Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a write a piece involving a school bus, a guidebook to pine trees, and a painted rock. This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her writings are found in numerous print and online publications. New under her writerly belt is THREE HEARTS, a memoir eight years in the making about her son’s last days and how she did/didn’t cope with his death and the aftermath. Available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589197.

Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on Cathy’s works.

 

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Buses, Pines, and Rocks

By Cathy MacKenzie

 

When I grew up, I became a teacher instead of the preacher Daddy pushed me to be.

 

Mommy wanted me to be a mother and raise a brood of ten kids like her and, she said, “Be like the wife of your brother.”

 

I said, “No way! Neither’s the life for me.” And I wandered fields of corn and wheat, pondered my future that looked oh so bleak, for I was weak—though I did stand tall, stood my ground despite my feet in quaking shoes.

 

Years passed oh so fast…

 

Back then, in those times and in that place, we instructors could sub as bus drivers, and so it was that one hot sweltering day in June I took the seat of deceased Pete Hilliard and steered twenty-five kids to home.

 

On the way, while at an unnecessary stop sign on a deserted dirt road, I spied Pete’s Guidebook to Pine Trees. No time to leaf through the pages but how wonderful it would be to detour for an excursion with these unruly kids who lived off the grids—perhaps pinecones might drop from a tree and knock sense into them so dense.

 

“Hey, kids,” I shouted into the din, “wanna have some fun?” I wasn’t known to be a fun-type of teacher (would never have lasted as a preacher), so the kids sat still (probably against their will) and frowned until one screamed, “Yes, let’s have some fun!”

 

And that’s how the sunny warm day turned into an evening of thrill and chill…

 

Henry found a painted rock (unknown in those dark ages) hidden behind a scraggly bush. ’Twas a plumpy penguin—ha, apropos in today’s grumpy trumpy times—but once he screeched of his find, the other twenty-four whined for theirs. Alas, that sole rock was just that: an anomaly (no more to be found), which enraged the rest of the bunch who turned into a gang of sorts, almost driving me to escape out of my shell to hell.

 

“Kids, come on, be the better soul,” I did screech. “Painted rocks are not yet in fashion. But, hey, if you want to get ahead of the times, let’s all search for perfect stones, and then I can drop each of you home. You can explain to your mother or father that you were tardy after school, too busy trick or treating for rocks, but then I—the great saviour-school-bus-sub—came along to drag you home, without a nag or fuss or muss.”

 

I paused for effect, checked each child one by one, but I’d scored a homerun! All listened acutely without spouting blather.

 

“And when you get home, you can gather paints and paint your rocks. Tomorrow, we’ll hide them for another kind soul to find. And that’ll make us all happy, right?”

 

Dumbfounded, they stared as if I were God or some sort of alien creature instead of their teacher, and then they clapped and stomped their feet, happy for fun homework (no doubt they’d cheat!).

 

And, dear friend, that is the end of the story of the school bus, the guidebook, and the painted rock. Thankfully, not one child got struck by a cone and not one did scorn, so I consider that day a win in every way.

 

Except…

 

Soon after, right or wrong, at the breaking of dawn’s light while bothersome birds sang their insufferable song, I quit teaching. Alas, mother and father and brother were long gone by then, never were they that strong—unlike me, standing tall in shoes that never quaked again, preaching to strangers in pews.

 

 

***

 

The Spot Writers:

 

Val Muller: http://www.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 to write a story in which the main character is a creative writing teacher. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, who is so busy revising and illustrating her Corgi Capers tales that she forgot it was her turn to write!

The Easiest Job in the League

By Val Muller

“A timer?” She placed her hands on her hips. “Like standing there the whole time holding a stopwatch and clicking the button when they finish their lap?”

The swim official nodded. “That’s right. It’s the easiest job in the league. Best way to get volunteer hours.”

Right. Volunteer hours. Those required hours you had to fill or pay the fine. She had always preferred paying the fine. It was easier to sit in the stands at the swim meets, laptop on her knees, letting her mind zone out with the monotony. She could earn enough through her writing to pay the league for her missed hours, and the work was much more enjoyable.

But now, the officials were combing the stands in search of volunteers. Required hours or not, they said, the meet could not run without volunteers, and everyone would have to sit there, swimmers included, until five more people stepped up.

More time to edit, she thought.

But then, there was her daughter. She was here to swim, after all.

Before long, Jackie found herself standing there on lane 9, holding a timer in her left hand and a plunger timer in her right, waiting for the clock to start. Her partner, holding a stop watch and a clipboard, offered a smile. “It’s so fun to watch from down here. You get such a good view that way,” the woman said.

Jackie wracked her writer brain for something to say, some positive and innocuous banality, but there was nothing. Her brain ran loose with allusions to Dante’s inferno, and she wondered which circle of Hell made you time a swim meet.

“I’m Claire, by the way,” the woman said.

Jackie nodded, but her mind jumped to another scenario, one in which she ran down the line of timers, pushing each into the pool. Of course it wouldn’t be her doing it. It was a character with a backstory, someone who had been slighted early on in life, maybe someone with a toxic mother. Pushing the timers into the pool was just the tip of the iceberg. But she wouldn’t use such a cliche in her description, of course. It’s just that it was so hard to avoid being trite when she had to–

“That’s the start!” Claire screamed.

Frantically, Jackie pushed the button on her stopwatch. The first race was the little kids, just one lap. But they were slow. Thirty four seconds was just enough time to–

This time, the aquatic center was abandoned. It was a post apocalyptic novel, probably a young adult piece, and of course there would be some teens who made their way to the pool. They would drain it, maybe. Or maybe fill it with toxic chemicals to trap the zombies. There would be zombies, right?

“Here she comes!” Claire called frantically. “Get ready!”

Jackie looked down just in time to see the swimmer in lane 9 hit the wall. Jackie hit her stopwatch and the plunger and showed her time to Claire, who recorded it on the clipboard.

“It’s so hard to keep your mind on it,” Jackie mumbled. But Claire didn’t hear with all the cheering and yelling and splashing echoing in the pool room.

“These next races are medleys. You have to count. Two laps of each stroke.”

Two laps of each stroke? That was enough time to compose a novel. Jackie hit her stopwatch and peered up at the stands. There was a man looking disinterested and angry. Wonder why he didn’t get asked to be a timer.

And that’s all it took. She was off in the middle of a spy novel. The man had no swimmers in this meet, of course. In fact, he had no children at all. That is, none that he knew about. But that would all change after today’s rendezvous. The woman who called him here under the guise of needing a private eye was actually a former lover, and their one-night stand was now twelve and about to enter the seventh grade. He would not take it well. He would have no interest in her and would remain estranged, sending only a birthday card once a year until a tragic accident killed his former lover, leaving him the sole–

“Jackie!”

Claire was punching her. “That’s the race. Did you get it?” Startled, Jackie pushed down on both the plunger and the stopwatch.

“It’s too late,” Claire said. “Swim is a sport where a fraction of a second counts.”

Three minutes later, sheepish yet relieved, Jackie was walking back to the stands, wondering what she should write while waiting for her kid to swim. The grumpy man passed her along the way. A frowning swim official handed him Jackie’s stopwatch and threw Jackie a glare. The grumpy man would be taking Jackie’s place as a timer.

“You’ll keep your mind on it,” Jackie whispered to him, once he was too far away to hear, watching the way he swayed as he walked, capturing the beauty of it for her next great work.

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/

 

 

Today, February 28, 2025, is a planetary alignment, in which 7 planets—Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune—appear on the same side of the sun, allowing us to view them all (mostly) by eye (or telescope).

Several people asked if I was going to take a picture, since I have been known to take pictures of sky events, such as the October 2024 aurora, comets, or the Milky Way. I’m happy to take pictures to share, and I’m glad my pictures bring joy to others, but there is something about being out there in the world, looking up at the sky, that just can’t be communicated in a picture.

Earlier this fall, my daughter and I were able to see this streak of Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS with the naked eye, and we set up my camera to document the image. The picture is cool—sure, a comet—but what I remember more is watching my daughter look up at the sky and realize how much is out there than appears in everyday life.

A picture of my daughter looking for the comet.

A picture of my daughter looking for the comet earlier this past fall.

The comet, captured from our driveway.

When the aurora appeared at dinnertime here in the South on that amazing day in October, I ran outside, telling my family I would report if I saw anything. But when it turned out to be way more amazing than I could have imagined, I was too afraid to run inside. What if the aurora were short-lived and this was all I got? What if I took a moment to send a text and missed the chance to capture it with my camera? I ultimately did sprint into the house to retrieve the rest of my family, and I ended up staying out from that evening until past 1 in the morning, despite them all going to bed and me having to work in a few hours.

An improbable, but possible, occurrence: the Aurora Borealis appearing in the South in October, captured from my yard.

It’s hard to explain, the feeling that there is just you and the universe, and as the observer of the universe’s magic, you are somehow contributing to it. If you weren’t there, the magic would be different. The universe in that particular slice of space is performing for you.

As the planets moved into alignment in the days leading to February 28, I was reminded of one of my favorite childhood movies, The Dark Crystal. In it, a “great conjunction” of three suns marks the deadline by which the hero must heal the world, lest evil reign forever. I don’t think there’s anything inherently magical in an alignment of planets, or suns, or a comet. It’s the event in itself—a unique coincidence of conditions, like winning the lottery—being observed that creates the magic. The event is not likely, it’s not probable, but it is possible.

My love for night sky photography started during the pandemic with the comet NEOWISE. Like many, probably, I kept asking myself, why was I born during this time, to live through a pandemic, to have to do my job and teach my kids simultaneously all from home, to field all the fear and change. When NEOWISE appeared and I learned the magic that a simple DSLR camera can capture, my mind shifted. Like the characters in Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian,” most people were inside, worried about emails, enraging through the news or escaping through shows, washing dishes or vacuuming. Above them, unknown to most, a comet raced by, providing a short glimpse of the universe’s mysteries. It was Janie’s vision under the pear tree. It was Gatsby’s green light. It was a sign that there could be something more.

Things are happening all the time. People have lived through world wars, holocausts, personal victories and woes, changing administrations, new ideas disrupting the norm. In ancient civilizations, people lived through things we may never discover. But when I stand on my yard in the darkness of night, a camera or binoculars in my hand, I feel tall and tiny all at once. I feel the curve of the Earth beneath me, the bend of the atmosphere above. I am reminded that I am stardust, brought by an improbable but possible set of coincidences to this particular place in this particular time; and as part of the universe, I am a speck of its magic—and all those who check to see if I got a picture of the latest celestial event, or those who are reading these words, the magic is changed because of you, and you are part of it, too.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a poem about winter. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

Starmen

By Val Muller

Going stir-crazy on the craft,
We open the bay doors
After an hour or so suiting up:
If any skin is left exposed,
It could wither in seconds here.

This is not our destination:
We are passing through merely.
The landscape is hostile to life,
So our stop will be brief.

Our boot-prints mar the ground
As once our species marked the moon.
This landscape is just as hostile:
Cold, colorless, barren.

Crunch, crunch, crunch
Until we try the surface with a shovel,
Digging for signs of life beneath.
Some withered grass and a broken pail
Suggest this place
Once contained life.

We can almost picture it–
Life under the drifted shapes
And ghostly shades of white,
Almost. Like a lost dream
Or the memory of a past life.

We stay out until our eyes burn
From the brightness,
Our lungs burn from the cold,
And our hearts ache for birdsong.
Then are we called in to safety.

We reenter and remove our gear,
Hanging it to dry near the bay door.
The rations? Hot chocolate
Served by the fire.
Doors sealed, the ship blasts off,
Continuing on
With climate control blasting
Fossil fuels against the cold,
Keeping us alive,
Determined to take us to
The next signs of life:
The spring’s thaw
And the summer’s song.

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/

 

Poetry: Curtain

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Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a piece involving a source of light (this can be taken literally or metaphorically). Today’s poem comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series.

Curtain

By Val Muller

Some days on the way to work
When I take that one road,
The one with all the farms and the long fences,
The Sun is just right
Rising over the horizon,
Kissing the dew speckled fields.

For an instant, the rest of the world
Disappears
And I am alone with the golden aether:

A frozen moment,
Timeless and transcendent.

Before the curtain falls again
And I return to thoughts of work or the commute,
I am in a place where hot and cold
Do not exist,
Where there is neither up nor down,
Where nothing is discrete,
Darkness unheard of.

And in that timelessness,
Only a brief moment of my morning
But somehow an eternity,
I know that the Sun that is
The entire light of our world
Is just a pinhole in the curtain
Of what lies beyond.

 

 

The Spot Writers:

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 “winter is coming,” and today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. Look for releases of books 4 and 5 in 2025!

The Fancy Wrapping Paper Exchange Club

By Val Muller

It was about that time, that certain chill in the air, winter was coming. Gus zipped his jacket and peered one more time up the staircase. This had all been so much easy easier before the dog died. At least in those days he could always just claim he was walking Bailey. But now he had to make up excuses, and it wasn’t even trash day.

It was the first night that a cold snap was truly coming. There was going to be frost on the ground in the morning and the kids were going to start asking about those Christmas elves. They usually showed up right after Thanksgiving. Or sometimes December first, but some of the families had their elves show up on the first frost. The weather was making some of the families nervous, so they sent the men out tonight to do the wrapping paper exchange.

It was an idea that came about when Frankie down the street decided he was going to keep a scrap of Santa wrapping paper from every year. He was one of those kids destined to be a historian. Or maybe an archeologist or a detective. His attention to detail was going to be the downfall of every family in the neighborhood. Rumor had it he was even keeping pieces of tape to check for fingerprints.

So every year, the family pulled that special tube of wrapping paper down from the rafters, or wherever it was they stored it for the year. And they met up at the Martin’s shed at the front of the neighborhood. Some of them had had experience doing these sneaky nefarious things as teenagers, and Gus imagined it must be sort of exciting to get that adrenaline rush again, to feel again like children.

For Gus, this sneaking was a new thing and definitely got to his nerves. Probably two times out of seven during the week, at least one of the children would get up for water. Or forgetting to do a homework assignment. Or any of the other five thousand things kids do while they’re trying not to fall asleep at night.

Rebecca was in bed reading, but he knew she would be asleep in the next five or ten minutes. Gus thought about leaving the shower on, but that would be a long time for the water to be running and after all, it was a drought year. It would be unfair to use the water for this purpose. He just had to hurry up and hope for the best.

George kept a list, and every Christmas Eve, he texted it to the other fathers in the neighborhood, just in case. And it was a good thing, too, because George got a new phone and forgot to transfer the list over. So when guys got there, Mike had already pulled up the list, and they were comparing notes. Gus had the red foil paper last year and it was his turn to pass that over to George. Mike had the glittery Santa paper and that would go to Gus this year, and so on. There were certain papers that Frankie was aware of and others that he wasn’t. All the families tried to go to off-beat stores and purchase fresh rolls for future years.

It wasn’t until last year that Frankie started getting other kids involved and making the matrix that much more complicated. In some ways, all the dads couldn’t wait to spoil the surprise so that at least Frankie could be on their side and help with the younger ones.

There at the shed, there was the obligatory exchange of pleasantries, some talk about their children’s milestones or whose kids had the bad teachers this year. Gus felt under the surface the repressed talk of men who could truly be friends if not for the relentless responsibilities of families, responsibilities so demanding that meeting at night near abandoned shed to exchange wrapping paper was all that they had left.

The exchange was made, a few of the dogs pooped and that had to be cleaned up, but soon the men went home because after all, they were sneaking out and they had to get back quickly and store the wrapping paper somewhere secret before they got too tired to think.

They were like burglars, plotting the best route home so as to avoid any detection by relevant neighborhood cameras and doorbell cameras. His house being on the cul-de-sac, Gus would be the last to get home. He had forgotten just how dark the neighborhood was. And it was never so quiet as now, walking alone, his first year without Bailey.

In the quiet night with only a slim sliver of a moon lighting the way, his breath left ghostly trails in the air as a thought crossed his mind. He and these other dads, they were walking almost like zombies or people possessed. What was making them do all these things? What was making them hide the wrapping paper? What was making them wrap these gifts so secretly? All for the children’s happiness.

A thought crossed his mind that maybe there was more to this Santa thing than he had realized. He heard a rustling in the woods behind the house and it almost sounded like sleigh bells. Gus shivered and turned up his collar, being careful not to tear the wrapping paper since it felt like maybe there wouldn’t be quite enough for the gift he would be wrapping that year.

He turned to look up at the moon, and a jolly laughter echoed in the air, or at least in his ears. And as he gazed up at the starry sky, he could swear he saw the silhouette of Santa’s sleigh being driven by eight tiny reindeer scurry across the moon.

The Spot Writers:

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 “Halloween with a twist.” Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

Howl by Val Muller

The sun rose in rays cutting through the mist. Randy shook his fur and adjusted his shirt. It was finally here–Halloween. Tonight was his night to prove himself, to terrify small children and howl at the moon, to rustle through bushes and leaves, to claw at doorways.

If he did all that, maybe his dad would finally get off his case.

The werewolf academy was awarding only three red shirts this holiday, making the high award an elite honor most likely out of Randy’s league but definitely on his dad’s radar.

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with being a blue shirt,” Randy said at dinner just last week. He had been assigned to terrify a young brother and sister walking their dog after dark, but he really didn’t see the need to do such things. Besides, dogs were a little intimidating.

“No werewolf aspires to be a blue shirt.” His dad tore a piece of raw meat off the bone, letting the remnants clatter to his plate with a splat while he chewed. Then he rubbed his claws along his size XL red flannel shirt, still emblazoned with the werewolf academy patch and the year he earned it.

“Dad, it’s not the seventies anymore. Not everyone needs a red shirt. And even if I stay a green shirt, I–”

His dad growled at the very idea of Randy staying a green shirt. The wereboy lowered his head and munched on a piece of broccoli.

“Dang it, Randy, I’ve told you how many times. You have to eat your meat first. You think I’m gonna let you fill up on vegetables?”

Randy sighed. The whole week, dad had been like this. Criticizing his diet. Saying his teeth weren’t sharp enough, his fur not matted enough.

“You know, Matthew got groomed this weekend,” Randy had said. “All the kids at school seem to think his haircut looks nice and–” That set off Dad, of course. Next thing Randy knew, they were at the local dump finding musty discards to roll in.

“No son of mine is getting groomed, and certainly not this close to Halloween.”

Since then, they had hunted, clawed, lingered, and howled. But Randy still hadn’t found that drive, that urge to scare.

Now, Halloween morning, Randy was determined to put the issue to rest. If he could only just terrify someone, maybe instill in them some indigestion or the need for anti-anxiety meds, maybe that would be enough for Dad.

Randy headed out of their foresty shed in search of victims. The first victim was a woman walking her dog. It was a little one, a chihuahua. But you know what they say about little dogs. Randy chose to stay on the opposite side of the street. He threw the woman a creepy look. Alright, it was more like a sideways smile, but still. Dad couldn’t say he didn’t try.

The woman gave a half wave and a sympathetic smile. “I like your costume,” she said. “Very scary.”

The way she said “scary,” Randy could tell she really didn’t think so.

Randy continued walking toward the town. Surely someone would be frightened. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his green flannel shirt to add that extra little look of dishevelment.

Soon, screeching tires and backup lights. “No. Way.” A voice called. Randy caught up to the truck that had stopped on the side of the road. The guy at the wheel looked pretty frantic. Maybe he would make an easy victim.

“Dude,” he said. “You look just like Freddy.”

“Freddy?”

“Yeah. He was our last werewolf. Something came up, though, and he can’t play the role tonight. We don’t have any spare actors, and I’ve been racking my brain all morning. Want to make an easy couple of hundred bucks?”

“Hundred bucks?” Randy approached the car.

The man nodded. “I mean, your costume looks so good, it could be real.” He reached out and tugged Randy’s facial fur. “That’s some beard!”

“You’re not scared of me?”

The man laughed. “I run a haunted woods attraction for a living. I’m not scared, but I know hundreds of people who will be.”

Randy howled. “Sign me up.”

* * *

The early November sun gently lit the morning fog. Randy crunched on a celery stalk while Dad ate some marrow out of a freshly cracked deer bone.

Between bites, he looked at Randy and smiled. “So proud of you for earning the scariest character award at that haunted woods place you went to.”

“You’re not mad I only earned a blue shirt from the academy?” Randy smiled, hoping the whole red shirt thing was behind him.

Dad let out a playful growl. “You only earned a blue shirt for now. There’s always next year.”

Randy looked down at his “scariest character” medal and the way it gleamed in the sun. His chest swelled with pride, which he released in a long, eerie howl that even made his own skin crawl as his mind wandered to next Halloween.

The Spot Writers:

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 week’s assignment is to write a story in which a celebration coincides with a weather anomaly. This week’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

The Inaugural Launch of the Hammingway County Library Book Club
By Val Muller

Emily adjusted the book in the middle of the picnic table again. She eyed the centerpiece. Then she wiped the sweat from her brow. A wool sweater and a plastic campfire made the heatwave seem that much hotter. Hundred-degree days in September seemed…wrong. With pools closed after Labor Day, it seemed like a cruel joke from the universe.

And a cruel joke for her first day on the book club project. It was her first community outreach assignment, her first day away from the circulation desk and the stacks, the inaugural launch of the Hammingway County Library Book Club. And here she had chosen a book with strong late fall vibes. Back in June, when she imagined September, she thought the rustic picnic spot would give Halloween vibes with a kiss of frost.

But now, the heat wave. It was being called “historic.” And the book had been a disappointment, too. The whole thing followed this stalker, the crisp fall weather being a metaphor for his cold intentions, but he never actually did anything. It was almost entirely stream of consciousness except for a few pointless interactions. Even the stream behind Emily seemed to laugh at her choices. Would anyone even trust her to pick a book again, let alone plan the meetup?

Just as she was starting to think, or maybe hope, no one would be coming, a car’s tires echoed on the gravel parking lot. Three doors opened, and out stepped four adults, four women and a man. Two of the women carried tumblers.

“Oh good, we didn’t miss it,” one of them said. She sloshed her tumbler around in the air. “See, I did have time to stop home and grab my special drink.” The other one with a tumbler shared a smile, and the group headed toward the table.

“Hot enough for you?” Emily said lamely.

“You know,” one of them said, “It’s just nice for us to be out of the classroom.”

The man picked up a pinecone from the table. “We’re all teachers, and we’ve reached that point in the year where the honeymoon is over, and Thanskgiving’s not close enough. We thought the bookclub would be a nice break. Sure is hot, though.” His brow had already beaded in sweat. More tires on gravel, and out stepped a frazzled-lookikg mom and her children.

“Mommy, mommy, there are already people at our picnic spot!” a child moaned.

“It’s not ‘our spot,’ Billy. It belongs to everyone.”

The boy eyed Emily, then the group. The two women with the special drinks shared a laugh. Then the boy sprinted to the stream and splashed. Even Emily felt the wave of jealousy pass over the group.

“Come on in,” the boy shouted. “This water is so refreshing!”

The man eyed the pinecone in his hand. “I’ll be honest,” he told Emily. “I didn’t get past chapter 9. I mean, the guy just didn’t do anything.”

Before Emily could answer, he was already taking off his shoes.

*

A half hour later, a soaking Billy made his way to his mom’s car, with four half-drenched teachers in tow. The man stopped to shake Emily’s hand. “Really fun time,” he said. He picked up the pinecone again and chucked it toward the stream. It landed with a plunk and started its spiraling journey downstream.

The two teachers picked up their empty tumblers and giggled. “You’ll have to let us know when the next book club meets,” one of them said. “Only, maybe the protagonist could actually do something next time.”

“And maybe it won’t be so hot.”

Emily nodded, already taking mental notes, thinking how to attract even more patrons next time.

“The weeks between winter break and spring break are especially long,” one of them added helpfully as the group continued to their car.

Emily nodded again, cleaning up the centerpiece. Then she giggled, picked up the book from the centerpiece, and threw it into the stream.

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 week’s assignment is to write a story that begins with the words “and then it started to rain.” Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, the author of The Corgi Capers kid lit mystery series.

Running in the Rain
Val Muller

And then it started to rain. There he was, dressed for a run during one of the longest droughts on record, ready to start training, and now this downpour. In this rain, his shoes would be soaked in minutes, and so would his knee brace.

The worry in Mike’s gut dissipated with his anxiety over running up the hill on Blakeney Court or his concern he would hit a wall five miles in and have to shuffle back home. And no one would be able to judge him for this. Knee surgery wasn’t easy, and neither was running. Why, he should get a medal just for getting dressed.

He hurried under the overhang and navigated as best he could to the apartment’s gym, managing to stay mostly dry. As if in conspiracy with the rain, the elliptical and treadmills were all taken. Only the weight bench and the bike remained open.

How easy would that be? It was like getting away with murder. No running. Easy bike. Maybe a few weights. His knee would have no chance to fail. There would be no pain.

He started the workout, choosing a rigorous hill course that took 45 minutes to complete. See? Rigorous. No one could judge him. Less than a mile in, though, and he knew it was too easy. Better than nothing, obviously, but if he really wanted to make a change, this bike was not the way to go. Was this really the best use of his workout time?

An old woman walked into the gym. She chose the bike next to Mike and opened a novel. “Nice day for biking,” she said. “It’s really coming down out there,” she said. She started biking in a leisurely way, going slowly enough that she could read her novel.

Mike kept it up for another mile, but he kept looking outside. The rain had been a heavenly chorus, and excuse, but now it was mocking him. It was telling him he couldn’t do it, encouraging him to give up.

He got off the bike, wiped it down, and nodded a good day to the woman next to him. Outside, the rain was heavy. Steady. His feet were soaked within his first two steps, and the rain soaked the front of his shirt. At the same time, he smiled. He’d forgotten how fun it was to run in the rain. Like being a kid again, like the universe was winking.

The pitter-patter of the rain matched his footsteps as he turned up Blakeney Court and smiled.

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/

This post was supposed to go live on Mother’s Day, after my mom opened her gift. But one of my daughters (we are thinking the baby) gave me strep and a sinus infection, so we had to postpone a Mother’s Day celebration. It almost feels like the good old pandemic days!

Anyway. Knowing my mom, she probably has not yet opened the gift I left on the desk at her house and is waiting for the in-person get together, but mom, if you are reading this, this is your sign to open your gift 🙂

A month or two ago, I received a notification from a friend congratulating me that my story was in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book. I hadn’t submitted any recently, so I was confused. Turns out, a story that had been published a while ago was being re-published in a new release (Mothers and Daughters edition).

The book came out in time for Mother’s Day, of course, but it was especially timely for me. Any teacher can tell you that May is a challenge, and on top of that, a baby who doesn’t sleep…I was worried I would not have something “homemade” for my mom. The timing of this book was perfect. My mom can revisit the story that she was part of, and she can also enjoy a hundred other stories of mother and daughter bonds, all while I recover with matching antibiotics with my own daughter.

Having kids of my own, I see how essential moms are to the world. One day a year isn’t enough!

To all the moms, past, present, and future, I wish you many moments worth writing about!

Press release:

Mother’s Day

COS COB, Conn. – Samantha LaBarbera’s mother was her family’s “beacon of positivity,” a young widow who always demonstrated positive thinking while she was raising her two children. As a grandmother, she showed her grandchildren how to live her mantra—“never give up”—when they walked block after block to find an elusive ice-cream truck at the beach.

Miriam Hill felt a little silly when she gave in to a gut feeling and called the Coast Guard, reporting that she believed her daughter and son-in-law were in trouble after they paddled their canoe to an island to go camping. Sure enough, she was right, and the Coast Guard had to rescue the young couple, with her daughter saying, “We never would have made it back alive if you hadn’t used your good judgment and called for help.”

Those are but two of the 101 stories of appreciation for mothers and grandmothers in a new collection of true, personal anecdotes, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Mothers & Daughters (March 19, 2024, 978-1-611591125, $16.99). There is something truly magical about the bond between mothers and daughters… and grandmothers, too. Sometimes, it’s hard to put those feelings into words, which is why Chicken Soup for the Soul has been so successful with its books about those special relationships, with stories that illustrate the ways in which these female family members admire and depend on each other.

“We make these books as a gift to moms, grandmothers, stepmothers, mothers-in-law, or honorary mothers, with stories that will make them laugh, tear up, nod their heads in recognition, and most importantly—know they’re appreciated,” says Chicken Soup for the Soul’s editor-in-chief Amy Newmark. “That appreciation is important, because mothers spend years imparting unsolicited advice and often don’t hear much gratitude until theirchildren are grown. This new collection of stories compiled from our library reassures mothers that their children are listening, learning, and loving them back—and that their daughters will probably grow up to be just like them!”

Of course, there’s nothing like a little family teasing as well, and this new collection contains plenty of stories that will make readers laugh. Gina Farella Howley, for example, relates an anecdote about the time her mother was sure she had won the lottery, except she was looking at a printout from the gas station that showed the winning numbers from the day before, and not at a winning ticket. After the family’s big celebration was interrupted by that realization, she made Gina swear she would never tell anyone. But what’s a daughter to do when she has that good a story?