Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Browsing Posts published by Val

Today’s Halloween-inspired tale comes from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series. If you like spooky tales, check out her horror novel (for grown-ups), Faulkner’s Apprentice, also available as an ebook for just $2.99. Her short horror story also appears in the just-released anthology Scared Spitless, available in ebook.

Filling

Elenora Trantridge sat on the vinyl bench in Dr. Ferrier’s waiting room. She jiggled her knee and bit her lip, trying not to remember her last trip to the dentist. She’d needed three cavities filled, and the Novocain coupled with the grinding pressure of the drill had left her pale. She’d wavered as she tried to stand from the dentist’s chair that last time.

“Don’t rush it,” Dr. Ferrier had told her. “It’s a strange experience, having a tooth drilled. Just lie back and wait until the blood returns. You’ll be feeling better in no time.”

She wasn’t feeling better in no time, but she did manage to pull herself out of the seat and hobble down to the reception area, wiping drool from her the numbed right side of her mouth. That’s when the receptionist reminded her that Dr. Ferrier needed to see again to fill the three cavities on the left side of her mouth.

“Aw-right,” she said, mumbling over numbed lips. “I’ll come by nexth week. Give me the lathest appointment you’ve goth.”

The latest appointment was today, October Thirty-First, at 6 p.m. Dr. Ferrier always stayed late on Wednesdays. Elenora glanced outside. The large picture window of the waiting room revealed the coming storm, which brought twilight earlier than usual. People were already crowding into the outdoor shopping center for the Halloween festivities. In fact, her group of friends had reserved several tables at the Italian eatery just down the block. Elenora grabbed a three-month old copy of US Weekly and pulled it up over her face, hoping that if her friends did arrive, they wouldn’t look in and see her.

“Elenora?” called the young receptionist.

Elenora peeked over the magazine and swallowed hard. It was a major embarrassment for someone of her stature to have to see a dentist so frequently like this. What would her friends say? She hurried down the hallway into the exam room, glancing behind her to make sure no one she knew was looking through the window. But what could they expect? It wasn’t like her diet was calcium-rich, and she was too embarrassed to admit to them that she used the calcium paste the dentist prescribed—every night.

Still, the paste wasn’t enough to prevent these three cavities.

“Teeth just get worn out as they get old,” Dr. Ferrier reminded her as he waited for her to lean back in the dentist chair. “Now you remember the injections from last week. It will only hurt a pinch…”

He brushed some topical anesthetic onto her gums, and she shuddered, knowing it wouldn’t be enough to hide all the pain. She waited for it to take effect and listened to the people in the next room. A mother and her two sons—one speaking through a series of dental instruments—discussed plans for Halloween at the shopping center. All the stores were sponsoring trick-or-treaters that year. The younger boy would go as a ghost. The older one, a vampire.

As the doctor jabbed Elenora’s gums with the Novocain needle, she wondered if the tiny, cool prick felt the same way as a vampire’s tooth piercing the neck. As the numbing medication pumped through her veins, she watched Dr. Ferrier’s neck and wondered what he would look like being pierced by a vampire’s fang.

The image made the rest of the afternoon more bearable.

For the next hour, Elenora tolerated the shrieking drill, the grinding pressure, the violent chipping away of the compound pressed into the large hole taken out of her teeth. She tolerated the way the drill pressed just close enough to the root to create the slight cool sensation of pain, just for long enough to create a panic.

No matter how old she got, Elenora would never get used to such things.

“This last cavity is between two teeth,” Dr. Ferrier stated. “I’m going to stick this wedge in between your teeth to protect the gums.”

His assistant handed him a small implement, which he wedged into Elenora’s mouth with a force that resonated through her skull.

“Dang!” he said, pulling back his gloved hand. “I snagged it.”

He covered his bleeding finger in gauze, and the assistant left the room to secure first aid supplies, but it was already too late.

A drop of blood from his cut had dripped onto Elenora’s tooth. It fell onto her gums and mingled with her saliva before it could be whisked away by the vacuum with the rest of her spit. She tasted it almost immediately. The saltiness was distinct—much different from any other tastes of the dentist’s office.

Her eyes opened in rage, and she sat up, ripping the vacuum and gauze from her mouth. “This last cavity can wait,” she said.

The doctor, still in shock from his injury, watched her as she rose. Soon she was standing above him, pushing away the hanging light and the tray of implements. And then she was grabbing him by the shoulders with inhuman strength.

“I’m sorry, Miss—”

But she would hear no excuses. His bleeding hand was pulsing, the blood-scent permeating the room, making her salivate even through the Novocain. She lifted him from his chair, and he dropped the bloody gauze. She wanted to lick his bleeding finger with every cell of her tongue, but she forced herself to hold back. That would have been undignified, after all. What would the others say, if they heard?

And they would hear.

Instead, she lifted him from his seat and placed him supinely in the patient’s chair on which she had just been prone. “If you’ll just relax,” she said. “It’ll go much easier.”

She ripped off his face mask and tore back his white lab coat. His neck was pulsing now, the fear and adrenaline caused by her actions making the blood course quickly. Then she smiled and popped her pointed incisor. The left side was too numb, and the tooth would not budge. No matter. She could accomplish it with just the right side.

She brought her finger to her lips, dabbing a sticky bit of saliva, which she rubbed onto the doctor’s neck.

“It’s a sort of natural topical anesthetic,” she explained. “It works much more quickly than yours. Still, you’re going to feel a little pinch.”

Her fang sparkled in the light before plunging into the dentist’s flesh. The ordeal of the afternoon had left her quite famished, and she drank greedily, ultimately having to stop herself before she was completely satiated. She couldn’t kill the guy, after all.

She was feeling much less woozy than the last time she was here, and she glanced at the clock, noting that her friends would probably be at the eatery by now. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Maybe we can schedule a follow-up, though. I rather enjoyed this. And, Dr. Ferrier, I think my teeth are in pretty good shape, considering they’re over three hundred years old.”

She looked down at the man lying limply on the chair. He looked up at her with glazed, horrified eyes, his mouth hanging open, and his chest rising and falling as if taking breath required all his concentration.

“Don’t rush it,” she told Dr. Ferrier. His skin had drained to a pale blue, making his eyes look bleachy white. She took a paper bib from the counter and wiped a puddle of drool from his right cheek. “It’s a strange experience, being drank. Just lie back and wait until the blood returns.” She licked the last of it off her lips and her pointed incisor before retracting it back into her jaw. “You’ll be feeling better in no time,” she said. Then she flashed him a smile and smoothed her hair in preparation for joining the Halloween festivities with the rest of her coven at the restaurant down the street.

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 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 Veteran

 

He stepped from the shower and began to towel off. After months in the caves and mountains of Afghanistan he could soak in a nice hot shower for a week at a time. But, there was a picnic to go to, people to meet, hands to shake. Ben Hardin was an electrical contractor with a good reputation, just the kind of guy he needed going forward. He wasn’t much for buttering up people, but what the hell, when a man dropped an invitation in his lap might as well make the most of it. He had to get used to this networking stuff if he was going to make it in civilian life.

He chose a pair of jeans and a regular sport shirt and got dressed. Civies were a new thing for him after ten years in the army. This was a business event but a picnic too, so no shorts or dress slacks for the day. H e hoped.

If only Mike and Scott were going to be there. Brothers they were after the war, guys whose minds he could read at the drop of a hat. He smiled. Great guys, he was lucky they kept in touch after they got out. Scott lived on the West coast now, so that took a little doing, but Mike had an apartment right here in town which made things easy.

He finished dressing and combed his hair. The photo on the dresser caught his eye as it always did. Margaret. Before.

“I’ll find him,,” he whispered, as he did every time he glanced at her. The cops hadn’t come up with a thing and neither had he, but he would not stop hunting her killer. Every suspicious character, every possible lead, drew his attention, but so far he had zilch to show for the effort. Mike told him to move on, find another woman and get married. He didn’t understand.

He could do that, get married, but he would never stop hunting, and his wife would have to accept that. He smiled again. The right woman just hadn’t come along though. Marge was a tough act to follow.

The phone rang. He checked caller ID and gritted his teeth. Talk about not being the right woman. He picked up the phone.

 

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

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

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

Comprised of the novel Cabal, as well as four (long) short stories, this horror novel is typical Clive Barker, and you must enjoy horror to read this book. With his descriptions, little is left to the imagination, and this is definitely for the 18-and-over crowd.  This story is violent and depraved from the very start. Boone, our protagonist, is seeing his psychiatrist, Decker, discussing a series of serial murders Boone committed but cannot remember. We learn early on that Boone is innocent; Decker is the serial killer and has been using his influence as Boone’s doctor to convince Boone that he is lucky.

One thing leads to another, and Boone ends up in Midian, the location of Necropolis inhabited by the Nightbreed, a strange community of ghost-vampire-shapeshifter beings that make Boone one of their own.

Much of the story was told through the point of view of Lori. While Boone was alive, she was his girlfriend, and she is so devoted (despite Boone’s inability to fully give himself to the relationship while alive) that she follows Boone to Midian, willing to give her life to be with him forever.

What I enjoyed about the story is how the characters all seem shaded by death (remember that I enjoy horror novels). They are all torn and tormented by something or another. Lori and Boone, unable to fully consummate their relationship while alive, find completion after Boone joins the Nightbreed. Decker, the serial killer, takes great pleasure out of his deeds, but he does so in obedience to the Mask, the disguise he wears while killing. I almost felt sorry for him, as his killing sprees seemed to be beyond his control. (Note I said “almost”—the guy is still a serial killer!).

The book does have graphic scenes, describing the residents of Midian, gruesome murders, and sex, so it’s not for the faint of heart. The four (long) short stories in the book continue the theme of death, with most characters being tormented and torn as in the novel. Most of all, I enjoyed Barker’s language. There was one line that stood out to me—we’re in the serial killer’s point of view, and the phrase used to describe the wound he imposes on his victim is the wound “he fathered,” capturing at once a fatherly sense of pride at the horrendous act, the feeling of power connoted by being a father over someone, and also a slight sexual rise, as the act is compared almost to rape—the forceful taking of her life. Yes, it’s a gruesome topic, but a good piece of writing will evoke a reaction, and this one certainly did.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for the writers this month is to use three of the following words: tub, motorcycle, papers, or hard.

 

This weeks’ post comes from Deborah Dera. Deborah 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.

 

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

 

* * *

 

The Fire

 

“What the hell did you do to your hair? You know I don’t like it when you cut your hair so short. You never listen to me.”

 

I’m not a huge fan of you these days, I thought, but I keep my mouth shut.

 

“I’m sorry. Ok. I’ll let it grow out.”

 

I passed the hall mirror and glanced at my reflection on my way into the kitchen. My hair fell just to my shoulders. Granted, it was a good 14 inches shorter than it was that morning, but it wasn’t that short.

 

I felt him coming up from behind as I entered the kitchen. I moved right to the freezer and started looking for something for dinner.

 

“Besides, you spent so much time at the salon you were late coming home. We usually eat dinner at 5:30. It’s almost 6 now. By the time you’re done f’ing around out here, we won’t eat until 7. Can’t you plan anything out right?”

 

I contemplated ignoring him, but that doesn’t generally work out very well.

 

“I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry.”

 

I turned to put the meat on the counter and he pushed me out of his way so he could grab a beer from the fridge. I glanced past him at the open door, where he kept his beer so it would be accessible. There were 7 there this morning. There were 2 left. He was on number 5. Great.

 

“You’re always sorry. Just make me something to eat so I can get the hell outta here. I’m going down to the station to play cards with the guys tonight. Don’t bother waiting up.”

 

I turned in time to watch him stomp from the room. He settled into his recliner and was immediately absorbed by the crime drama on the TV. He glanced and caught me looking at him. “What’s wrong with you! Get moving!”

 

“I’m working on it. Just a few minutes. I have to go out to the garage to grab some potatoes.”

 

The garage door was right off the kitchen. I kept the onions and potatoes out there, in bags on the shelves. They lasted longer that way. I’m not sure why I cared so much.

 

I stopped on the landing and went down the stairs into the garage. Suddenly weary, I sat on the bottom step and look around. The two-car garage held his car and his motorcycle. I had to park my car in the alley behind the house. The garage was the cleanest part of the house – the only place he’d keep tidy because of his babies. His stupid car. His stupid bike. The newspapers were tied in neat bundles in the corner. The tub of greasy rags was under the workbench.

 

Hearing his voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I grabbed an onion and some potatoes and moved back into the house. He was yelling from the living room. I didn’t have to hear what he wanted. I grabbed #6 from the fridge and headed towards him. “Hurry the hell up with dinner. What’s taking you so long?”

 

I hurried back into the kitchen. I imagined his face as I used a fork to stab holes in the potatoes. I imagined his face as I sliced the onions. I felt the bruise under my rib from when I “slipped” down the stairs earlier in the week.

 

I glanced back at the living room, where my darling husband was fast asleep.

 

Perfect.

 

I took the reheated ham out of the oven, smothered his slices with onion, dressed the potato, and covered the plate. I set his place setting at the table.

 

Moving quietly, I opened the drawer next to the sink and took out a pad and paper. Running to the grocery store. Didn’t want to wake you. Back in 20 minutes. Love you! I grimaced just a little bit as I propped the notepad up against the plate.

 

His jacket was hanging over the back of his kitchen chair. I rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a cigarette and a pack of matches before grabbing my purse and keys and moving back into the garage, pulling the door kitchen door quietly behind me. I wanted him to stop smoking, but he wouldn’t listen.

 

Move quickly, I told myself. I opened the back garage door so I could make a quick exit to my car in the alley. I pushed the pile of paper and the bucket of rags, moving them to the workbench closest to the hood of his car, making sure they were touching. I grimaced at the cigarette in my hand and struggled with the matches.

 

Standing by the open door, I flicked the cigarette towards the bucket of rags and watch the embers arch through the air, landing solidly in the bucket of dirty, greasy rags. Without another thought, I turned on my heel and left the garage.

 

It only took me 25 minutes to get to the grocery store and back. I had gone to get some ice cream for dessert and some coffee for the morning mug. That’s what I told the police later on, after the fire was out. The entire garage was gone – the motorcycle, the car. There was some significant damage to the rest of the house, but it was salvageable. My husband, the firemen said, never felt a thing. His official cause of death was smoke inhalation, and they figure he must’ve tossed his cigarette the wrong way before grabbing his last beer and passing out on the couch again.

 

Go figure.

 

* * *

 

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

 

 

 

I apologize if I’ve shied away from social media lately. I have been working on a few editing projects lately—ones I am quite proud of. The first I’ve mentioned here. It’s an anthology that’s been over a year in the making—Freedom Forge Press’s Forging Freedom Anthology. You can read all about it here.

In short, it’s an anthology featuring thirty-five stories from around the globe—fiction and nonfiction featuring freedoms lost, sought, found, and won. I’m proud that the press even earned a review from Michelle Malkin, who urges readers to “share these stories.”

And she’s right. Freedom is what makes humans, human.

It got me thinking. You may have noticed that most writers have a “thing.” A theme or a type of character, something common running through all or most of their work. Once you “crack” their style, you sort of know what to expect from their future works. I’ve been thinking about branding myself as an author—as of now I’ve dabbled in middle-grade corgi fiction, adult horror, light sci-fi and time travel, young adult, and more. I enjoy writing all of it, and I haven’t been too serious about finding an agent yet. But the more I write, the more I realize something.  The stories I’m most passionate about contain my “thing.” It’s the “thing” I’ve been trying to capture since I first started writing (my stories were horrible, but the themes were there). My “thing”—the element of my stories that makes my characters tick—is the struggle to regain freedom that is lost or dwindling.

In For Whom My Heart Beats Eternal, my time-travel collection, humans are contradicting the rules of time to find true freedom to be with someone a generation away. In Faulkner’s Apprentice, protagonist Lorelei is fighting a situation that has locked her to a predetermined fate—and her undying spirit to fight that is what drives her through the story. Many of my short stories feature protagonists up against oppressive bad guys or oppressive societies. Even in Corgi Capers, Adam Hollinger refuses to accept the things adults tell him without investigating them on his own—often proving the adults wrong. My upcoming young adult novel features a protagonist who refuses to give in to social pressures despite an impossible situation, staying true to what makes her unique and valiant.

So as I continue to consider branding myself as an author and begin seeking an agent, I’ll continue contemplating that theme—freedom, my “thing”—and consider the proper genre and age range to communicate my ideas to the world.

In the meantime, I’m working on another editing project, a novel by new author David Bagwell, which is soon-to-be-released by Freedom Forge Press. More on that in a future post.

Until then, stay free!

Spot Writers: Free

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Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for the writers this month is to use three of the following words: tub, motorcycle, papers, or hard. This week’s posting—a poem—comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Her newest book, “Between These Pages,” a compilation of 18 short stories, is available on Smashwords and Amazon for $2.99:

 

Free

 

He dons a helmet for the fun

On a glorious day of spring,

Peering through the sun

He heeds nature’s eager ring.

 

Across the long stretch he goes,

Over the hills, up and down,

The wind fans his clothes

Like a ghostly flowing gown.

 

Wheels roar off the ground,

Handlebars high and strong,

Motor revs its mighty sound

Not unlike a hearty song.

 

Motorcycle zooms into air,

A mighty machine hard and free,

Sitting upon a monster-like chair

He sails toward a heavenly spree.

 

Breath swallowed, then lost,

Fragile like papers burnt to ash,

His strong lithe body tossed

High and away in the crash.

 

Light beams from a daytime star

And scatters shadows in the mist,

Angels caress earth’s new scar,

God watches while he’s kissed.

 

Strong and stately by the tree

Colourful wildflowers grow,

A slumbrous soul roams free

Within gentle breezes that blow.

(RIP –TAD)

 

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

This book is the second in the Monster Moon series written by BBH McChiller, which is the pen name of a team of three authors (Lynn Kelley, Kathryn Sant, and Maria Toth). The book follows the adventures of a twelve-year-old named AJ. He and his friends, Freddy and Emily, travel to Chinatown with his aunt. While she is at her acupuncture appointment, the three get into trouble when they wander into a bog. Turns out, the bog is haunted as well as harboring a mysterious girl named Mei, whose face has been plastered around town on “missing persons” posters. There are also mysterious noises and creatures in the bog, including two-headed frogs and something that appears to be a giant monster. While in the bog, the three also break out in a mysterious rash.

The book is a mystery, so I won’t reveal too much. On the way back from acupuncture, AJ’s aunt hurts her ankle, so she must spend the night in the hospital. As a result, the kids are able to sneak around in the bog for a while. The book is perfect for kids who like creepy reads. There’s enough “boyishness” to attract male readers, but there are also two strong female characters as well, appealing to female readers. It’s reminiscent of the types of stories one might read in the Goosebumps series. I especially enjoyed the use of kid-friendly imagery—very effective. I would have loved this series when I was a kid, as I’ve always been partial to slightly creepy stories.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompts are any three of the following words- tub, motorcycle, papers, hard.

This week’s post comes from Val Muller, who you can stalk at valm16.sg-host.com.

Back to School Night

Barbara sat staring at a stack of papers. Period Four Literary Analysis. They leaned unevenly atop the ungraded journals from Intro to Comp. She thought about grading another set, but instead she doodled on the daily attendance memo—a dove emerging from a window. Then she slouched at her desk, kicking out her knees. Her foot hit the edge of the desk, and the stack of grading shifted.

It reminded her of the leaning Tower of Pisa and its awkward beauty—only this one was ready to collapse onto her at any moment. Just like the job threatened to collapse onto her life. She glanced up at the chalkboard. Ms. Levine, she had written, followed by the date and Welcome Parents with a cartoony smiley face. She was told to be as optimistic as possible during her first year of teaching.

The busses pulled away, and she rose to glance at the window. The early autumn leaves billowed in the busses’ wake. A gust of art school blew through her mind, followed by her mother’s worried voice after the graduation festivities had ended. “So what are you going to do now?”

Double-majoring in English had made teaching a quick degree to earn, and she’d gotten certified and hired before the dust of her decision had even settled. And now here she was, stuck at school until 7 p.m., killing time before her first back-to-school night. She dreaded meeting the parents—people almost old enough to be her own parents. What did she have to say to them about English composition and the district’s new grading policy?

If only she could talk about art.

It was going to be a long night.

It was going to be a long year.

She sighed and considered grading again. Her feet ached from walking around all day, squeezing through the cramped desks of the tiny classroom. If only she could have a bath—a nice soak in a tub filled with lots of bubbles. There would be no such thing as grading or parents or students. Only mellow music and relaxation. She listened in the hallways, but all was quiet. The students were gone, and most of the teachers had run home to eat before the parents arrived.

Barbara lived too far to go home and make it back by seven, so she was stuck here for three more hours. She wondered whether any of the other teachers felt this way. They all seemed to enjoy their jobs—at least, at times. Was she the only one who dreamed of drawing and painting instead of waiting in line of the copier and marking up grammar exercises?

Before she knew it, she was doodling again, a fantasy sketch this time with a damsel in distress surrounded by a monster-filled moat, and prince charming of on the other side of a dark forest. She could practically hear the water of the moat rushing under the monsters’ webbed appendages, and she swore she could hear them growl.

She looked up.

It wasn’t a growl. It was Mr. Watson clearing his throat.

“Oh—” she stammered. “I didn’t see you.”

“It’s okay,” he said. He nodded to her drawing. “I was watching you sketch during our last staff meeting.”

She felt her face heat, and she pushed her hair in front of her face. Mr. Watson shook his head.

“I meant that in a good way,” he said. “Watching you sketch was the only thing keeping me sane during the meeting. I thought it would never end.”

She smiled. “You mean I wasn’t the only one bored out of my mind, Mr. Watson?”

Mr. Watson smiled.  “Call me Greg. And of course you weren’t the only one bored. We just all know how to hide it real well. You’ll learn with time.” He cleared his throat. “Are you stuck here, too?”

She nodded. “No sense in going home. I’d just have to turn right back again.”

“Me, too.” He paused. Looked down at his feet. “I was wondering… do you maybe want to grab a bite to eat? We’ve got plenty of time to kill before the parents arrive.”

Was he asking her out? All of his features seemed to jump out at her at once. His cheekbones. His determined eyes. His broad chest. What was she thinking?

“Okay,” was all she could manage. She stood to leave.

“You’d better drive,” he said. “Unless you’d like to ride on the back of a motorcycle.”

She slammed her hand onto her desk and watched the stack of papers tumble into a messy pile. She didn’t’ give it a second thought. “As a matter of fact, I would like to give the motorcycle a try. I’ve never ridden on one, but I can’t imagine there’s much more freeing. And I’m feeling like I need a little freedom right about now.”

He nodded. “It’s freeing, alright. I’ll make a rider of you in no time.”

They walked down to the parking lot, where the last of the busses had left a trail of early autumn leaves. As they sped away on his bike, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, she noticed the beauty in the angle of the sun and the wind in the trees. And the ungraded papers were the furthest things from her mind.

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

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

 RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

This book follows the life of Tom Black (aka Thomas Black Bull). He is the Ute son of two parents who had to live in the woods (in the “old way”) after his father got in trouble with the law for killing a man (one could argue the murder was well-deserved!). After his parents die, young Thomas is found by Black Elk, a slimy old Indian who will sell even his own family out for money. He convinces Thomas to leave the forest, where Thomas had been living with only the animals as friends yet in perfect harmony with the land, and enter civilization, where Thomas was forced to learn the “new ways” and adapt. Thomas hates it and becomes angry, especially when he is separated from the bear cub he befriended.

The entire middle of the book follows Thomas as an adult. He has become a rodeo master, riding wild horses in order to “punish” them, metaphorically killing those who have betrayed him. In the end, he returns to the wild and comes to terms with what his whole life has meant.

The back of the book was a bit misleading. I picked this book up because I am interested in Native American culture, and the back promised a connection to Jack London’s works. The beginning and end lived up to that promise. The middle disappointed: The book focused heavily on the horse riding segment of Thomas’s life, which was interesting but a bit drawn out. I really enjoyed the first and last part of the book, which focused on Native American traditions and the “old way” of living. It’s a good book, definitely worth the read, but watch out of the middle section. It will make you angry (at this point, Tom is going through an angry part of his life) and may upset you (the way he treats the horses).

What I really enjoyed were the metaphors in the book, often comparing people to animals. I also enjoyed the use of Black Elk, who Tom met as a boy, as a foil and/or comparison to the older version of Tom. It’s a great book about identity; and from a freedom angle, it is an excellent study in what happens to someone when society forces him to live and act a certain way—beyond his control. What happens to the fighting part of our spirit? Do we stifle it? Do we try to kill it? Do we fight to get it back? It’s definitely a book that could be taught in the classroom and discussed extensively in a book club.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompts are any three of the following words- tub, motorcycle, papers, hard

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.

A hard working woman my Aunt Kathryn is. Had some bad luck too, not long ago. Pete, her husband went and got himself killed in a motorcycle accident four months ago. Aunt Kathy got herself a job waiting tables at the HiWay Diner, but it don’t pay much.

Off from work the other day, doing chores, she was outside with the laundry tub, hanging clothes and stuff on the line. The second hand dryer Pete bought a while back cost hard earned cash for the electric, so there she was, outside on a bright sunny Friday afternoon.

A big wump-crunch out front on the road grabbed her attention. She spun around in time to see Marcus Tigsby’s old gray pickup slam into a tree with another loud wump.

Now, she don’t care much for old Marcus. He killed Pete, see. Drunk out of his mind most times, he was waiting trial for manslaughter and right back to his old ways in the meantime.

If Marcus smashed his truck, that was fine by her. That first wump though, that likely meant the lush had hit somebody too. A clothespin in her mouth, she dashed right out to the road. Yup, there it was, a nice looking car up against the stone wall, its driver’s side all bashed in. She ran to the window and stuck her head inside.

“You an angel?”

A man was sprawled across that center counter thing between the seats with blood running from a cut on his head. He smiled at her.

Aunt Kathy spit the clothespin into her hand. “No, you’re still alive.”

His smile widened. “An angel of mercy then. How do you do, Angel?”

She stuffed the clothespin in her pocket. “Are you all right?”

“Yup. Nope. I don’t rightly know.”

“Don’t move. You might have something broken.”

He groaned. “Actually, I’m lost, I think. Did you call the law?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

He tried to sit up straight. “Cell phone here somewhere.”

“Stay put. I’ll find it,” Kathy said and by gosh she did. She reached in, pushed the button to open the rear window, shinnied through, and crawled all round that car until she found the man’s phone. Sitting next to him in the front seat she was by then. She called the sheriff.

“You’re sitting on my papers,” the man mumbled.

“What? Oh, sorry,” she said and realized his papers were scattered all over the place. She picked up one, then two and suddenly noticed her name at the top of one. “Why do you have my name on these?”

He blinked. “You’re Kathryn Crandall? Good, then I’m not lost. I’m Mike Hurst, from Hurst Insurance. I have a check for you and papers to sign.”

“From Pete’s accident?”

“Yup.” He propped one hand beneath his chin. “My head hurts.”

“Just take it slow and easy. Help is coming.”

He frowned. “I don’t think I can give you the money today. I’m a little groggy.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll come back another time.”

“Okay. When you’re feeling better.”

Twinkled his eyes did then. “I like that. When I’m all better.”

 

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

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

 RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/