I was fortunate enough to have two weeks off of work this
holiday season. With my kids a little older, and the youngest taking consistent
2-3 hour naps each day, I was able to get more accomplished than I have in the
past three years.
In addition to completing several workouts and some unfinished projects around the house (including building a bench for the fireplace that we don’t use), I finished the draft of a novel—the first major work I’ve completed since I had kids.
But there was also some down time—time when the kids were
playing. They are not old enough to play unsupervised, so their playing means I
need to find things to do that keep me occupied but leave me focused enough to
keep half an eye on the little ones.
I thought I’d share a few of the fun (and even educational)
YouTube videos I watched.
The first two are mesmerizing to watch. They are produced by
an artist named Andrea Love who works in wool. There’s not much more to be
said, except to watch it:
The next is a video in which scientists use the world’s
fastest camera to watch light as it travels. The camera is able to take
billions of frames per second and turn it into a video (processing one of the
videos took eight hour for their computer!). It’s interesting to watch the results,
as it shows how light actually moves—in ways the human eye cannot see.
Of course there’s tons out there, but I thought I’d share
two that stood out to me.
When my daughter saw what I was watching, she asked if her
brain would turn to mush if she watched with me (we often tell her that her
brain will turn to mush if she watches too much TV). I explained to her that
some things on TV are educational, and then we looked up some documentaries
about Ancient Egypt, which fascinates her.
I’ve been reading lately about how hard it is for the
current generation of kids to find happiness because social media is such a
powerful influence in their lives, and they are always online, comparing their lives
to the lives of others. While this is one of the downsides of the Internet, it’s
important to keep in mind that as many liabilities as there are with the Internet,
there are also benefits as well.
Welcome
to The Spot Writers. This month’s
prompt is “unfinished business.”
This week’s
story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK,
a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER
WOLFE, the sequel, coming soon!
***
New
Beginnings by Cathy MacKenzie
“We need to go,” Tim said. “Now.”
Lisa glanced up at her boyfriend. “Right
now?”
“Yes. It’s time.”
“But I’m not ready.”
“Well, get ready.”
Five minutes later, Lisa appeared
from the bedroom. “Do I look okay?”
Tim smiled. “You look gorgeous. As
always. But it’s dark. No one’s gonna see you.” He snatched his car keys from
the hook. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”
Half an hour later, Tim parked the
car by the wrought iron fence, and they walked to the gate.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” Lisa
said, gripping his hand.
Tim glanced over. “Sure you can. No
one will know.”
“But…”
It was his turn to grip her hand. “It’s
okay. I gotta do this.” He flicked open the trunk and withdrew the shovel.
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, quit asking.” He scanned the
area. “It’s late. And dark. There’s no one here.”
The full moon illuminated the
cemetery, highlighting grey pillars reaching to Heaven. Some short and squat. Others tall and skinny.
Mark had been skinny. He took after his father.
She gulped in a great breath, surprised
the air was so fresh. What had she expected? The smell of death? Decay?
Decomposition? Perhaps. Except they were several yards from the first row of
graves, and the death smell couldn’t travel that far, could it? And those
nearest gravesites were old, from the 1800s. The most recent were at the back.
Any odour should be long gone after that many years. She shook her head. Quite
being so silly, she admonished herself. She’d frequented the cemetery
previously. No smell existed.
Tim slammed down the trunk lid.
“Sssh, quiet,” she whispered. “Someone
might be around.”
“Look around.” He spread his arms. “No
one’s here.”
“Could be someone behind the bushes.
Or in the trees.”
“Hush, woman. There’s no one.”
She leaned into him. Inhaling his
cologne. Gentleman Musk. She had bought it for his birthday the previous month.
She took another deep breath. Fall, her favourite season, was in the air.
Cooler temperatures always arrived mid-August. She’d miss that tell-tale sign
if she left, and she hated the thought of leaving Halifax and moving a thousand
kilometres away.
Tim was adamant he must finish what
he’d started. But what had he started? A
new life nineteen years previously? Sex. That’s all it was. But, they’d been
married, so it was more than sex. Their life together was to have lasted
forever. A match made in Heaven. All that jazz. But was anything forever?
“Unfinished business,” he’d said. “It
needs to be done.”
Unfinished business. Ironic. Not even
the new year, but it was as if he must make a fresh start. New city. New job. Cut
ties with family.
But he—they—couldn’t leave without Mark.
He had to go, too.
They walked the rest of the way in
silence.
“Here,” she whispered. “Here he is.”
Tim thrust the shovel into the soil.
They hadn’t buried the urn as deeply as she’d expected. Perhaps Tim had known his
son would be unearthed. That this wasn’t his final resting place.
Tears cascaded down her cheeks. This
was wrong. But she kept her thoughts to herself. Wouldn’t do to upset Tim, and
the task was undeniably harder for him. Mark was his flesh and blood, not hers.
His son. She hadn’t had children. Discovered during her first marriage that she
couldn’t conceive.
Tim had changed since Mark’s death.
Not yet six months since he died. And when Tim got the transfer, he pretended
he didn’t want it, but she knew differently. She hadn’t wanted to leave with
him although he had expected her to jump for joy and obey, as usual. She had
been so done with him numerous times but kept going back. “Give me a bit of
time,” she had said. “I’ll come later.” He hadn’t been happy, but he didn’t
argue as much as she had expected. Secretly, she was glad. It was her way out
of their relationship.
She clutched his arm. She did love
him. At that moment, anyhow. Felt his
anguish. But any love she’d had for him over the past year of their time
together had slowly vanished. “You okay?”
“Yep. Almost done.”
The moon shone on the silver lid half
buried in the soil. She teared. Such an untimely death. But was any death
timely?
He reached down for the urn. He
brushed away the dirt and grasped it to his chest. “He’s back.” He smiled. “I
have him back.”
“Janine won’t be happy.” Her heart
thumped. She should have kept her mouth shut.
“She won’t know. She’ll never know.”
He set Mark on the ground, picked up the shovel, and tossed dirt haphazardly
into the hole.
What would Mark think? Would he be
happy to be removed? To be taken kilometres away to a strange place? And Janine.
She’d never liked Janine, Mark’s mother, Tim’s ex-wife. But the woman grieved
as any mother would and faithfully visited him. Was it fair to let her sit with
him, talk to him, mourn over him? Kneel by an empty hole?
“Tim, no. We can’t do this.”
“What?”
“This. What about Janine?”
“To hell with Janine. He’s my son, too.”
“But…”
He walked to the edge of the cemetery
and threw the shovel into the woods. When he returned, he picked up his son. “You
with me, or what?”
“Yeah, but…” She eyed the woods. What
would happen when someone found the shovel? And the grave. So obviously
disturbed.
Disturbed.
Her boyfriend looked as disturbed as
the grave. A madman shedding tears.
“I’m going. You come or not,” he
said.
She stood, rooted like the trees bordering
the cemetery. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t walk away with stolen ashes. Mark
deserved to be left in peace. Dead or alive, his mother deserved her son. The
thought of her coming to his grave, not knowing it was empty—no, she couldn’t
be a part of this.
He turned. “Well…”
“No, I—”
“Fine. Stay. I’m going.”
They hadn’t been happy the past few
months. It was more than Mark’s death. Simple life getting away from them, and
she deserved more. She hadn’t given notice—to her employer or her landlord. Perhaps
she had known all along she wasn’t going to leave with him.
She raced to the woods and picked up
the shovel. Tim was still visible in the dim light. She could easily catch up.
He was unaware she’d crept up behind
him. She held the shovel above her head, and the scene played out in slow
motion: Tim dropping the urn, Mark hitting the ground and his ashes scattering
like lime, Tim falling…dead…
The shovel felt weightless in her
hand. She lowered her arm.
She couldn’t do it.
“Tim, we should take the shovel with
us. Your fingerprints are on it.” And now mine, she thought.
Tim turned. “What?”
“The shovel.”
“Yeah, okay.”
New beginnings, she thought. Now that Tim’s finished his unfinished business.
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is
“unfinished business.” Today’s tale comes to you from Val Muller, author of the
Corgi Capers mystery series (www.corgicapers.com).
Unseasonable
By Val Muller
It was after Christmas, that relaxing lull before going back to work but after the disasters of family gatherings had already happened. Normally, Sharon would be cooped up inside, organizing her holiday things in hope of having a better holiday next year. Like maybe her mom wouldn’t gripe about her house being un-renovated, or her dad would stop talking about grandkids. Or her aunt wouldn’t mourn her as an old maid–she was barely thirty. And besides, after the way her little nieces and nephews tore apart her home every year, what rush was she in to spawn her own?
After the family went home, Sharon kept inside. If she felt
especially trapped or restless, she might venture out to tackle some
post-holiday clearances. Once in a while she could find stocking stuffers for
next year.
But mostly she stayed in. She would stand at her sink with her endless line of dishes to wash…the cookies relatives had brought and left all came in their own containers which were never dishwasher safe, the fancy turkey platter and silver and crystal all had to be hand washed, so she lined it up on the counter to do a couple pieces at a time, and since no one stayed overnight, she could sometimes stretch this task out for days. Each piece of crystal had to be hand-dried and placed in its little box. A gift from Mother, thinking Sharon ought to have grown up serving-ware by now. While she labored, she looked out at her yard at the unfinished garden that always would be done “maybe next weekend.”
It have been left by the previous owners and included a
lovely birdhouse and bird bath that the owners explicitly listed in the
contract as conveying with the house. The woman, her name was Martha or
something like that, invited Sharon over for coffee before the house got sold.
She wanted to tell her things about the house, important things. Like how
important it was to feed the birds, since they had grown accustomed to it. So
for the first couple years, Sharon had kept the bird feeder stocked and the
bird bath full of water. But it was old, and the bird bath concrete absorbed
water, which froze each winter. It started out with a few cracks until it
wouldn’t hold water and then the birds went away and then the big wind storm
came and snapped the birdhouse in half.
Without the birds, there was no need to weed, and the whole
thing got overgrown. For the last two years it had been staring at her every
time she did the dishes. It was one of those unfinished things that she never
found time for since it was so dependent on the weather. But it always seemed
there was something more important. The timeliness of Thanksgiving preparations
or Christmas cleaning or wrapping presents.
And then when there was so much time in the winter, it was
too cold or buried in snow so that there was no use thinking about it until
spring. Then when spring came along, spring cleaning always seemed more
important, or going for a run, or catching up on reading.
But this year, Christmas was followed by a strange warm
streak. It had been off Sharon’s radar because she always assumed Christmas was
followed by cold. She had her snow boots already taken out and snow shovel wind
up in the garage ready to go. So when she went to take the trash out and the
weather was 60 degrees and then 61, she knew it was her second chance.
She hurried inside, knowing at any moment winter weather
could return. The crystal could go in the dishwasher later, for all she cared.
What would it hurt? And she donned her gardening boots and work pants, clearing
out weeds and dilapidated bird equipment. Several new gift cards would help
provide new ones.
As she stood back to survey her handiwork, a voice cleared
its throat above her. It was a neighbor, a young man she had seen a few times
before, but who has time to talk to neighbors these days?
He was standing on his balcony with a pizza box and a paper
plate. “Beautiful weather,” he said.
Sharon startled.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been watching you.” He blushed.
“I didn’t mean it that creepy. I just meant, well…they build these
houses so close together.” He chuckled. “I’m so bad at these things.
I guess what I mean to say is, I have this whole pizza, and it’s just me. Would
you like some?”
Sharon nodded. She had enough leftover turkey lately. Pizza
sounded amazing.
While it’s Friday the 13th, it’s also the height of the holiday season, a time for cheer. I’ve gathered some fun links to help you take a few minutes to relax during this hectic and dark month.
The first is a personality quiz: find out what ghost from A Christmas Carol you are (it even comes with a link to download the poster for your corresponding ghost).
Second, take six minutes to listen to “A Visit from St. Nicholas” (aka “The Night Before Christmas”). There are several versions available, but here’s one I enjoy, narrated by Stephen Fry. This poem has special meaning for me, as my dad used to read it to me over and over as a preschooler to the point that I had most of it memorized. The imagery in the poem, coupled with seeing the moon reflecting on snow in my back yard, was my literary epiphany, the moment I realized the power of words.
Finally: Do you know your MBTI personality?Psychometrics has created several Christmas resources to understand each MBTI better as they relate to the holidays. This image in particular is interesting for suggesting an appropriate Christmas film character based on your personality type. I have already watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas several times 🙂
Find more at https://www.psychometrics.com/mbtiblog/type-talk/christmas-with-personality/
(If you don’t know which MBTI personality you are, there are several unofficial but fairly accurate quizzes you can take, such as this one.)
Have a fun site to add? Leave it in the comments. Hopefully you can find a few minutes to breathe in between shopping or cleaning or getting over the latest virus that’s going around.
The anniversary of the passing of a loved one is never easy.
But sometimes little signs are there to help us cope.
I’ve been rereading (and teaching) The Grapes of Wrath, and one of my favorite characters is the
preacher Jim Casy. He quits preaching and goes off on his own to examine
meaning in life. He ultimately has an epiphany: he “foun’ he jus’ got a little
piece of a great big soul.” Sometimes things happen, little signs, little
coincidences, that make me believe we truly are all connected, and that there
is something holy and wholesome about that connectedness, perhaps even in a way
that death cannot sever.
Years ago, only a few days after the passing of my
father-in-law, I headed to work for two days just to see what the substitute
had done (or not done), to grade a few papers, touch base with my students, and
leave substitute lesson plans for the days surrounding the funeral.
The strange SUV. I took a picture so I could prove to myself later that I wasn’t imagining it.
As I put my car in park, a strange SUV pulled in—not into a
parking spot, but into the bus loop. I often sit in my car for a few minutes
before work, and in nearly a decade of doing so, I had not ever seen a car pull
into that bus loop. Not only that, but the SUV was startlingly familiar to the
SUV my father-in-law drove. And the man in it, who I saw only in silhouette,
was wearing a hat similar to one worn by, and had the same build as, my father-in-law.
I paused, staring. The man wasn’t doing anything. He was literally just
sitting. I didn’t have any fears of nefarious intent, but I wondered why he was
there. He wasn’t sipping coffee. Wasn’t looking at his phone. Was just sitting.
Something told me I should wait outside until the SUV left. I did, for a few minutes, but the SUV was not
leaving. Still, a wordless voice insisted that I stay and watch that SUV. I
reminded myself to be rational—that the reason I was in school that day was to
get grading and planning done so I could be completely present and focused for
my family in the days surrounding the funeral. So I ignored the voice screaming
at me to stay in my car and went into the school building.
Not five minutes later, the school went on lockdown for a
suspected shooter. It turned out to be nothing—just something that looked
strange on a security camera but was not actually a shooter or a gun. But that
didn’t stop the police from entering our school, keeping us on lockdown for
hours, and keeping us in a state of limbo during which we thought there was a shooter.
I had gotten there early, and there were only a few teachers
and students in the building. I spent the morning on the floor, frantically searching
social media and texting to find out from fellow teachers “on the outside” just
what was happening in our building, as during lock-down there is no
communication over the loudspeaker. It was stressful: I found myself thinking
of my husband, and what he would do if he had to mourn a father and a wife in
the same week.
The man in the SUV, I am convinced, was an angel in the
etymological sense—a messenger sent by a benevolent power to prevent me from
getting stuck in the building and spending hours in a state of stress. And he
took the shape of my father-in-law.
(I should have listened ? )
This year, something similar happened that I didn’t put
together until today. At my kids’ school, back in October, parents were able to
sign up for their kids to make a holiday-themed stuffed animal for some date in
December that I didn’t take note of. There were originally three choices: gingerbread
dog, moose, or reindeer.
(I promise this is relevant—bear with me!)
My daughter really wanted to make the gingerbread dog, and
she decided that her younger brother (too young to really make his own choice) should
make a different one than her. She suggested moose, but I thought he might
prefer the reindeer—perhaps my own personal bias.
We signed up and thought nothing of it—until we got an announcement
that the gingerbread dog was no longer available, and another animal had been
added in its place. My daughter decided of the three new choices, she preferred
the reindeer, and to avoid having the same toy as her brother, she suggested we
order the moose for her brother.
In the grand scheme of my life, this was no big deal, though
I remember my husband and I being faintly annoyed and saddened that our
daughter’s first choice had been offered, then taken away.
I also didn’t take note of the date, December 6, normally a
day shadowed with sorrow, as the day they would get to create their new holiday
friends. Today, I received a photo of my son at school enjoying his new toy,
which he made today, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s passing. It wasn’t
until then that it hit me.
The mix-up in stuffed animals was all part of a larger plan.
Between October and now, my son has fallen in love with the
children’s book “If You Give a Moose a Muffin.” He will read it with us over
and over again, and it’s the thing that calms him right before bed. He is too
young to truly communicate preferences, but fate stepped in and made sure he
got his favorite choice, even when I was not aware.
My son and his new stuffy moose.
So now, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s passing, he has
a stuffed animal that perfectly matches his favorite book. I can’t help but
think that someone is up there smiling, someone who shares a small piece of “a
great big soul,” at the joy afforded to his tiny grandson.
Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to title the story “Dinner with Mrs. Claus.”
This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER WOLFE, the sequel, coming early 2020. Watch for it!
***
I set down my beer and picked up the remote, lowering the volume on the television. Had I imagined the thud at the front door? I listened for the doorbell. Nothing.
Another noise. As if someone kicked at the door.
I flicked on the outside light and peered out the window. A Mrs. Claus stood on the top step.
I opened the door. Nope, she wasn’t the real Mrs. Claus, for this one was too young. Her blonde hair curled around the white fur of the Santa hat as if she’d been wearing the hat for months. Snowflakes dotted the red of the hat. I eyed her svelte figure beneath the matching red coat.
“I’m making dinner tonight.” She smiled slightly but didn’t move as if waiting for an okay to enter the house.
I scanned the yard for a vehicle, barely seeing anything through the shower of snow. My car, parked in the driveway, would soon be unrecognizable as a vehicle. I shivered, wishing I had driven it into the garage. Where was her vehicle? I looked around again. No other vehicles in sight. Had she borrowed Santa’s sleigh? I listened for the grunting of reindeer—I’d heard they made those types of sounds.
“Well?” she said.
I shook my head at my silliness. And for ignoring the beautiful woman facing me. “Sorry.” I took three bags from her. “Come in.”
She kicked off her heavy boots and trudged to the kitchen as if she owned the place, setting the remaining two grocery bags on the counter. I added the ones I carried.
She removed her mid-length wool coat and handed it to me. “My hat stays. What about you? Where’s yours?”
My Santa hat was under the Christmas tree. “I’ll get it.”
On the way, I hung Mrs. Claus’ coat in the closet. I located my hat amongst the gaily wrapped gifts, positioned it on my head, and headed to the kitchen.
She had opened a bottle of sparkling wine. Rosé. “Here you go.” She held out a glass, one of the crystal glasses usually saved for special occasions. Was this one such occasion?
She eyed the cookbooks on the shelves, humming and hawing as if performing the eeny-meanie-catch-a-red-nosed-reindeer chant. “This one,” she announced, thrusting out Special Pastas for Special Times. “What do you think?”
“Fine by me. You’re the boss.”
She giggled. “I am, aren’t I?” She tilted her glass to lips as red as Rudolph’s nose. Her eyes sparkled like tree lights.
I sat on the stool and watched her bustle around the kitchen, taking this pot and that pot, selecting one spice and then another, pausing occasionally to sip the wine. The aroma of garlic soon permeated the room. With a spatula, she flipped the shrimp and scallops as if she were a well-trained chef. Water soon boiled.
“Want me to add the pasta?” I asked, feeling guilty.
“Nope, I’m good. You relax.”
I adjusted my hat. “Okay, but I need to remove my hat. This heat is getting to me.” Was the wine or the stove making me sweat? Perhaps it was the company.
Mrs. Claus examined my face. I thought she was going to reach out and touch it at one point. “I’m getting a bit hot, too, truth be known.”
“So, we’re done?”
She quickly faced the stove. “Done?” Her voice faltered. “Done…as in dinner?”
“Done as in the Christmas charade, Missus Claus.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she glanced at me.
My burden lifted, too. I hadn’t realized I’d been so uptight.
“Okay, Mister Claus. Yes, we are done.” She pointed to the ceiling light, which hung low over the kitchen island, and beckoned with her little finger. “Come, give me a kiss.”
I looked up. Mistletoe. Where had that come from?
Mavis and I had a simple Christmas tradition in our household. We never ignored mistletoe. After dinner, I planned to propose another. No more silly tiffs. My bed—our bed—had been cold and empty the previous night.
***
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “Dinner
with Mrs. Claus.” Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi
Capers mystery series. Find out more at www.CorgiCapers.com.
Val, who usually writes by hand, is currently typing this tale with a wrist
brace because of… well, you’ll have to read the story to find out. This one’s
based on truth, or at least it starts that way.
Consignment Sale Santa
by Val Muller
Molly
This was the scariest Santa there ever was. Mommy used the
term “aggressive,” which she says means someone who acts like Charlie at
school. No one likes Charlie.
So there I was playing with a dollhouse at the cob-sigh-mint
sale when Santa comes down the aisle between boy clothes and costumes, shouting
“Ho, ho, ho.” He walked slow, like the robot at Martin’s that tries to come get
you. I don’t like the robot at Martin’s probably more than I don’t like
Charlie.
They’re both aggressive.
He saw me right away, even though there was other kids
playing, too. He came right over, slapped me on the shoulder and said “Ho, ho,
ho” again, like he was a robot and that was the only thing he was built to say.
I did what any kid would do. I jumped onto my mom. Moms
protect you from anything.
Mom
Like when you try to give a cat a bath. That’s the only way
I can describe it. When that Santa came down the aisle, Molly spontaneously
developed physical prowess and coordination that defied the laws of gravity and
physics. She jumped up at me, expecting me to catch her.
I always thought that moms need about eight arms, and today
spoke to that certainly. This “Santa” they had looked impressive. I think his
beard was the real deal. He sure looked the part. Old, but in a timeless way.
Energetic, but controlled. He was practically perfect for the role, except he
seemed to have let it get to his head. He walked in like he owned the place,
slapping kids on the shoulders and spouting out holly-jolly from both sides of
his—
Anyway.
I’ve never heard a “ho, ho, ho” louder than what came out of
his mouth. No concept of Indoor Voice whatsoever. When he came over to Molly, I
knew we were in for something. He singled her out, as if he were one of those
hounds that smells fear. “Little girl, I’m headed over to that chair for any
children who want pictures with me.”
I was holding three toys in my left arm and looking at a
doll that I was holding in my right. Things were going unusually well, me
finding great deals on consignment toys for Molly and her cousins. When she
jumped up at me like that, motherly instinct kicked in. I dropped the doll and
caught Molly while simultaneously catching the doll in my left hand and
balancing the three other toys in my grasp.
Really, it was amazing. I deserve a trophy.
But the brunt of Molly’s thirty-something pounds landed
smack in the palm of my hand. None of it supported by my arm. Pretty sure
wrists aren’t made to support that kind of surprise. I managed long enough to
get a picture—after much hemming and hawing and torment on Molly’s part—of Molly
sitting with Santa. Not on Santa’s lap, mind you. And who could blame her?
No, Molly was sitting on the lap of Mrs. Claus. The saintly
woman accompanied Santa, giving apologetic looks to the customers every time
Santa’s cheer was a little too jolly. Her look told me immediately they were
married in real life and she was kind of just along for the ride.
It was nice what she did, though.
Mrs. Claus
When I saw that poor woman with the little girl, I knew I
had to help. I saw the exact moment her wrist gave out. Saw it in her eyes. Her
girl jumped up into her arms like a cat avoiding a bath. Poor lady didn’t
realize what had happened, though. She was too focused on protecting her
daughter from the traumas of my husband.
James means well, but my if he isn’t just a bit too eager to
play the most emphatic Santa you’ve ever seen. James shaves his beard exactly
one day each year. January 1. Out with the old, in with the new. Then that
maniac starts growing it again so it’ll be long and impressive by the following
November, just in time for him to play Santa.
I can’t tell you how many children he’s scared over the years.
“Santa has to be confident,” he always tells me. “You don’t run a toy empire
being polite.” I never intended to play Mrs. Claus. Sure, they pay extra for two
instead of one, but it’s not about the money. I’m the protector of children.
When they’re afraid of James, they’ll sit on my lap for pictures. I have a
calming presence. Always have.
Which is why I stepped in and offered to drive that Mom and
her daughter to the hospital. It was clear she needed that wrist looked at. I
saw her wince in pain simply pushing the camera button on her phone. That’s no minor
sprain.
But of course, an injured wrist is no emergency, and the wait
at the ER was going to be long. She insisted I just drop her off and leave. She’d
take a taxi home. But that poor woman would eat up all her consignment sale
savings paying for a taxi. Better to spend that money on gifts for the kids. I
had time, I told her. I’d wait.
But a three-year-old doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
We tried reading to her, letting her watch the small TV screen in the waiting
room, lettering her play with the tiny assortment of waiting room toys. But she
wasn’t having it. And the Mom looked so miserable. The pain was taking its
toll.
So I did what any Mrs. Claus would have done. I offered to
take that little girl to the McDonald’s across the street.
“There’ s a playground too,” I told her mom. “That’ll tire
her out.”
The mom looked at me thankfully, completely trusting. This
would be her Christmas gift.
Molly
Mommy got a new brace for Christmas. It’s super cool. It
makes her wrist look like the Incredible Hulk. She said Santa gave it to her,
but I think it was Mrs. Claus. She’s the one who took me to McDonalds, and then
brought me back to Mom after I fell asleep on the playground slide.
Did you know Mrs. Claus has superpowers? She went up to the
counter and got the nice lady to give me all the different Happy Meal toys. So
now I have one of each. A complete set! All the kids at school will want to see
them. And they’ll be so surprised to hear I ate dinner with the real Mrs.
Claus. She answered all my questions about elves and reindeer. Did you know
elves drink sugar water, like hummingbirds? And reindeer can only fly when it
gets super cold.
I’ll let all the kids at school have a turn playing with
these toys.
All the kids except Charlie.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie:
https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to use the following words or images in a story: whirlwind of leaves, wizened old man, lonely call of an owl, crackling fire.
This week’s story comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara dreams, reads, edits texts, translates, and occasionally writes in two languages. She also has a lot of fun.
Shut up and listen to me
by Chiara De Giorgi
Now, just because I’m a wizened old man it doesn’t mean I can’t tell a story. Oh, the stories I can tell! Sit here with me by this crackling fire, and listen.
Do you know I’ve met a fairy? She actually lived inside my pocket for a good while. She wasn’t beautiful, on the contrary. She was pretty ugly, in fact. She had a fat, crooked nose, and eyes the size of a pinpoint. She also did not smell good. But she had stories to tell that I could in turn tell others, so here I am.
When she wanted me to listen to her, she called me. The sound she made was like the lonely call of an owl. A great sadness came over me as soon as I heard it, and it didn’t leave me unless I listened to the fairy’s tale. She would tell me of huge monsters, bloody and truculent wars, terrifying calamities. She would scare me to death, and soon afterwards she’d tell me about graceful creatures, acts of extreme courage, unbounded love. It was an emotional roller-coaster, but I was addicted to it.
One day she left me forever, in a whirlwind of leaves. I begged her not to go, but she wouldn’t listen. I was devastated, but at last I found a way to survive: I tell the stories she taught me. If I didn’t, I’d go crazy.
So, you see, my encounter with the fairy was both blessing and curse. It was a blessing, because she was a magical creature who freely gifted me with her magic. At the same time, though, it was a curse, because I’m compelled to revive her memories over and over again in order to stay sane.
Will you therefore please just shut up and listen to me?
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
One of my favorite parts about a certain trunk or treat event I take my kids to is that it’s held in the shopping center with the county’s newest library, and there are always copies of the “One Book, One Community” choice available. So while my kids fill their bags with candy, I fill mine with a new book.
This year’s choice is a graphic novel. The cover title is “How I Lost My Mother, Found My Father, and Dealt with Family Addiction,” which summarizes the book well.
I was both delighted and disappointed to find this year’s choice was a graphic novel: delighted because it meant I could read it quickly (about 2 sittings). Disappointed because I rarely feel I get as much depth out of a graphic novel, regardless of the artwork.
It was a fast read, and there wasn’t anything wrong with it, though I did find myself wanting more depth. It does contain strong language and situations, so a sensitive reader might be shocked. Teaching high school and being a fan of horror, it takes a lot to shock me, but I thought it was relatively tame compared to what I expected (given the subject matter). The artwork was engaging, and the author chose a muted color palate, which helped add seriousness–and in many ways melancholy–that the story deserved.
That said, I felt it fell short in not fully immersing me in the author’s personal struggles. I saw what he was going through, but I didn’t feel emotionally pulled into it. I wanted it to be a darker read, something that would really jolt me to awful possibilities of a family with addiction. I’m not an expert on graphic novels, so I’m not sure if there was more that could be done to pull the reader in emotionally. I felt too much like an impartial observer. At several points throughout the novel, I wondered where it was headed and why I cared. I really enjoyed the written matter at the end of the novel: multiple paragraphs that added depth to my understanding of the main character. I’m not sure if perhaps paragraphs integrated into the graphic novel may have helped.
I think perhaps because I researched heroin addiction for my novel The Girl Who Flew Away, I was prepared for much more graphic descriptions and much more emotion.
I do praise the work for sharing—in a very accessible way—the impact that addiction has on a family. It’s often easy for an outsider to be dismissive of an unsuccessful student or child without realizing that their family situation is beyond their control, and they may be fighting a battle worse than an onlooker could imagine.
I also liked how the author kept coming back to art as his saving grace. I can see this being inspirational for others who are going through a similar situation—the need to find something to give life purpose and fulfillment.
It’s fitting that I’m posting this on Veteran’s Day, as veterans are one of those categories of humans I think deserve much more help than most of us are prepared to give. Books like this are useful in hopefully opening our eyes and making us more sympathetic to our fellow human.
I would recommend this book to anyone interested in delving into the topic of addiction without getting into lots of excessive details, but it still requires a strong stomach, especially if the topic is new to you.
Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to use the following words or images in a story: whirlwind of leaves, wizened old man, lonely call of an owl, crackling fire.
Walter rubs his hands and shivers. Night is drawing to a close, and morning will soon be upon him.
He throws another log on the fire, humming a sorrowful tune that came to mind. He can’t remember the name—or the words—so he sings his own. Nonsensical phrases he’ll never repeat even if he had a friend.
Loneliness. Grief. Sadness. Where’s the happiness he once enjoyed?
“Silly me,” he mumbles, knowing darn well where his joy went. The way of everything good: a wife, kids. A home. A job.
Not that he needs a job at his age. His meagre pension covers his expenses. He’s thrifty. Has to be. Enjoys it, actually, as if proving he can overcome any obstacle.
He tosses another log into the fiery mass. The resulting sparks remind him of autumn leaves blown about by the wind. He’s careful to keep the fire contained within the metal rim. Mustn’t play with fire: a haunting refrain from his childhood. He didn’t know much about fires then and never played with matches, but his parents still spewed the words.
He stares into the crackling pit. Flames rise, higher and higher. Out of control. In the distance—the far distance—he hears screams. Shrieks. Smells burning flesh. Oddly familiar. But no, he’s never smelled anyone burning. That would do him in, for he’s read that burning flesh is an odour one never ceases smelling. His sense of smell remains intact even though the rest of him’s gone to crap.
Despite that, he inhales. A huge deep breath that relaxes him.
No horrific smell; nothing but the smoky pine of the campfire.
And the screams? A lonely owl crying in the night.
The vision? Gotta keep that out of his mind. Nothing exists around him but his tent and trees. The moon. And darkness except for the hypnotic fire that’ll die if he neglects it. That’s what happens with neglect: death and heartache.
The fire is fine. Contained in its container. Nowhere for it to go. He should never have lit the fool thing, but every time he camps, he feels compelled to do so. A mysterious force that commands, “Light me, light me.” And he does. His penance, he figures.
He’s never enjoyed camping, but the dark shrouds him from himself. He can pretend he’s twenty-five when his life stretched before him. He can ignore the white hair, the mottled skin, the discoloured fingernails. Nasty yellowed toenails, too, but his feet are hidden in his haggard hiking boots.
It’s impossible not to feel close to ninety when glimpsing a wizened face in a mirror. A stranger—no one he knows. He sighs and rubs his palms against his dungarees. Who’s he kidding?
He doesn’t consciously look at himself except for shaving, but sometimes the bathroom mirror draws him in, forcing him to shout at the invisible person behind it. “I’m alive! Foxed you, eh?”
He stares into the darkness, somewhere behind the trees. “Hey, God, I cheated death, didn’t I? Or was that your plan all along?”
God shouldn’t take the innocent, but He doesn’t care. Too many gone too soon. Too many too young.
The fire dances. He blinks, swearing he can see his wife. Yes, there she is! For a second.
Then gone.
His son and daughter. Sees them, too, but for a lesser instant if it’s possible to cut an instant in half. He didn’t have his children as long as he had his wife and barely remembers what they look like. But, no, there they are. Their faces rise with the flame, and they screech, “Daddy, save us. Save us.” His wife’s arms wrap them close. “Hush, my babies, hush. Everything will be okay,” she says. “We’re in this together.”
He’s positive she’d have said those last four words. She used to comfort him with the same words when life didn’t go quite as planned—minor blips on life’s stage now. We’re in this together.
Yes, she would have said those words when she comforted the children. When he wasn’t there to save them. When they must have called out to him, “Save us, save us.” He should have been there.
They thought he was.
But he wasn’t.
He returned home to an inferno, the flames devouring their home. Firetrucks surrounded the house. Firemen with hoses battled an undefeatable rival. Helplessly, he stood. Hopelessly, he fell.
Despite fisticuffs with everyone blocking his way, too many stronger arms held him back.
He heard no screams. Smelled no burning flesh. He couldn’t even form the horrid images of what transpired. Their deaths. What must have been in their minds?
Their charred remains were found, the three entwined together as if seeking warmth from the cold. We’re in this together. Would the words have comforted their children as they’d once comforted him?
He leans back. “We’re in this together,” he yells to Heaven.
He prays his family heard.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m so sorry. We should have been in this together.”
