Val Muller

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The August prompt is based on a photo taken at a local zoo. There was a fence leading to a “no admittance” area, but about 12 inches at the bottom had been bent upward, allowing admission of… people? animals? And where does it lead? The Spot Writers’ task: Write a story involving a fence that has been snuck through—as a major or minor plot point.

This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. She had revamped a previous version of this story, which was 561 words, into a 100-word story that won third place in an online contest. She then revamped the 561-word story into this 630-word story for purposes of this prompt. (Summer has taken over her life, and she didn’t have time to write something new.)

Cathy’s first novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, is available from her locally or on Amazon, to (thus far) great reviews.

 

***

Squeaky Runs

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Squeaky sprints as fast as he can, around and around, going nowhere on a trip to somewhere, he thinks, when in actuality he’ll spin for all eternity or until he dies. Sure, I don’t know what he’s thinking. How can I? I can’t delve into a hamster’s mind, especially one as dumb as he is, but he must think there’s a destination at the end of his trip or why would he exert himself?

He’ll have a heart attack if he keeps this up. But, of course, Squeaky wouldn’t know that. Squeaky doesn’t have brains. Squeaky lives for the sake of living: eating, drinking, sleeping, running. That’s the extent of his life, really.

Finally, he jumps off the wheel and rests.

Sometimes I wonder about my life. Most days, I spin on another wheel to nowhere. I have no destination, no light at the end of my dark, long tunnel. I’m similar to Squeaky in that respect although he has light when he runs. I run in darkness, eternal darkness lit by an occasional spark of life. When that spark shines, life is worth living; when it’s snuffed out, my purpose is gone.

At least Squeaky has purpose with his eternal spinning machine to look forward to whenever he desires it. Surely, even as dumb as he is, he’s aware the machine sits in his cage. I suppose when I’m on my treadmill in an attempt to tone my body I’m like Squeaky, treading to nowhere, huffing and puffing. I hate the trip, though, and only occasionally keep up with my daily goals. Squeaky, I think, enjoys his travels. He must, or why would he keep hopping on?

I can’t keep up with the treadmill. It’s too hard, too boring, too useless. I’m not losing weight. There’s no benefit. I don’t even hop on once a day, could never ever compete with Squeaky’s numerous daily runs.

While I stare at him in his cage, I wonder if he’s happy. Would he like to be free? I stick a finger between the metal bars, and he leaps toward it. He’s not one of my friends. He’s wild and untameable. He’s never been free, never had social contact with anyone but me. And I’m an ogre keeping him caged. But Squeaky doesn’t realize that. This is the life he’s always had, so he’s happy, I think. One never misses what one hasn’t had.

I’ve had certain things. And I miss them. I miss everything.

The window is open, without a screen to mar the outdoors. It’s a low window, and a light breeze drifts in like the useless sigh of an angel. The view is of the cemetery behind my house, and behind the cemetery stretches the forest: endless trees sprouting from Hell and reaching toward Heaven. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. For both of us.

When I unlatch the door to Squeaky’s cage, he’s motionless. He stares at me for a second as if he’s in shock and then glimpses the swinging door. He’s confused. He spies the open window out of the corner of his eye, and I picture another set of wheels turning in his head. Perhaps Squeaky’s not as dumb as I thought.

He glances at me again before examining the door and the open window. He snarls. He darts out of the cage and bounds out the window.

He stops at the edge of the cemetery where another metal mass rises before him. Does he think he’s in a larger cage? But then he sees the bent and uprooted metal fencing, and even though he’s small enough to jump through the gaps in the enclosure, he races underneath and disappears behind a headstone.

“Bye, Squeaky,” I whisper. “Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

***

 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 based on a photo taken at a local zoo. There was a fence leading to a “no admittance” area, but about 12 inches at the bottom had been bent upward, allowing admission of… people? animals? And where does it lead? Write a story involving a fence that has been snuck through—as a major or minor plot point.

 

This month’s story comes to us from Val Muller. She is the author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series (www.CorgiCapers.com) and the YA coming-of-age tales The Scarred Letter and The Girl Who Flew Away.

Pomeranian

By Val Muller

“You shouldn’t have a dog if you’re just gonna leave it outside all the time.” The afternoon sun baked down on the earth. Victor could only imagine how hot the metal water dish had gotten. That water had to be soup by now.

“At least he’s got water,” Jenn said. “And food.” She wrinkled her nose at the swarm of flies gathering around the untouched food dish.

The two leaned against the white picket fence, watching the dog. The owners, if home, had never made an appearance, not in three years. The dog sat up, barked several times, and twirled in a circle. Then, panting with the effort in the July heat, he scratched at the earth a bit and plopped down in the filtered shade of the small tree growing nearby.

“But it’s such a floofy dog,” Victor said. “Those types are not meant for the outdoors. They’re the kind you pay a lot of money for so you can keep them indoors and bring them to restaurants in little carrier bags and put bows on them every time they are groomed. This one is just ignored.”

Jenn raised an eyebrow. “Since when have you become a dog person?”

Victor shrugged. “I’m not. I hate dogs.”

Jenn nodded. “Usually. But every time we walk past here, you start with the comments. You want a dog?”

“No. I mean, not in theory.”

Jenn hid a smile. “Because our new place has a back yard…”

Victor kept his poker face. “Dogs are a pain. I mean, they’re always there.”

“A fenced yard.”

Victor frowned.

“So no dog for us, then?”

He shrugged. “You know what they say. Dogs are the gateway drug to kids.” He offered a mock shudder. “It’s just something about this dog…”

“It’s a Pomeranian. I looked them up last Christmas. You know, when I was trying to convince you to get me one.” She smirked. “Which you didn’t. They’re purebred, which means they are not affordable. Not for us, anyway.”

“All the more reason for these people to take better care of it. One day, someone’s just gonna come grab it.”

“It’s fenced in.”

“Yeah, behind a picket fence with no lock. The gate can easily be opened. Hell, I could jump the fence if I wanted to.” He took a peek at Jenn’s face, then leaned over the fence and clapped his hands. The Pomeranian ran over to him, nipping at his hands in a friendly way. Victor reached down and scratched behind its ears.

Jenn had turned her attention to the house, but there was no movement. No indication that anyone was home. There was never any indication that anyone was home, except that once in a while the beast got a haircut. Last time, during the spring, the dog was cut to look like a lion: short hair on its back and legs, hair left long on its head and chest like a lion’s mane. Victor had been especially drawn to the idea of having a miniature lion sitting there in a suburban yard.

“Are you saying you want to?”

Victor stepped back from the fence and continued his walk as if to answer Jenn’s question. What was it about this stupid little dog? Something about it pulled at him. He seriously hated dogs ever since his mom’s Rottweiler nipped him as a kid. But this little one…

“What do you think his name is?” Jenn asked.

She wouldn’t drop it. “Lion,” Victor said. He regretted his lack of hesitation. Would she know he’d already chosen a name? “Or maybe “Leon,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Or Leo.”

Jenn raised an eyebrow. Luckily, her phone beeped, and a minor fashion crisis on the part of her sister distracted her from the rest of the conversation. By the time she put her phone away, they were already at the drainage pond—it had been dry the entire month so far—and the conversation turned to the drought and their excitement about moving up north—where it was much cooler—at the end of August.

August kept its reputation, burning like an inferno that intensified on Moving Day. Two of the paid movers called out “sick,” though Victor and Jenn agreed the weather was to blame. The two of them picked up the extra work with the one brave hired hand, sweat drenching them in the first five minutes of the morning. It wasn’t until nearly 9 p.m. that the entire house was packed up, the very hot and tired hired man was paid, and the two of them were in the rented truck, air conditioner blasting.

They didn’t expect it to be so late, and they hesitated. “What do we do?” Jenn asked. “Spend a final night in our house?” They were required to be out by midnight, but there was little chance the landlord would come by until the next morning.

Victor shook his head. “Pillar of salt,” he muttered. “Best start toward our new lives.”

The air hung with silence. They had two new jobs, a closing on a home—their home—in 36 hours, and the rest of their lives, all waiting for their arrival.

Jenn switched the truck into “drive.”

“Nice bench seat up here,” Victor said. “Plenty of room…”

“You’re planning on sleeping in the car?” Jenn asked. “I assumed we’d drive straight through.” She pulled toward the exit of the housing development.

“No, not sleeping in the car. Something else,” Victor said.

“Do you see how sweaty I am?” Jenn asked. “I am not in the mood.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “Not that. Pull over up here, will you?”

Jenn humored him.

“Keep it in drive, and be ready to go.”

“What?”

But Victor was already out the door, running toward the white picket fence. The Pomeranian—Leon, or Lion, or Leo, or whatever its name was—was barking its head off, as usual. Victor didn’t hesitate at all. He simply opened the gate, reached toward the dog, and with a deft swipe, had the orange fluff of a dog in his arms. He ran out the gate, not bothering to shut it.

The gate swung open in the summer dusk as Jenn pulled away, her new pet happily sitting in the middle of the front bench seat. Not wanting to turn into a pillar of salt, Victor did not glimpse back in the rear view mirror, but he guessed Leon’s owners did not bother to come out. He’d stake his future on it.

 

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

The current prompt is a story about a character who finds an object that had been lost. 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.

***

 Lady Marian and the kids

It had seemed a good idea, to bring the cat along.

They planned on traveling through France with their motor home during the Summer break for their family holiday: it would take them three weeks to go as far as Paris and come back.

Their usual cat-sitter wasn’t available, and the replacement they had found had asked double the budgeted amount. So there were only two choices, really: shorten their holiday, or take the cat to Paris.

She had sighed, loaded the motor home with food for two adults, four children, and a cat, and they had left.

Their first stop was Chamonix, at the foot of Mont Blanc. There was a huge parking lot at the edge of a forest. It was quiet, it smelled good, it was cheap. They stopped for the night, and as she sat stroking the cat and reading a book, the kids chased one another right outside the motor home, running in and out the forest.

Her youngest suddenly opened the door.

“Mom! Can we play with Lady Marian outside? Please?”

“I’m afraid it’s not a good idea”, she replied. “Our Lady here is used to staying in, she might get frightened outside.”

“Just a few minutes! I want to show her the woods!”

Kid number Three jumped in, sweat and dirt clinging to his cheeks and hands.

“Yeah, can you imagine how she’ll love the tree trunks? Sooo many huge scratchers!”

The kids laughed and clapped their hands. They made her laugh, too.

“Please, mom, we’ll be careful.”

“We’ll protect her!” cried the youngest, puffing his little chest.

She sighed and turned her head: the cat was actually showing a bit of curiosity for the world outside the door. Lady Marian had been with them for five years: she probably trusted her humans enough to allow them to take her for a stroll outside.

“Okay,” she said at last. “But!” she added, raising her voice over her kids’ enthusiastic hurrahs. “Bring your brother and sister. I want them to be with you at all times.”

Kids number Three and Four found number One and Two, who were exploring a big woodpile, and Lady Marian was finally brought into the big big world outside the motor home.

Her eyes were huge, and her tiny nose twitched like crazy: wood, pine, snow, wind, grass… so many new smells!

The kids brought her to the woodpile, and Lady Marian was happy to touch the logs’ bark with her pads. Laughing excitedly, the kids and the cat played together, jumping up and down the logs.

Until at one point the kids lost sight of the cat.

They searched all around the parking lot, they entered the forest with a torchlight, they called, pleaded, offered treats… the cat was nowhere to be found.

They stayed one day longer in Chamonix, but Lady Marian didn’t come back.

Everyone was crying by the time Mom and Dad decided to leave the cat behind and go to Paris anyway.

“She’s a proud feline, you don’t have to worry,” she said, trying to reassure the kids, but it didn’t work. She felt so terribly guilty.

Twenty days later, they were back in the parking lot at Chamonix, on their way home.

As soon as Dad parked the motor home, the kids ran to the woodpile.

“They’re going to be disappointed all over again,” said Dad.

She sighed.

“What would you do, forbid them to go out?”

Dad shook his head.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have stopped here.”

“I think we should go with them,” she said suddenly. “I feel guilty, I should have kept Lady Marian inside.”

“And they would have been angry at you, you know that. They would have tried to convince you to let her out every single day of our trip!”

She sighed again.

“You’re right. And yet…”

“Mom! Dad! Come!”

Kid number One was calling them with all her voice.

“Oh my God, what happened?” she cried, worried sick in an instant. When her girl called, it was always for a good reason.

“It’s Lady Marian! We found her, but we can’t reach her.”

“What?” Mom and Dad asked together, jumping up from their seats. “Where?”

“She’s hidden somewhere under the woodpile! Do you think she’s stayed there for all this time, waiting for us?”

“I really don’t know,” she answered, getting the torchlight.

“She’ll be so hungry!”

She held the light for Dad, while he tried to reach the cat. The kids were holding their breath. She could hear Lady Marian’s feeble meows coming from under the tree trunks.

“She’s here! I can see her!” Dad finally said.

They all stared down a crack between two thick logs, and Lady Marian’s yellow eyes blinked back.

Dad called her, stretching a hand through the crack: “Lady, it’s us, come on!”

After a while, Lady Marian gathered enough courage and stretched her forepaws forward.

“I can touch her,” Dad whispered. “Just a couple of inches… There! I got her!”

Dad sat, withdrawing his hand from the logs. He was holding their beloved cat. Lady Marian was purring and rubbing her head against Dad’s hand, while everybody else was cheering, crying and laughing at the same time.

“It was a good holiday,” said kid number Two the following night, as she tucked him in. “Do you know what I liked best, mom?”

“What? The Tour Eiffel? The boat ride along the River Seine? The fireworks at Versailles?”

“That our Lady waited for us and made us find her again. That was the most beautiful thing that happened. And the woodpile was really cool, wasn’t it?”

***

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. The current prompt is a story about a character who finds an object that had been lost.

This week’s story comes from Phil Yeats. Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) recently published his first novel. A Body in the Sacristy, the first in the Barrettsport Mysteries series of soft-boiled police detective stories set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community is available on Amazon.

 

***

Good Deed, Bad Consequences

 By Phil Yeats

On my way home from work, I strolled as usual through the Halifax Public Gardens. I needed those minutes of quiet contemplation to recover from the daily stress of my job in the nearby hospital’s pathology lab. My job wasn’t overly complex, and my efforts had my bosses’ approval and my colleagues’ respect. But it required a level of interpersonal communication I found difficult.

On that particular day, I noticed something blue as I watched squirrels foraging for food. I reached down and recovered a wallet, a woman’s judging from the colour, from the grass. It contained money, credit cards, driving license and other identification, so not something dropped by a thief.

The owner, a middle-aged woman named Meredith McCall, lived a few blocks away. I plugged her address into Google maps, established my route, and set off.

Minutes later, I rang the bell at Ms. McCall’s Edwardian townhouse. A young woman in her early twenties responded.

I held out the wallet. “Found this in the Public Gardens. It belongs to Meredith McCall and gives this address.”

She turned and yelled into the house. “Aunt Merry, someone to see you.”

An older woman, the one who stared from the driver’s license, appeared from the far end of the hallway. I handed her the wallet.

Meredith McCall flipped it open and glanced at the contents. “What do you want?”

I shrank backward. “Nothing. I found this and I’m trying to return it.”

“Thank you,” she said before striding back into the house.

The younger woman stared in disbelief as I shrugged my shoulders and turned toward the street. “Wait,” she yelled, hopping down the steps as she tried to don a pair of sandals. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to be so unfriendly. She just not merry like her name implies.”

I laughed. “Oh, Merry with an echo and two romeos, not Mary with an alpha.”

“Yeah, Merry, short for Meredith.” She pointed at a street-corner coffee shop. “Here, let me buy you a coffee.”

She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the café. In the ubiquitous Tim Hortons Donut shop, she ordered, with minimal input from me, two coffees and a box of six assorted donuts. As we sipped coffees, and I nibbled a donut I really didn’t want, she chatted away with barely a break for breath. My input was limited to short answers to direct questions and intermittent grunts of encouragement. Half an hour later, she collected the remaining donuts, said a cheerful goodbye, and sauntered from the shop oblivious to the fact she left me in emotional turmoil.

She was one of the boisterous self-confident people I admired from afar a few years earlier when I was a student. I’d learned to avoid the highly sociable pack animals whose lives tended to subsume those of their less outgoing compatriots.

I’d watched the campus dynamic from the sidelines without participating in any meaningful way. After graduation, I continued to lead a solitary life, interacting with colleagues and neighbours without establishing serious interpersonal relationships.

The minutes spent with Ms. McCall’s niece changed nothing. Nothing she said suggested she was interested in anything more than the half-hour interlude, but it brought my choices back into my consciousness. I was happy we’d gone to Tim’s for coffee rather than a pub for beer because that might have initiated a solitary evening of beer drinking and unwanted introspection.

I wandered home to a supper of leftovers and an evening in my studio working on a new painting. Perhaps, I would start a cityscape of families relaxing in a park or young people cavorting at a beach. The paintings were therapeutic, allowing me to reconcile my solitary life with the gregarious lives of those living around me. Ironic, I thought as I applied the first brush loads of bright paint to the canvas, how my simple attempt to do someone a good dead had upset my carefully crafted but limited existence.

***

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 write about a character who finds an object that had been lost.

This month’s story comes to us from Val Muller. She is the author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series (www.CorgiCapers.com) and the YA coming-of-age tales The Scarred Letter and The Girl Who Flew Away. She is taking the prompt a bit more metaphorically. It is inspired by David Bowie’s video “Thursday’s Child” (https://vimeo.com/240799507), a video which has always intrigued her.

Myself

By Val Muller

The kid was finally down for a nap. There was finally silence. Peace. She sighed and looked around the room. The vacuum cleaner sat in the corner, its cord unraveled and covered in stickers. Its canister was full of beans, dirt, sand, and dog hair and needed to be emptied. The carpet was sprinkled with dried bits of Play-Doh. The dog’s head was stuck under the couch as it tried to reach a half-eaten bag of Veggie Straws that had spilled earlier. Its front legs struggled to reach under the couch, scattering more beans onto the carpet.

Note to self, she thought. Put beans on top shelf of pantry from now on.

In the kitchen, a trail of water led from the dog’s water dish to the toddler’s doll house in the living room, where it filled the toy bathtub and toilet, already starting to warp the wood of the toy furniture. The trail seeped into the carpet in a serpentine line. A half-eaten bowl of Cheerios sat on the Mickey Mouse child’s table in front of the television, absorbing milk.

To her right, the kitchen sink overflowed with dishes. The dishwasher had become a repository for beads and sand dumped there during an unexpected phone call yesterday, and she couldn’t find the energy to clean it or hand-wash the backlog of dishes that had accrued.

It was all too much. She went to the bathroom. Closed the door. At least she could have thirty seconds to pee unencumbered, without a toddler asking “whatcha doin’ in there?” or sticking her little fingers under the door. She washed her hands and dried them on her pants: the hand towel was missing. Likely, it had been used to drag water from the dog bowl to the doll house.

She looked in the mirror and sighed. When had she last brushed her hair? Like, really brushed it, while looking in a mirror and using styling products? Last week? Last month? It might have been years ago, before the toddler.

A stranger stared at her from the mirror. Her eyes looked tired. No, not tired.

Dead.

That was it. She was dead inside. She was a function. She got chocolate milk out of the refrigerator when asked. She kissed boo-boos and tied sneakers. She quelled tantrums. Couldn’t a robot do as much? A twinge of guilt pricked her stomach. She was ungrateful. She had a healthy toddler. That should be enough.

She stepped out of the bathroom and plopped on the floor to pluck stickers from the vacuum’s cord. On the hearth above the fireplace sat two books she’d put there at Christmas—Christmas a year and a half ago—that she planned to read. But what was the point now? Each time she sat down to read, something interrupted her. An accident, a request for a snack, a cup of milk being dumped on the dog. No, better not try to get into something like a book. Best to use nap time to clean the house.

She was almost finished removing the stickers by the time she realized she was singing: music was still playing from the living room speaker. It was The Wiggles, and she had been singing to “Five Little Monkeys.” She hurried in to stop the music, and it still echoed in her head. She didn’t even mind it anymore. It was even familiar. Comforting.

What?

What had become of her that she didn’t even realize she was singing along to kids’ music? When was the last time she listened to something of her own choosing?

She needed to get out. A trip to the mailbox. A box awaited, sent by her parents. They were cleaning out her late grandmother’s home, and they mentioned they’d be sending some old photos Grandma had kept over the year. She returned inside, using a broom handle to push the rest of the Veggie Straws out from under the couch. The dog gratefully consumed them.

The first few photos in the box were recent: baby’s first and second Christmases, first and second birthday parties, first time swimming. She flipped through the stack. The pictures aged. Here, her graduation from college, arm around Grandma. Then, a photo she’d sent of herself in her college apartment. She’d forgotten about that space tapestry. It had graced her wall for all four years of college. She always maintained that crazy idea—that she was a stellar traveler, and her life on Earth was just one of her lives, just one experience of many. She insisted that her very vivid dreams were her soul’s way of remembering all of her other lives. Her nickname had been Supernova.

How could she have forgotten about that? She still had that tapestry somewhere, didn’t she? And when had she last had a vivid dream? Maybe you died inside when you stopped dreaming.

She kept flipping. Back through the college and high school years. There were the pictures of her art show. Her high school exhibit, Nebula, had gotten her a free ride for two years in college. Good grief, she’d forgotten the scope of that final project for college, the one that got her national acclaim. The canvas took up the entire wall of her dorm room. She’d had to transport it to the show in sections. And now each section was boxed up in the basement, stacked under a disassembled crib.

There was that whole wall in the office. It had been empty since they moved in. Maybe she could hang it up again…

She flipped through the photos, going back in time to her days as a swimmer, her time on the debate team, her summers at the beach, the time she colored her hair blue and purple. Her first ear piercing, and her seventh. Her days in elementary school gymnastics, her role in the kindergarten school play, her dozen-and-a-half lifetimes that had passed since her birth.

An aged picture of her in ripped jeans and a Starman t-shirt reminded her that she had loved David Bowie. She remembered that now. Why was she content with The Wiggles? Where were her Bowie CDs? She hurried to the garage and dug through her car, under the crusted layer of cereal that seemed to cover everything. Under the copies of The Wiggles and Disney soundtracks and pouches of applesauce and travel packs of disinfectant wipes. There they were, at the very bottom of the center console, interred more than three years earlier. Her Bowie CDs.

She flipped through them. There is was: David Bowie. The 1969 album. She hurried inside and replaced the kid CD in the living room player. “Space Oddity” started playing. It played softly, and she kicked up the volume.

She closed her eyes, rocking back and forth in the living room, listening to the tale of Major Tom, risking everything to follow his dream of space travel, even to his ultimate detriment. But he went. He risked things. He didn’t leave the book on the mantle for fear of interruption.

The song drew to a close, and she hit “repeat.” The intro started up again, and she kicked up the volume, wondering how loud she could make it before waking the kid.

The guitar tickled her mind. The drums pounded with her heart. She ran her fingers through her hair, remembering how she used to toss it around in college. Wild and teased with hairspray, like it had been kissed with stardust.

She kicked up the volume some more so that her hearing took over. The sight of the messy room faded. She listened again to the tale of Major Tom. What had he discovered in those moments in space? What insights did he gain? How much had he grown? What would his next life bring him?

He wouldn’t have been bothered by stickers on an electric cord, or sand in the dishwasher. Those things were irrelevant.

He would have bought paints by now, reclaimed the office, reclaimed a dream.

He was a space traveler. He glowed brightly. He was remembered by all. He was a Supernova.

Emily kicked up the volume again, planning the décor for a home office renovation, her mind igniting with the names of all the paint colors she’d need to paint a nebula. Major Tom’s name echoed on the track.

Major Tom was dead in the end, sure, but not dead inside.

And neither was she.

 

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. The June prompt is to update a legend or legendary character/beast: bring it into the modern world, or add a twist that isn’t consistent with the original legend.

This week’s story comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara dreams, reads, edits texts, translates, and occasionally writes in two languages. She also has lot of fun.

A Christmas Tale

Chiara De Giorgi

“Guys, I don’t want to repeat myself, but rules are simple: one story for Christmas, one for Midsummer, one for Halloween. You’re always late, and I find myself publishing scary stuff for Christmas and dealing with the fairy folk in November. Santa and the reindeers are always complaining that, by the time we publish something Christmas-related, it’s almost time for eggs and bunnies. Who, by the way, are pestering me because they want to be featured as well. I mean, come on! Why must you always be so lazy? Use your brain for something useful, for once, and give me something worth publishing at the right time. Shall I remind you, that last year our Winter issue featured a story about Zombie Fairies? A pathetic attempt to merge Midsummer and Halloween, no doubt, and yet you delivered it so late it was already Christmas by the time we managed to print it! I can’t do this anymore. You’re the greatest disappointment and I would close the magazine down at once, were it not for those fluffy reindeers expectantly looking at me. To be honest, I’m also a tiny bit freaked out by all those magical creatures. I mean, they’re sweet and all, but what would happen if they got angry? I don’t even want to think about it. So, please, I beg you: concentrate and write.”

The editor-in-chief left, his unfinished cigarette forgotten in the ashtray, dropping ash on his desk. No one spoke. The clock ticked and tocked, and the faucet in the restroom dripped. Drip. Drip. Drip. Someone had left the door open. Again.

“Well…”

“Yeah.”

“After all, you know: he’s right.”

“I must say, I liked the Zombie Fairies piece, though.”

“At least we always try to be original.”

“You mean ghoulish.”

“I mean our stuff is never predictable.”

“Guys, he’s not complaining about the quality of our work, he just needs us to be on time.”

“Hey, it’s not easy writing stuff about Christmas when you’ve just booked a week at the Bahamas.”

“Why, doesn’t Christmas happen at the Bahamas as well?”

“Yeah, you just need to wrap up some loving feelings in sugary goodness coated with pink little hearts, et voilà! A Christmas story ready to be printed out.”

“That’s not original, though.”

“Nor ghoulish.”

“We don’t really need to be ghoulish.”

Knock-knock.

“Who’s there?”

“Er, hi. May I come in?”

“Sure, Mr… Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“My name is Santa, you might have heard of me.”

“…”

“I overheard you speaking, and it is my understanding that you’re facing some sort of difficulties because of me and my sweet reindeers.”

“We… er… I mean…”

“I wonder, therefore, if you wish me to be of assistance.”

“Hey, why not? We need inspiration: we have to write a story about you!”

“Ho Ho Ho! What a coincidence! I can tell you some very personal stories about me. After all, I am Santa. I know each one of you.”

“You do?”

“Of course! You, for example, devilish child!”

“Me? What? Why?”

“In a time when finally, finally!, children started being rational and stopped believing in me, so I could seriously consider retirement, you campaigned for me! You convinced all your little friends that the poor old man does exist and loves all the children and the least we can do is believe he’s real! You devilish, devilish child! Me? Loving children? Ha! All I want is to permanently move to a desert island in the middle of the ocean, with a giant drink in my hand and a beautiful, curvy blond by my side, and never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever see a child again!”

“I’m sorry, I guess? I had no idea…”

“Of course you hadn’t! And, by the way, where has all that fierce love you had for me gone now? You aren’t even able to crank out one little story for me in one year!”

“Well, we’re trying to…”

“You’re trying, what?  I remember of you as well, you know.”

“Oh. Ahem. Really?”

“Sure! You’re so smart, in fifth grade you stole all of your classmates’ letters to Santa and signed them yourself, thinking you’d get twenty-five presents!”

“I’ve always been a resourceful kid.”

“A liar, you mean.”

“Come on, children’s lies are not really lies…”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

“I… No, I actually…”

“What? No words? You? Nice writers you are, the lot of you! But I had enough of this. I am here to put an end to all your Christmas-related issues.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Think of it like the ultimate Christmas present, from Santa himself.”

“Sounds great!”

“Yes, I am great, as a matter of fact. May I have a coffee, please?”

“Sure! Sugar?”

“Two.”

“Cream?”

“A drop.”

“There you go!”

“Mmmmh, smells divine. I’ll just set it aside for the moment.”

“And why’s that?”

“First, I have to eat.”

“Eat? Wait, we should have some crisps somewhere…”

“Don’t bother, I don’t need crisps.”

“…”

“Guys, have you noticed the reindeers? Why are they circling us?”

“I’ve no idea. It looks like they’re glaring at us, doesn’t it?”

“Now that you mention it, it does, yes.”

“Do I sound very stupid if I say that it looks like they’re going to eat us?”

“Actually, yes, you do sound stupid. But I admit I agree.”

“Mr Santa… Are you going to let your reindeers eat us?”

“Not completely, no. I want some bites as well.”

“I’m not sure this is going to help us with the difficulties we’re experiencing regarding a Christmas story, to be honest.”

“But of course it will help you! Didn’t you want a ghoulish tale?”

“…”

“Rudolph, go on: first bite’s for you.”

 

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/