitz, author of A LITTLE BIT OF BLACKMAIL, A LITTLE BIT OF BABY, and A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.

***

The Holiday Miracle

Desi sat quietly in the kitchen. The only light shining through the windows was from the street lamp outside, and even those weren’t so bright anymore. Everything seemed dim lately.

Arnold slept peacefully in their shared bed upstairs. He’d been out of work for 4 months, only doing odd jobs here and there to supplement his unemployment. Desi worked nights at the local truck stop and what they were making simply wasn’t enough. They were just barely scraping by before Arnold lost his job. Christmas was just a week away and it didn’t look like there would be much of a celebration for the kids this year.

Head in her hand, Desi sipped her decaf coffee. She’d get the kids up for school in about an hour, making them breakfast and shuffling them out the door before she could even think about lying down to get some rest for herself. Arnold, for all it was worth, would do his best around the house. He spent every morning scouring the paper and the web for new jobs and every afternoon cleaning and making dinner so Desi could eat with the kids before heading back out to work.

Still, things were starting to feel a little bit hopeless.

Desi quietly pushed back her chair and slipped into the dark living room, turning on the dimmest light she could find. She opened the hall closet and got down on her knees, reaching and feeling for the large wooden box she knew was tucked away in the back – the box her mother had given her before she had passed away. She would, from time to time, pull out the box and think of her mother when she was feeling sad.

Now, lying heavily on her lap, the box of keepsakes seemed more comforting than usual. Desi relaxed back against the wall, sitting on the floor with the box on her lap. She rubbed her hands over the top of the box, enjoying the cool feeling, before slowly lifting the heavy lid.

Inside were pictures of her mother with her children throughout the years. Desi slowly thumbed her way through the pile, savoring each memory. The box was filled with ribbons from extra special gifts, a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry, her Bible, and even a lock of her hair. Desi couldn’t help but feel like her mother was looking over her shoulder right at that moment.

As she rummaged through the box, she came across a small glass jar. When she was a child, Desi’s mother would occasionally mix some of her special blend of spices into her father’s tea. She would wink at Desi, telling her to keep it a secret. She said it turned the tea into a magic brew and would bring him good luck.

Desi chuckled to herself, wondering exactly what was in the jar. Opening the lid, she thought it smelled like a divine blend of spices – like a chai, but with something special about it, an underlying smell she couldn’t quite identify. As she enjoyed the aroma she wondered just what would happen if she mixed a bit into Arnold’s coffee this morning.

It was just a silly little wives tale, for luck, she thought. Or was it?

Smiling to herself, Desi set the jar aside and put the box back in its safe place in the closet. Arnold and the children would be up soon. She returned to the kitchen, turned the lights on, started the coffee pot, and set about making breakfast.

***

“Mama! It smells yummy in here,” her youngest, Jilly, said as she bounded into the kitchen, all pigtails and pre-K energy.

Even Mark and Elise, her 8 and 13 year olds, seemed to perk up a bit when they shuffled into the kitchen. Their eyes lit up as they surveyed the kitchen. Something seemed different about everyone’s attitude today – everyone was just a bit lighter. Elise even set the table without being asked, and Mark managed to get the juice from the fridge without spilling it.

Finally, Arnold made his way into the kitchen. He was freshly showered, and dressed – a routine he hadn’t stopped after losing his job. He had always insisted that falling out of a routine would make it more difficult to get back into one when he went back to work. Today, his eyes glistened as he leaned over to kiss Desi good morning.

“It smells particularly wonderful in here, darling. What’s different?”

“Nothing, really. I just found this old spice blend my mother had given me. I thought I’d save it because it reminded me of her, but then this morning I had this overwhelming urge to use it,” she explained as she set his cup of coffee in front of him and then went to finish serving up the French toast.

***

After breakfast, Desi had packed lunches and checked to make sure each of the children had their school bags ready. She’d slipped up into the bedroom, drawn the shades, and gone to sleep. The house seemed quieter than usual, the bed warmer, and her sleep deeper. Her rest was usually fitful, laced with worry, but on this day she slept soundly. When she woke at 4:07pm, it was with a start. She hadn’t expected to sleep so late and wondered why Arnold hadn’t checked on her yet.

Stretching, she slowly got out of the bed and opened the windows, letting the last of the winter sun shine into the room. She paused, feeling the warmth of the sun fighting against the cold draft, and smiled when she suddenly heard noisy giggling from below.

As she moved into the hall, the giggles got louder. She could hear the children whispering and laughing, and she could hear Arnold telling them not to wake her. Won’t mom be surprised?! Desi wondered what they were up to, but nothing prepared her for the sight she saw when she turned the corner and came down the stairs into the living room.

Arnold and Mark were stringing lights around a Christmas tree – a fresh tree!  Jilly was sitting on the floor while Elise tried to show her how to string popcorn. All of the family ornaments were in boxes, spread around the floor.  She gasped with surprise, as Arnold noticed her, stopped what he was doing, and breezed his way across the room with a beaming smile on his face.

“Desi! You won’t believe what happened today!”

She cocked her head to the side with a small smile, waiting.

“Rob called. The shop renegotiated one of the contracts they lost and they landed two new ones. They’re reinstating everyone with seniority. I have my job back! And  – you won’t believe this – they’re still giving everyone who had been with the company for years their Christmas bonuses, just as if nothing had happened!”

Desi couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “All this happened today?”

“Rob called just after the kids went to school. I went right over to fill out the paperwork and they handed me my bonus for the year right then. We’re back to work on Monday. Everyone from the core group was there – John, Billy, Sam – we’re all back to work!”

She turned her eyes to the tree and to the children, who were smiling and excited. Mark was still trying to string the lights on his own and the girls were playfully bickering about how much popcorn Jilly was eating instead of stringing.

Arnold dropped his voice, almost to a whisper. “I bought the tree on the way home. I wanted to surprise you. Do you like it?” Still stunned, she smiled and nodded gently.

He took her hand and pulled her into the room, searching for the box with the star she thought she wouldn’t be able to hang this year. He gently pulled it from the tissue and handed it to her. “Your turn, darling. You’ve worked so hard to take care of us. You put the star on the tree this year. And make sure you make a wish!”

Desi giggled and smiled, unable to contain her excitement any longer. She placed the star on top of the tree, gently, and said a silent thank you to her mother. She just knew her mother was smiling down on her family at that moment.

***

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 none
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