Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt is based on the following opening sentence, which every member of the Spot Writers used to begin their piece:   “Every day of the week I…, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I…”

This week’s story 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:

 Sundays

Every day of the week I listen to myself—but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I listen to Momma, despite her death many years previous.

Momma had been very religious and believed Sundays were a day of rest. Rest, in her mind, hadn’t meant “take it easy” or nap. She meant we should let things be. Let things rest; don’t disturb what’s there.

So, that one day out of seven, I obeyed my momma. And I let things be. I let things rest.

I still do.

Back then, I had never thought Momma really understood Sundays, though, as much as she had preached about it. Not everything needs or wants to rest that one day a week. Insects and bugs don’t know Sundays from Wednesdays. Heck, do they even know what a day or a week is? Sure, those little critters must sense night from day, but I’m sure they don’t clue in there are seven nights and seven days within one week.

And trees and their falling leaves? On Sundays, we had to let the leaves lay where they’d fallen, according to Momma’s rules. We couldn’t pick up a leaf to admire its silky softness or crush a dried one between our fingertips. Those leaves had to rest where they landed.

“Wait until Monday, Rebecca,” Momma used to admonish me. “You can pick every last one of them then, if you so desire.”

But I don’t want to on Monday, I had wanted to tell her. I want to now, while the leaf is fresh and lovely, while the dewy teardrop lingers on the veined skin. But I never did. Cause it had been Sunday, the day of rest. On that day, we weren’t supposed to raise our voices or argue either. And I respected my momma on God’s day. A day Momma had stolen for herself.

“You mustn’t disturb what God has given us,” she had continued. “God meant for that leaf to land in precisely that spot. There’s an order to things, and if you disturb one small thing in the universe, you’ll disturb something that follows. It’s the law of consequences. There’s always a consequence for every action.”

“But Momma, that leaf wasn’t meant to fall. Leaves fall in October, when the chills come, not now in July.”

“That’s precisely my point, Rebecca. That leaf fell for a reason. Perhaps it landed there to shade a tired insect. That insect will live because of that fallen leaf. If you remove that leaf, the insect might die. Perhaps it’s a pregnant insect, and then the leaf’s removal would kill more than the mother. Those insects are necessary for some other insect to live. It’s God’s will, Rebecca. We must let things rest on Sundays.”

I had never fully understood. I had been eight when we had that conversation, but it kind of made sense. After all, Momma had been older and wiser than me and surely she knew what she talked about.

“Bugs are annoying,” I remember having said once, after that conversation about the leaf perhaps saving the bug’s life had flashed through my mind. “That’s why they bug us. That’s why they’re called bugs.” I had laughed. It hadn’t been Sunday, so I was safe. I could inquire and laugh and argue. Momma still had us under her protective wing those other six days, but those days had been more lenient.

I had learned about actions and consequences from Momma. And I still continue those respectful actions today, never disturbing anything on Sundays—not the peace, the quiet, the sole leaf resting on the soil.

Momma’s long gone now—dead at thirty-four. Killed by Poppa’s rifle.

Momma had never liked guns, but hunting had been Poppa’s favourite pastime so she put up with it. Her only request had been that he not touch his guns on Sundays. “The Lord God would not take kindly to that,” Momma had said. And she had said it only once. Because Poppa listened—or he had, up to a certain point.

Consequences. My family suffers from them now. That one bullet changed all our lives. One tiny object that had soared through the air and pierced Momma’s heart. Had Momma not picked that precise moment to walk unexpectedly into the room or had Poppa been cleaning his gun any other day but Sunday, Momma would still be alive. She worked Mondays to Saturdays, and that’s when Poppa cleaned his guns—except for that one fateful Sunday.

Poppa had always respected Momma’s wishes enough not to handle his guns on Sunday. But that day, for some unknown reason, he had disregarded her wishes, and when Momma appeared unannounced, the gun had accidently fired.

Of course, looking back now, I realize guns don’t kill. Guns kill when in the hands of humans. Against the grain of everything I’d ever believed, I sometimes wonder whether the shooting had been intentional. But, no, Pops loved Momma. He’d never kill her.

And accidents happen all the time; that’s why they’re called accidents. But never on Sundays. Sundays are supposed to be our day of rest. We should be good and kind on that day. We shouldn’t allow accidents to happen—not on Sundays.

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt based on the following opening sentence, which every member of the Spot Writers used to begin their piece:   Every day of the week I toe the mark, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I throw the book away and do my thing.

 This week’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series for kids, For Whom My Heart Beats Eternal, a sci-fi romance, and Faulkner’s Apprentice, a supernatural chiller for grown-ups. Find out more at valm16.sg-host.com

Magic

Every day of the week I toe the mark, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I throw the book away and do my thing. A magician’s blood always flowed through my veins, after all; it took but several decades of frustration for me to admit that.

When I first started working for the government, I told myself it was just a temporary setback—something to keep my bank account afloat until the economy picked up and I could go into business for myself. Besides, my parents would have killed me—going to college, racking up four years of debt, all to become a magician? It wasn’t steady income. It wasn’t steady work. It involved travel and auditions, constant mental focus and worrying about the next gig, and did I want to live in my parents’ basement forever? Didn’t I ever want to get married? Have children of my own?

That’s what my parents asked me, anyway. Threatened, more like it. They just never understood the thrill of it—standing in front of an audience, heart pounding in anticipation, eyes remaining calm lest they reveal the foil. The look of wonder on the audience’s faces, the applause, the accolades, all for me. Mom and Dad never understood what it was like to float on top of the world.

My parents had always been bean counters. The office each day equals nice, steady pay, Dad used to sing as he went out the door. I never could imagine how he would enjoy himself sitting in an office all day, doing paperwork. As a kid, I asked him what he did, and he never could articulate it quite. I’d come to understand he shuffled paper. I’d come to understand he was replaceable.

But a magician is hard to replace. A magician is unique.

Life happens, though, and to avoid living in my parents’ basement, I became a paper pusher, too. Each day spent within the cubicle, each day a bean counter. The paperwork. The reports. I could go a whole day without having to use my brain. I was just a warm body. The dull conversations. The fundraisers in the breakroom for the co-workers’ kids. Talk of weekend gardening or vacationing at the shore. So mundane. Talk of the way the new markers bled all over the file folders, or why the copy machine jammed on rainy days. Nothing like standing in front of the spotlight with every eye scrutinizing your every being, trying to figure out secrets they would never see.

I never did find a wife. I couldn’t settle for someone so content with the mundane as my parents were. I promised myself never to settle for anyone who didn’t share my sense of adventure, even if only on the inside. Mom and Dad died without grandchildren, and I grew old without a child.

It was after Dad’s funeral that I started spending Sundays in the park. At first it was just a deck of cards I used, sitting at the chess table there under the oak. I attracted spectator after spectator. Then I started with the tricks. The guessing games, the magic balls, the rabbit-from-the hat. From dawn ‘til dusk I spent Sundays entertaining spectators, most of them children. I watched their eyes, imagining what my own children might have looked like. Imagining where I might have met the love of my life had I followed my dreams instead of taking my parent’s path to safety. Would it have been on a tour? Perhaps in Europe? Maybe on a Vegas stage?

Last Sunday I saw her.

There was a little girl, but I swear in her eyes I could have been looking at myself as a six-year-old. She could have been my daughter, or my granddaughter. I plucked a pink rose from behind her ear and presented it to her. I looked up, then, and made eye contact with a woman around the same age as me. She smiled at me, a hand on the little girl’s shoulder protectively and proudly.

“My granddaughter loves pink,” she said. She smirked—almost as if to hide a blush. “I always did love magicians,” she said. “I had a dream when I was young to join the circus.” She giggled. “But we all have those silly dreams, don’t we. Still…” Her eyes glazed over for a moment. She was far away. Then she came back to reality. “I’m sorry, Mister…”

“Kramer,” I said, using my middle name, the stage name I made up for myself when I was seven. “Kramer the Bold,” I said.

“Kramer,” she said, offering a hand. “Thank you for the flower. Maybe we’ll see you around. Are you here often?”

I smiled and pulled a purple rose from behind her. “Sundays,” I said, presenting her the flower. “I do my thing on Sundays.”

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/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt is the following required opening sentence   Every day of the week I toe the mark, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I throw the book away and do my thing.

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 Memorable Sunday

Every day of the week I toe the mark, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I throw the book away and do my thing. At least I used to, before my retirement. Now Sunday is just another day like all the rest.

Back when I worked nine to five, Sunday was my sailing day. I was known for going out no matter what the weather. I loved strong winds and crashing seas. Wind whistling in the rigging was music to my ears. Most of the time.

Once when my friend and I were going on a cruise, we found ourselves in an exposed anchorage and faced with a forecast for horrible weather the next two days. The weather report for that evening however called for mild weather and light winds. Of course, we chose to take advantage of those conditions and find a safer anchorage.

We started out as the sun was going down. Light winds began to build as total darkness set in. Two-foot seas became three footers as the wind began to sing in the rigging. The boat rolled from side to side. The anchorage we’d left behind was poorly marked and a maze of reefs and rocks. To return in the dark would surely have resulted in disaster. We kept going.

The wind grew stronger; the waves grew larger. Lights on shore disappeared, then returned, then disappeared again as waves lifted us to the crests then dropped us into the troughs.

A huge wave hit and swept me off my seat. Ocean water surged across the deck a good foot deep. The outboard motor began to short out, but it kept running. The wind was howling now. Every wave crashed down upon the deck and rolled the boat viscously from one side to the other. We hung on.

We tried to turn for a harbor entrance, but the boat became violently uncontrollable, pitching and heaving like a drunken bucking bronco. We had no choice but to resume our course and delay the turn until the waves would be directly behind us. A dangerous way to sail, we could only hope the boat would not be swamped and sunk. An inferno of noise surrounded us- screaming wind, crashing waves- sitting three feet apart we shouted to be heard.

I called the Coast Guard, for the first time in my life to tell them our intention. We informed them we’d reach the harbor in twenty minutes if everything went well. If they didn’t hear from us by then we’d undoubtedly be wrecked and cast up on the breakwater. If we were lucky.

We reached our turning point and shoved the tiller over, then held our breath and watched the sea.

A huge wave rolled up behind us and seemed to build higher. The top curled over and broke a good eight feet above us.

It fell back into the sea just inches short of our motor.

We watched more waves build and curl and do the same. Only then did we relax. We would make it.

A Coast Guard boat suddenly appeared out of the darkness. I got on the radio to tell them we’d make port all right. They thanked me and kept going, heading out to rescue a sinking motor boat. Someone else had been fooled by the weatherman.

I didn’t relish the experience at the time, but our small boat  survived because we’d sailed so often in strong winds. And it remains a memorable Sunday adventure.