Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

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The Best Gift

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I had a dream early this morning in which a voice told me I did not appreciate my job enough. It was not an indictment, simply a fact. The voice told me that today I would be reminded.

Today, my birthday, helped illustrate that cliché about the best gifts and what money cannot buy. Shortly after arriving at school, I discovered my contact lens had torn. I looked at my bloodshot eye in the mirror and wondered if I could last the whole day.

I could not.

Luckily, I had a student teacher in my first class (who baked delicious birthday cupcakes for me and the class!) who could watch the class for me, and I had a reading specialist presenting to my collaboratively-taught remediation class, so I was able to hurry home to switch contacts.

But home is now much further from school than it once was. Due to a convoluted plan involving 40 cents off per gallon of gas from my grocery store club card (and involving filling multiple tanks at once), I had intentionally run my tank down so that I had just a bit more gas than I needed to get home that day—but not enough for another round trip home, back to school, and home again.

I huffed at my luck and had to wait in line at a tiny gas station to buy the one gallon to get me to school and back. It was then that I received my first intangible gift. As I was finishing fueling, the woman in line behind me shouted to me, pointing at my car. I didn’t realize she’d read my bumper sticker.

“Hey, you!” she screamed.

I worried over what I might have done to her.

I turned.

“You’re the author. The one who wrote the corgi stories.”

“Yes.” I smiled.

“I thought so! I met you last year at a signing.”

I smiled and finished fueling.

“The story was great!” she added before I departed.

The randomness of the situation—the fact that I should have been at school and hadn’t planned on using that particular gas station—meant a serendipity that can only be interpreted as an intentional sign, a gift.

After I returned to school, I led my AP class in a series of small-group discussions. During that class, a student said, “I’ve learned and thought more in your class than in all my other classes, ever, combined.” It was the kind of epiphany which makes my day job—which I am not always appreciative of—worthwhile and rewarding. A second student told me she’d been sharing the books and concepts we’ve discussed with others. It was a student normally quiet and reserved, and prior to today I had no idea my teaching was impacting her.

I thought back to the voice in my dream this morning. I can’t help but think that the person behind the voice orchestrated it all—the coincidence of the torn contact, the low gas tank, and even the events that led each particular group to those particular discussions. I’d been in a three-week rut at school. I needed a reminder that the effort I put in each day at school and each night and morning at my writing at home is reaching others and changing lives. It was something I knew, but I’d gotten sidetracked by details and situations that are petty and irrelevant, orchestrated by people who don’t matter.

I spent the rest of my birthday with a calm serenity, with a feeling that everything would be alright, and I had only to continue on the path I know is right for me.

I know who he is, the man behind the voice, the one who reminded me—and my mother does, too—and I have to thank him today for the best gift I could have received.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted a book review here, but I’ve been re-reading Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead for a unit I’m teaching at school. The students had a choice between the two books, but I re-read all 1,700 + pages.

The Fountainhead is an accessible way to introduce yourself to Ayn Rand. Short of Anthem, which is the length of a short story, The Fountainhead uses understandable characters and events to introduce readers to the ideas and ideals of Ayn Rand.

Though politics have been trying to polarize people’s thoughts about Ayn Rand in recent years, the premise is simple: humankind has the potential to be great, and nothing should be allowed to stop an individual from becoming as great as he or she is able. This is applied, in The Fountainhead, to an individual named Howard Roark. Other characters misinterpret Roark’s self-confidence as arrogance, and whether they admit it to themselves or not, most are resentful of Roark’s greatness. What they do not realize (or care about) is the fact that allowing someone like Roark to be great actually ends up helping all of society, as we all benefit from the mind of a great thinker and producer.

In the beginning of the book, Roark learns he has been expelled from his university (where he was pursuing a degree in architecture) because he refused to conform his designs to the socially-accepted standards. In a discussion with the dean after his expulsion, he explains how classical Greek architecture, which is currently held as the highest standard to strive for, is flawed. Roark uses logic to justify his ideas, considering technology and materials available today that were not available in the past, and explaining how some of the more decorative items in classical architecture at one time served a purpose but today are a mindless copy that serve no function when using metal and other modern materials.

The dean does not like Roark’s justification; it makes him feel uncomfortable, and he decides Roark will either be a criminal or a great man—both ideas make him uncomfortable.

Roark’s life is an uphill battle, but he doesn’t let anything bother him. He works for a once-great-but-washed-up architect for a time, he tries working for various firms, he opens his own, and he deals with “second-handers” who try to ruin his success. Through all these struggles, Roark remains true to his vision: he has his idea of what architecture should be. He studies the site of each proposed building carefully, and he considers also the client’s purpose in requesting the building—what will it be used for? Considering these two elements, he creates a unique building each time, noting that no two buildings should ever be the same because of differences in the site and the intended purpose. A Roark building is always described in such a way that the reader will wish Roark could build a custom design for her, too!

Roark refuses to compromise his “morals,” or his vision of what he should be building. When he is unable to use his mind in the way it should be used, he turns to manual labor, where he meets Dominique Francon. The daughter of a sociable architect (who relies on social charm and connections more than his own talent), she is apathetic about life, taking a menial job and “living” with the goal of not caring about anything. She decides life is easier that way. She subconsciously recognizes the inherent flaws in the world, and the world’s desire to destroy greatness, and she hopes that nothing in her life “wakes her up” or makes her care about anything in that world. In a short but important scene, she pushes a statue out the window. Why the defenestration*? The statue was so great that she couldn’t bear the thought of someone looking at it who simply couldn’t appreciate its greatness. This scene is important in that it explains the way she treats Roark later on.

Dominique meets Roark while he is in his “manual labor” phase. She is immediately attracted to him, and that bothers her considerably. They go through a sometimes-disturbing relationship that is finally consummated in a sort-of-kind-of rape scene. Afterwards, when Dominique realizes Roark isn’t a manual laborer, but a talented architect, she continues her relationship with him. It’s an on-again-off-again relationship, but she is never able to fully commit. While she spends her nights with Roark, she spends her days trying to destroy his career in any way possible. It’s difficult to understand why, unless you remember what she did to the statue. Through most of the book, Dominique believes the world is not deserving of a Howard Roark, and she believes he is wasting his talent on those who cannot appreciate it.

Dominique is a dynamic character, and she undergoes many marriages, affairs, and divorces, in typical Rand style—writing during the 1930s, Rand disliked the double standard of requiring chaste women but praising men who knew how to get around. I won’t go into details because they will spoil too much of the plot, but Dominique has much to learn on her journey.

The “second-handers,” the “bad guys” in the book, are represented by two character: Peter Keating and Ellsworth Toohey. Keating, from the start, is established as a foil character for Roark. When Roark is expelled, Keating is graduating with the highest honor and is offered a scholarship to school in France and a position with a prestigious architectural firm. The important element here is that Peter has no actual talent. He’s very good at copying the designs of others, but he has gotten through college with the help of others, especially Roark, and can’t seem to come up with an original thought to save his life. His mother decides he will decline the scholarship in France; others decide he should not marry the woman he loves (Katie) in favor of a political marriage. He learns to climb his career ladder not with talent but with brown-nosing, manipulation, and even–murder. At the end of the book, this all catches up to him, and he realizes he has lived his life “selflessly,” allowing his entire self to be defined and taken over by others.

Toohey is pure evil. He manipulates others, including his own niece, Katie. While she had plans for college and marriage to Peter, Toohey convinces her that she should devote her life to selflessly helping others. When she tells him she has other plans, he calls her egotistical and blames our language for forcing us to think of silly things like our own happiness and aspirations. In the end, Katie ends up an empty shell with no love for Peter, herself (or anyone), or life at all. Toohey uses his connections to the media to manipulate the way people think. His goal is to praise mediocre work so that the public loses the ability to recognize greatness. Why? When mediocrity is worshipped, everyone becomes replaceable. There is no greatness, and man stops aspiring to achieve it. Toohey convinces men to grovel in front of him, to apologize for simply being human, and to let him decide the course of their lives. In such a way, he gains power and what passes for fulfillment in his life. But this kind of “fulfillment” cannot last.

Roark, needless to say, is Toohey’s biggest challenge. But because Roark embodies the qualities of Ayn Rand’s ideal hero, he thinks only of his own desires (to become a great architect) and uses reason to find a way to get there (create the best buildings possible so that clients will come to appreciate and desire his work). He does not care about public opinion, so all of Toohey’s efforts are put to waste on Roark.

THE FOUNTAINHEAD by Ayn RandThere is much more to the plot than this, but at 700 pages, the book contains its own twists and turns that I do not wish to ruin here. The book is a great inspiration to me. Rand admits that her style of writing is Romantic Realism, meaning it’s a slightly exaggerated view of the world, but Roark (and eventually Dominique) model what we should strive for. In Rand’s eyes, the definition of living—actually living life as a human being and not a mindless brute—is to realize a personal goal and use reason to strive to achieve it. This way of life will create happiness, and that—in her mind—is the ultimate purpose of existence.

Growing up under Communists in Russia, Rand saw people that sought to destroy happiness and personal choice. When she came to American in the 1920s, she imagined ways that communist-minded people might try to ruin greatness and cause misery all in the name of control (disguised as that dangerous and miserable term, “the greater good”). Her musings are scarily accurate at times, portraying a media with no integrity, doing anything they are directed to sway public opinion without concern for the truth. She accurately envisioned how cronyism would lead to mediocrity and how the population in general would be too disinterested, ignorant, or passive to use brains to think that anything might be wrong. Whenever I re-read this book, I am reminded that the most helpful thing I can do to make the world a better place is to pursue my personal goal, achieve happiness, and spread a little greatness whenever I can.

___

*defenestration–I couldn’t help but use this word. It might be the only justifiable time I can use a word that means to throw something out of a window. I just couldn’t help myself!

 

Today’s little tale comes from Catherine A. MacKenzie. The current topic is “magic brew” and what follows is an excerpt from Cathy’s short fiction “Between the Good and the Bad,” which (if her muse cooperates) is being expanded this month for NaNoWriMo. (November is National Novel Writing Month; write a 50,000 word “novel” in one month.)

You can read “Between the Good and the Bad” in its entirety in her most recent short story collection, available on Amazon and Smashwords: 

***

I don’t kill without reason, at least not anymore, not once my sugar problem had been discovered. Sometimes killing for blood is a necessity, like the need for caffeine that drives humans to drink cup after cup of their morning coffee. They require caffeine as I need blood. But I’ve learned to use my skills to help the world, and I’m selective with my prey.

My witch gene enables me to cast magical spells. I’ve conjured up all sorts of formulas in order to carry out my deeds, and I consider myself somewhat a poet when I recite my chants.

You’ve heard of those unexpected, unwarranted deaths where one individual dies in a sole-vehicle accident? Everyone assumes they are suicide victims, although they keep the thoughts to themselves, for how could a driver veer off a deserted road into a ditch at three o’clock on a beautiful summer’s day and kill oneself? Those are some instances when I’ve helped out; there are a lot more. Sure, some of those motor vehicle deaths are accidents, but the majority are the result of my spells. Of course, no one will ever know the difference between the two.

There are more mysterious deaths than I can take credit for, so I wonder if there are other individuals like me in this town performing the same type of act, although I haven’t met anyone yet. It would be difficult, not to mention dangerous, to approach a suspected individual and ask.

Then there are those people who are too mentally diseased, too down in the dumps to live. Suicidal they might be, but killing themselves is something they would never accomplish successfully on their own—or even attempt—so I’ve taken it upon myself to help. I brew my special liquids and cast the spell of death or, at least, ensure suicide attempts are successful.

I’ve also helped others to die earlier than they would naturally. One such individual was Germaine, a woman in her sixties, who feared aging. She’d had numerous facelifts, so many in fact that her face had begun to resemble Michael Jackson shortly before his untimely death. I had been forced to put her out of her misery; she requested it, in a roundabout way. One more face job would have killed her if I hadn’t, and she had an operation scheduled for the week after I intervened.

Another was Amy, a beautiful twelve-year-old who was so full of cancer she didn’t stand a chance. Another year might have been afforded to her, but it would have been a painful and horrific twelve months for her to endure, not to mention the cruelty to her family while they watched her suffer. It was imperative something be done to relieve her and her family from misery.

Henry experienced a different type of death. He received the hands-on treatment. He had cheated on his wife, but that was the only similarity between him and Michael. Henry was a sex offender and had served a six-year prison term before being set free on a technicality. Six years for molesting eight little boys? I knew he’d hurt again, and I wanted to prevent the future suffering of young boys at his hands. I set those unknown future children free. A sentence of endless years wouldn’t have been enough for Henry; he needed to burn in hell for eternity. No spells for him. One late night, I confronted Henry, much like I had Michael, but I performed slow, painful acts on Henry like he had on those poor little boys. He suffered horrifically and begged for death before I was halfway through.

There are numerous other Genevieves and Amys I have helped, all with similar circumstances and pre-determined fates, and there will be many more in the future. And then there are the Henrys—males and females—who don’t deserve to live.

Although I can go several weeks without gorging on blood, there’s no shortage of innocents and victims, not in this depraved world, so I don’t have to worry about where my next feed will come from. Other times, when I get an uncontrollable urge, I try to be selective and pick a frail, elderly individual whose time would be up soon anyhow.

***

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

Today’s Halloween-inspired tale comes from multi-genre author Val Muller. Her two Halloween works, Faulkner’s Apprentice (adult horror) and The Sorceress of Stoney Brook (spooky middle-grade mystery) are available at valm16.sg-host.com.

 

Look forward to next week’s tale, coming to us from Cathy MacKenzie, who you can stalk at

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

 

Hilda’s Magic Brew

Hilda Bingen plodded down the linoleum hallway. Persnickety High School never had a working elevator, and the stairs always made her joints ache. Today was even worse, though, because she had just gotten over a week of the gak.

 

She picked it up taking a short-term subbing job at Pine Hill Elementary. The kids that age always got sick before Halloween, and they insured she had the worst Halloween ever. Those damn kids made her miss her favorite tradition, sharing her special brew with the teachers at whatever school she subbed at on Halloween. It was the one day she didn’t have to dress up, the one day when sharing goodies and drinks and snacks didn’t seem out of place, the one day where everyone’s attitudes were well-groomed for magic hijinks—and she had missed it.

 

Now here she was, a week late and exhausted. Her coven leader had required mandatory time at the polls for Election Day, and interacting with bright-eyed people eager to do their civic duty always wore her out. Today, bringing the magic brew felt like a chore rather than a favorite hobby. She huffed as she mounted the last stair, pausing to rest her cooler on the banister. She tried to remember the location of the teacher work room, searching her brain for the last time she had subbed here.

 

Ah—there it was. At the other end of the hall. Her new ballet flats crimped her toes, and her head felt naked where her hat usually sat. And pants—don’t even get started on the atrocities of pants! Drat, those germ-infested kids. Next year, she promised herself, no subbing until Halloween. She couldn’t afford to miss this again.

 

She set the cooler on the table next to the copier and set a stack of paper cups nearby. “Free Punch,” she scrawled, leaning the note against the cooler and chuckling as she returned to her assigned classroom for the day. Now she had only to wait.

 

During first period, she had to keep quiet. First period was usually too soon. The kids were rowdy, though. Probably still high on Halloween sugar. She chuckled, imagining how their energy would interact with that of the teachers. That is, once they had the brew.

 

While the students filled out a worksheet the teacher had left, Hilda peeked down the hall. There was a teacher, clip-clopping down the hall in heels, her hurried steps typical of the neurotic, controlling teacher type. Hilda chuckled. The teacher was headed toward the teacher workroom, her hand full of originals to make photocopies. Surely she’d be tempted by the mysterious liquid in the cooler. She peeked back into the classroom. The kids were doodling and making airplanes and such—as was to be expected on a day of a substitute teacher. Hilda left them once again and watched the other end of the hallway. When would the teacher emerge? And how much would she drink?

 

Drat. The teacher emerged much, much too quickly, her arms unladen with copies. The copier must be broken. That was a problem.

 

“Kids?” Hilda asked, returning to the classroom. “What happens when the teachers’ copy machine breaks?”

 

A few of the students gave high-fives.

 

“The teachers can’t copy anything for us,” they cheered. “They only have the one copy machine, and it’s so old, it’s older than us. The school will never buy a new one. I hope Ms. McAllister hasn’t photocopied our math test yet!”

 

Hilda sighed. When word of the broken copier spread, teachers would surely avoid the copy machine.

 

Several students in the back were having a paper airplane contest, seeing whose plane could come closest to hitting the wall.

 

“That is unacceptable,” Hilda told them.

 

Their lips smirked.

 

“If you’re going to have an airplane contest, you’d better see who can get their airplane stuck in the ceiling!”

 

The kids’ eyes bulged open, and the fatigue wore out of Hilda’s body as she folded a paper airplane out of the substitute lesson plans on the teacher’s desk. She licked her lips in concentration as she creased, folded, and creased. “Now,” she said. “Watch this!” She threw the airplane, and with a twitch of her nose, it spiraled up, up, up to the ceiling, where its pointed tip caught in the holey asbestos above.

 

“How many months you think it’ll be before that comes down?” asked a student, wide-eyed.

 

“Months?” Hilda laughed. “Try years!”

 

The students chattered about having such a cool sub.

 

“See,” Hilda explained to the captivated teenagers, “being normal is boring. It’s always fun to cause a bit of mischief. Especially so close to Halloween. And I’ve got an idea. There’s a bit of punch in the teacher workroom that I was hoping to distribute to the teachers today, but it seems with the broken copier, they won’t see it. Who wants to volunteer to bring a few cups around to the teachers?”

 

Every hand shot up.

 

“You know it’s against the rules for us to be in the hallways during class, though, right?” asked one of the students.

 

“That’s wonderful! Breaking the rules is always fun. Now go to the teacher workroom, all of you, take two cups of punch each, and distribute them to all the teachers.”

 

“Why do you want us to do this?” another asked. “What’s in the punch? Is it poison?”

 

“Oh, nothing like that,” laughed Hilda. “Just a bit of Halloween fun. I call it—opposite punch.”

 

Hilda watched her classroom empty and couldn’t wait until the teachers had a sip of that punch. Even just a sip would transform their personalities for the next eight hours, making them bringers of chaos and lovers of dissent. How chaotic and wonderful the next eight hours would be there at the school. Hilda licked her lips and waited.

 

Her students returned almost immediately, and they sat quietly at their desks, resuming work on the worksheet their teacher had left them. A few even got up to borrow a dictionary to check their spelling.

 

“Kids?” she shrieked. “What’s wrong? Let’s have another airplane contest. Did you distribute the punches already? It seems you’ve returned so fast.”

 

The children looked up at her, their lips stained the deep red that could only come from a sip of her famous potion, the opposite punch. A student in front raised his hand.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I went to the main office to inform them that there are paper airplanes stuck in the ceiling that need to come down. It’s entirely inappropriate for an educational environment.”

 

Hilda squealed. “Did you—did you kids—drink the punch?”

 

“I put it near the vending machine,” one of the students responded. “The one the kids sneak off to when they have a bathroom pass. I thought—why should the teachers get to have all the punch? Students should get to drink it.”

 

“What?” Hilda’s blood boiled. “No! No, no, no! It wasn’t for you, it was for the teachers. Do you realize what a dreadfully boring day this is going to be? And I was looking forward to this day when I was home with the gak.” She shrieked and cried, her cackles turning into sobs.

 

A student in front cleared her throat. “Mrs. Bingen, could you please be quiet? We’re trying to finish our worksheets.”

 

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

 

What’s Scary?

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As a horror writer and someone with a natural inclination to delve into nightmares, I spent Halloween thinking about the concept of being scary.

I was sitting at home, waiting for our one trick-or-treater to show up, and my husband fell asleep watching television, so I thought I’d try to scare myself. It started with some innocuous Facebook scanning. I came upon a viral video of a baby that cries tears of joy when its mother sings a particular song. The baby actually smiles while crying, the way a proud parent might, or the way someone might cry at a wedding. Some of the people who commented on the video thought the baby was just especially empathetic to the mother’s emotions, but I didn’t quite think that was the explanation.

happy-halloweenMy cousin commented on the video, saying that the baby was “an old soul.”

That got me thinking. What is an “old soul”? The question led me to the whole idea of reincarnation, and I wondered about souls repeating their time on this earth. What if the baby still possessed memories it could not yet process, and the song triggered them? What if the song, or the ideas it conjured, or maybe the way the woman sang it, had special significance to a past life?

My skin prickled as I continued searching the issue.

I came upon a number of anecdotes of children making strange statements that allude to past lives that ended badly, suddenly, or violently. One girl told her parents during bathtime that she had to be careful of her lady-parts because they got her murdered last time, but it’s okay because she’s here now, and safe. Another video explains the experience of a British couple whose daughters died in an accident. The father was convinced they would come back as twins, and it happened—his wife bore twins. The couple, who had since moved, took the twins to the city where their deceased sisters lived, and the twins were able to point out locations of things they should have had no clue about. They even knew the names of their deceased sisters’ favorite dolls. In another anecdote, a four-year-old boy vividly described his experiences being shot in the throat as a soldier during the World War—and just afterwards, his abnormal and bothersome throat tumor disappeared, baffling the doctors. Videos like this, in which children know of people and facts from a past life, are prevalent in a simple search, and in the U.S. and Europe, the families in the videos are ones that had not ever considered the idea of reincarnation.

If you search for stories in and near Sri Lanka, where belief in reincarnation abounds, you’ll even more stories—of children knowing facts that they shouldn’t know, being able to navigate to places they’ve never been, being able to identify “themselves” in photographs, and having conversations with adults at a level of diction they shouldn’t be able to use at such a young age. Some children even refer to their parents from a past life as “my real mother” or “my real father.”

In all these cases, the memories so vividly described by the children disappeared by the time the children turned eight—and usually by age six.

Such mystery is the kind of thing that scares me—things that are inexplicable and provide us a glimpse of a world beyond the mundane. When there’s an element of humanity in a monster, the monster becomes—well, human. Frankenstein’s monster was able to arouse sympathy in the readers and was only scary to the crazy townspeople, not the reader. Dare I say it? Edward Cullen, a vampire, was anything but terrifying because of his human attributes (okay, not terrifying in the normal vampire way!). R2D2 and C3PO are robots, but they’re friendly and flawed—making them human and likeable. They are not scary. Heck, even Darth Vader becomes human in the end.

What scares us are things that offer a peek at the unknown—inhuman things, or things that challenge the archetype of humanity. Aliens from distant planets that can read minds, or stories of psychopaths and dolls-come-to-life with no human qualities or balance, but rather a one-track mind to murder. Stories of humans replaced by body snatchers—the idea that someone can look familiar to us but, indeed, not be human—these are the most terrifying of all.

It must be equally terrifying for a parent to discover that their own child seems to have a life foreign and unfamiliar to that of the family, or to a child. But there also must be something comforting about that—the possibility that if a life ends badly, there is the chance at another. And indeed, as some encounters show, the children express having had a choice about who their new parents would be.

To me, there is a more terrifying tale, one that offers no choice. Ghost stories that suggest the possibility of being trapped in a world of limbo, or stories of fate (like Oedipus Rex) that suggest our lives might be out of our hands. For me, that idea—that we might have no control in our lives—is the most frightening. In my horror novel Faulkner’s Apprentice, the protagonist struggles the whole time against the idea that forces beyond her control have already planned her destiny. Such a thought terrifies me. What makes us human is our ability to make decisions and control where we go—at least to some extent—in our lives. The thought that there are forces out there controlling us and pulling us down a certain path seems sinister to me. It’s why government conspiracy theories are so fascinating yet so terrifying. It’s why voting for the lesser of two evils seems so scary to me—the absence of true choice, of giving up my power to an elected official.

By the end of the night, I realized Halloween isn’t so scary after all. Choosing a costume, choosing candy, choosing what movie to watch, whether to carve a Jack-0-Lantern, how to spend my evening—these activities all affirmed my humanity, my freedom of choice. It was a pleasant evening that ended with a bit of left-over trick-or-treater candy. Yes, everything within my home and within my evening were things that happened by choice.

Yes, the terrifying things in this world are those that happen beyond my control, in closed meeting rooms and with sinister intent. But none of that had encroached on my night of research into the spooky. And to make sure of it, I went to bed without watching the news!

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt is “magic brew” in keeping with Halloween.  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.  Next week’s story will be by Val Muller, author of FOR WHOM MY HEART BEATS ETERNAL, a sci-fi romance, and CORGI CAPERS: DECEIT ON DORSET DRIVE, a mystery novel for young readers.

 

The Magic Brew, Pure Columbian Coffee

 

“You’re late,” Hi said as she entered the jam-packed Hi-Way Diner.

“I’m sorry Hi, my truck wouldn’t start,” Kathy said breathlessly as she peeled out of her jacket. “I need a cup of java.”

Hi Morasky grinned. “Make it quick. We got a full house today.”

She glanced around the diner. She’d never seen it so crowded.

Hi shoved a cup of coffee at her. “Here you go, drink up.”

“It’s black. I take cream and sugar.”

“It’s weird. Try it.”

She sipped carefully, expecting hot bitter coffee. A frown crossed her face as she stared at Hi. “It tastes like it has cream and sugar in it.”

He nodded. “Wild ain’t it? Add milk, it stays black. Everybody gets exactly what they like, it don’t matter what you put in it.”

Kathy sipped again. “What kind of coffee is this? Where did you get it?”

“That’s wild too. It’s called “Magic Brew.” A little old lady brought it in this morning and asked me to brew it up. You know me, I don’t trust strangers. Like I’m gonna serve some cuckoo bird’s special brew? But, you know, I couldn’t say no and I dumped it in the brewer. The rest is just nuts.”

“What rest? What are you talking about?”

“Miss Hargitay? She had a cup. Not five minutes later she got a call. They found a kidney donor for her. She took off for the hospital right off.”

Kathy frowned. “That’s a coincidence if you ask me.”

“Yeah? Well, I drank a cup. Five minutes later the crowd started pouring in. You’ve been missing out on tips. Lulu’s been getting twenty and fifty dollar tips all morning.” He put up a hand to silence her. “Right after she drank a cup.”

“You really think this is a magic brew?”

Hi shrugged. “Weird stuff’s been happening.”

Kathy downed the rest of her coffee and grinned. “Then something should happen to me now.”

Hi stared out the window, a frown crossing his brow. His eyes grew wide. “I think it is.”

Kathy turned. Wisps of smoke swirled around her battered old truck in the parking lot. Its once green body, long ago faded into rust, glowed with an eerie light. The smoke thickened, the truck disappeared. For an instant Kathy thought it was on fire. A burst of brilliant light cleared away the smoke. Rusty green was gone, replaced by a shiny new F-150. “Holy crap.”

“Told ya,” Hi said. “It’s a magic brew.”

 

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

 

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month’s project was “teeth.”

This week’s contribution comes from Deborah Dera. She actually cringed at the prompt this month. It came through right after she had finished procrastinating about making a dentist appointment; and it hammered her recurring nightmares about her teeth falling out home. She still hasn’t quite figured out the meaning her dreams really hold. That said, she offers this chilling description of a character not being able to get away from her dreams.

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.

***

Teeth

They’re usually everywhere, scattered throughout my dreams.

I find them in my food. I find them on the pillow next to me when I wake from the dream within the dream. Sometimes I dream I’m brushing and spit a bloody mouthful into the sink, panicking as they spiral down the drain – out of grasp and gone forever.

It’s worse each time – the fear I feel when I can’t tell if I’m awake or asleep, if the blood is real or a figment of my imagination. I try to remember if it’s normal to dream in color as I wipe my mouth and see the crimson smear across the back of my hands.

Sometimes I beg for help, but they laugh at me.

I try to call the dentist and beg them to put them back in – to make it all better.

Sometimes I can literally feel the pain ripping through my jaw.

Sometimes I dream of a slow, painful process – of rotting, of decay, of purple, swollen tissue.

I’ve asked everyone what they think it means. I get all sorts of answers.

You need to nurture yourself more!

You’re repressing feelings of loss.

It’s a time of renewal! You’re experiencing a rebirth!

You’re making a compromise you shouldn’t!

You’re anxious about sex.

Right now, all I’m anxious about is the increasing sense of doom. I fear closing my eyes at night. And now, so close to Halloween, all I see are images of bones and bloody vampire teeth. At least I’m not turning into a vampire.

Still, I know each night will be more intense and I am anxious about closing my eyes.

I brush my teeth five times each day, thinking perhaps I can counter what’s happening in my dreams by keeping my mouth as clean as possible.

Last night’s dream was the worst, though. I woke up this morning with the taste of blood on my lip and a small sore spot behind my lower front teeth.

This is it. Is this really happening?

How will I explain to my husband and children? They don’t believe me. They think my fear is in my head. How will I tell them my teeth simply fell out in my dreams?

***

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

 

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the key word is “teeth.”

Today’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie. She is currently working on a short e-book, Creepy Crazy Christmas, Volume 2. (More stories of the weird and wacky Grimes Family; publication date in November.) For now, check out her most recent book of 18 short stories, Between These Pages. Only $2.99 for the e-book. Available on Amazon and Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/329083 and http://www.amazon.com/Between-These-Pages-ebook/dp/B00DP3RDOA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1372780978&sr=1-1&keywords=Between+These+Pages

Next week’s post will come from Deborah Dera, who traditionally ghostwrites articles and web content and is currently mentoring other freelancers. She hopes to put together her first eBook for publication in early 2014.

Not With My Teeth You Don’t!

Rita stood before a mirror and stared at the foreign face leering back at her.

Who are you? I don’t know you. Do you know me? “I didn’t think so,” she muttered.

She combed her fingers through her sparse hair, wanting to pull out every limp strand. She might as well be totally bald, since there wasn’t much hair left. A shiny, hairless head would be the perfect complement to a toothless grin.

After waving goodbye to the image in the mirror, she grabbed her purse and headed to the dental school, where she’d have to pay only a token amount for dental work. Students at the local college clamored for guinea pigs. She had seen the ad on the soup kitchen bulletin board and had attended for a consultation just the previous week.

“You need all your teeth pulled,” the student had told her. “You have gum disease and there’s no saving your teeth. They’ll soon cause you untold grief. Better to get rid of them now, while the services here are free. Administration will be raising prices next semester, which will make our fees almost as high as the dentists.”

Rita had hesitantly agreed. She didn’t have extra money to fritter away on dental work, not on her meagre government pension.

While sitting alone in the waiting room awaiting her appointment, she pondered her unfortunate fate. She may have bad teeth and thinning hair, but her hearing was intact. She knew that, because she had attended at the audiology clinic the day previous, when they offered hearing tests for seniors. She only went because the test was free, not because thought she had a problem. Besides, it gave her something to do and someone to converse with. Of course, the audiologist had an ulterior motive to sell hearing aids, whether a patient needed one or not, but that stunt wouldn’t succeed on Rita, although they had tried. She had been told she was hard of hearing—almost deaf in her left ear—but she knew all that to be hogwash. Her left ear was her phone ear, and she could hear perfectly. She didn’t have any friends, so she often telephoned businesses and listened to their recordings for hours. To prolong the experience, she’d punch in this extension or that extension, not that prolonging the calls were hard feats, since it was almost impossible to reach a live human on the telephone nowadays and, if one were successful, one had to attempt to converse with a foreigner from India or China or another such place. No, her hearing was perfectly fine. The world strived to take advantage of seniors.

She watched the young woman behind the desk and, when the phone rang, decided to eavesdrop, if nothing else to prove she wasn’t yet ready to kick the bucket. Despite the receptionist keeping her voice low, as if purposely concealing her words, Rita couldn’t help but overhear snippets of the conversation.

“Don’t worry…told you I’d get them…one patient here now…at least twenty-four…they may be rotten…nothing a bit of white paint won’t fix…Miranda’s tooth fairy…tonight for sure…yes…

Positive her teeth were as flawless as her hearing, Rita didn’t need to hear any more. Heck, she couldn’t remember the last time she had had trouble with her teeth. She had only gone to the dental consultation because it was free and she wanted someone to talk to.

No, siree, no one’s going to pull my teeth needlessly. “Never underestimate the hearing of a senior,” she muttered. She let the door slam behind her.

***

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

 

Name That Cat

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While I planned to write Corgi Capers 3 over the summer, a fortunate influx of writing projects (Forging Freedom anthology and some other exciting forthcoming projects I’ve written or edited) has put me behind schedule. Looking at my upcoming schedule, it looks like I’ll be writing Corgi Capers 3 in December and January. That’s good news for readers!

My “Name that Cat!” contest has thus been extended into the winter.

I’m offering the chance for two readers to name a character in the next book in the series. To enter, take the quiz below, which is based on events in the Corgi Capers series. The two readers earning the highest score will win! In the case of a tie, I will conduct a random drawing of those with the highest score.

Winners will get to name and describe a character from the upcoming Corgi Capers 3. Each winner will also receive an autographed copy of the book when it is released.

 

Halloween-themed Corgi Capers 2, now just $2.99 for Kindle (also available in paperback)

Halloween-themed Corgi Capers 2, now just $2.99 for Kindle (also available in paperback)

The first character is a feline. One winner of this contest gets to describe and name the feline character in Corgi Capers 3. While we’re talking cats, check out this free short story about the corgis and their discovery of a neighborhood kitty!

The second character is Adam’s friend at the firehouse, where he volunteers. This can be a male or a female but should be close to Adam’s age (anywhere from 8 – 14 years old would be appropriate).

That’s right–two winners will get to choose the name and description of a feline or human character that will be featured in the upcoming Corgi Capers 3. Winners will receive an acknowledgement in the book as well as an autographed copy (for US addresses only; International winners will receive an electronic copy). The book is meant for children ages 7 – 12, so final approval of names and descriptions will rest with the author and publisher. (Names or descriptions that are incendiary, suggestive, or allude to people or characters of ill repute, or under copyright or other restrictions, or that are likely to create other problems, will be rejected, and winner may choose an alternate name and/or description). Contest is open to entrants 18 years of age and older. Children under 18 wanting to enter the contest must have a parent/guardian enter for them.

Use the link below to answer the 9-question quiz. If you’re stuck, you can find the answers in Corgi Capers (or likely by poking around http://www.CorgiCapers.com!)

Ready to Name the Characters? Take the quiz here, and be sure to enter your email and character names in the last question! Good luck!

Continuing my review of spooky books for September and October, I’ve reviewed a quirky and spooky–yet humorous–mystery. The first in the Emily Castle mystery series, this short novel follows twenty-six-year old Londoner Emily Castle to a strange party. Emily is grieving for her late dog, and the party thrown by a neighbor is her first attempt to begin her new life sans dog. The book is quirky and fun and a fast read. At the party, Emily witnesses a duo, sisters, performing a knife trick. One of the sisters looks like she dies on stage, and the crowd goes crazy with police arriving at the scene. But then the sister miraculously seems recovered… though Emily swears she saw her die.

Emily is thus left with a crime to solve—except no body to prove the crime even happened. Along her way to solving the mystery, she meets all sorts of eccentric characters. The party takes on the feeling of a circus mixed with a close-knit neighborhood mixed with a big city. It’s an interesting read, and it made me want to keep reading until the end. Speaking of the end, although the crime is solved, the book opens with lots of possibilities for sequels.

Though there are references to adult content, none of it is shown explicitly, so this would be an appropriate book even for young, young adults. I look forward to reading the next books in the series.