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Howdy, ma’am, nice festivities here for the wedding.
No, my Sylvia’s over there. Hot gossip a’flying, no doubt. You have a cordial, I see. Perhaps you would care to sit down. I been doctoring all night, but had to come see the young couple get off on their trip. Birthed both him and her, you know. I’m about beat, but let me have a sip of this raspberry shrub.”
Was my father a doctor? No, ma’am, he failed in the hat business.. I said as how I wanted to doctor, but there was books and schooling to pay for, even in them ancient days. Plus, nobody would believe you were a real doctor without you had an office and a horse and buggy. Not in the cards for my family. My parents talked me into apprenticing as a tailor. Yes, Ma’am, you are right to laugh, but it’s the truth. Four long years cutting and stitching and not a drop of blood that wasn’t mine!” “Oh, you heard right. I turned schoolteacher. I always had a mind for books, so studied the Latin book one day and taught it the next. The real reason for Latin was that I was studying medicine in secret. I’d teach ‘til I got money for a medical course, take it, and go back teaching again.” Why? I guess doctoring was like a festering wound in me. I wanted to work miracles, not waistcoats. The puppies started it. S’pose that was about 1830 or so, up in Bethel. I was just a little lad when an old neighbor saw me in the yard and motioned me over. “Come ‘ere, boy. Got a wondrous sight for a lad to see, right there in the shed.” His hunting dog bitch whelped pups right there in front of me. We went from one animal to six within an hour. After that, whenever I saw the pups, it felt like I owned them. When I was eighteen, the big thing happened. One morning two boys raced down the street past me. “Come on! Some old tramp just slit his throat! Right down the block!” Out of breath, they returned to running. I did want to see it. Maybe more than they did.
Dr. Hanford Bennett knelt in the dirt, bending over a body. Having ripped off his coat, he bunched it into a pillow under the victim, all the time looking over the surrounding crowd. Coming up close, I saw that he wanted another coat and I gave him mine.
“I need clean water and I need it fast,” he yelped. “And clean rags or linen. What I got ain’t enough.” Women flew off to find the items he needed..
The town barber, who pretended to fix wounds, came out of the crowd and knelt by Dr. Bennett’s side. The patient kicked and struggled, spraying blood all over. The crowd began backing up, under the impression that death was imminent.
“Jim, get on his legs,” Dr. Bennett ordered the barber. “Lean forward and hold him down, a hand on each wrist. I can’t do anything against that struggling.” “Need somebody to hand me things out of my bag!” The doctor demanded. I picked up the bag, which was just out of his reach and knelt on the opposite side of the body.
“Take the scissors out and give them to me handle-first. Then open the wadding and lay it on this fellow’s chest, ‘cause he’s just about to go unconscious.”
And so we went on, with me handing items and retrieving them, while Dr. Bennett cleaned up the jagged gash, not one of fatal severity.
Then he looked up at me, in a pretend dilemma. “Somebody can either hold these edges together or stitch the wound. Which you goin’ to do, boy?”
Of course he would do the stitching, but it felt, ma’am, like a tornado got hold of me. I wanted so bad to show him how well I could stitch! I had never put needle and thread to human, but I wanted to with all my might.”
“Look at how I’m holding this skin, boy. Put your fingers exactly where mine are and as I stitch, move down, holding the edges together just so. Ready? Put your fingers right behind mine.”
And so he stitched, layer after layer. It seemed like a long time, there in the dust with the sun beating down and the smell of blood rising up into our faces. Two ladies tried to watch and turned sick at the stomach.
Jim hovered over us and poured water when the blood obscured the wound. The dust turned into bloody mud.
Dr. Bennett told Jim and me that we were doing fine and he was almost done. He had said that when he hadn’t even started, which is a trick I now use myself.
When we were finished, some folks took the suicide away on a door. Jim left us, laughing at the bloody picture Dr. Bennett and I made. I helped Dr. Bennett to his feet.
I told the doctor that I had always wanted to do doctoring, but my fortunes indicated otherwise. He returned his glasses to his pocket, then took me by the shoulders and stared right into my eyes. “Don’t let other folks dictate when you have a talent for something! If you truly want to study medicine, you can find a way. You’ll be a surgeon, I can tell. No one can stop you!”
So, from that experience and the puppies, well, hardly a day goes by that I don’t birth a baby!”
Yes? What say, sir? Dr. William Trowbridge at your service! Yes, my horse is at the door, as always. Ma’am, please relay to my wife where I went! |
Welcome to The Spot Writers. March’s prompt: How (or why) a young person decides what career (or path) to follow.
This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s one-woman publishing company, MacKenzie Publishing, has published two anthologies: OUT OF THE CAVE (milder stories for 13+) and TWO EYES OPEN, two collections of short stories by authors around the world, to read during the day…or at night, as long as two eyes are open. Not “horrific horror”…more like intrigue, mystery, thriller. Simply good reads.
***
The Vampire by Cathy MacKenzie
Nancy jumped. What was that?
The book she’d been reading, A Nightmare of Vampires, lay beside her. Had she fallen asleep? “Darn, now I’ve lost my place,” she mumbled.
She tiptoed to her bedroom door. Carefully she opened it and peeked into the hall.
Dark. Quiet. No—what was that?
A shadow. At the end of the hall.
Was that Nathan, her seventeen-year-old brother?
Once Nancy’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, the shadow morphed into a vampire—a real life vampire. A female vampire! Heading to Nathan’s room!
She wanted to keep watching, but she was a fearful. Vampires were bad creatures. They sucked the blood out of you and where would you be then? But that’s why she wanted to be a vampire. She wanted control: control of her destiny, control of others.
She liked the look of blood, the thick red, coppery scent. She’d tasted blood previously, when she cut herself, sometimes on purpose, so she could lick her skin until she had lapped up all the red. The taste wasn’t bad, actually, but not as sweet as she had expected. She worried—if her dream to be a vampire came true—whether she’d be able to stomach strange blood. That was perverse and unnatural, wasn’t it?
But it would be fun to haunt the night, to soar through the sky—vampires did fly, didn’t they? She considered herself a people person, at least that’s what her teacher had recently said. At the time, Nancy thought “people person” was a label for yapping fools who didn’t shut up, but she later learned the connotation was desirable. People were supposed to be sociable, talkative, and interested in others. Nancy was all of those: all the requisites for a female vampire.
She hesitated. She’d love to confront the vampire in the hall and converse with it, but she snuck back to her bed.
Katherine Krimmins was an excellent writer, and Nancy immersed herself in the story again, picturing herself as Vanessa the Vampire. She was aware most vampires were male, but this was the twenty-first century. Couldn’t she be whatever she wanted?
The next morning, she met her grandmother, who was visiting for a couple of weeks, on the stairs, and told her that she wanted to be a vampire when she grew up.
Granny’s eyes grew wide. “What! A vampire? How do you know what a vampire is?”
“I know what they are. I’ve seen them.”
“You’ve seen vampires?”
“Well…just one. Last night.”
“Oh, you must have had a bad dream. A nightmare.”
“No, Granny, I saw one for sure.”
“Where?”
“It was going into Nathan’s room.” She pointed behind her. “I saw it.”
“Oh, Nancy, you silly girl.”
“No, Granny, I saw it.”
“It’s not nice to tell fibs.”
Nancy pouted. “I’m not. And that’s what I want to be when I grow up.”
Her grandmother hugged her. “Oh, sweetie, if you want to be a vampire, you can be a vampire. You can be anything you set your mind to, but you’re only twelve, so I’m sure you’ll change your mind dozens of times before then.”
Nancy relaxed. Even if her grandmother didn’t believe her tale, she had, at least, agreed she could be a vampire. Her mother, though, would have a different opinion.
“Let’s go eat breakfast,” Granny said.
They entered the kitchen. Her mother, busy at the counter, greeted them. Nathan appeared seconds later.
Nancy couldn’t help but notice his flipped-up collar. “Nathan, your collar is skewered.”
His face flushed. Up to no good, she thought.
He glared at her. “Shut up, Nancy.”
Their mother wagged her wet fingers. “Kids, behave.”
When Nathan sat at the table, his collar flipped down.
Nancy gasped and whispered to her grandmother. “Granny, see? Vampires do exist. They suck the blood outta you, just like one did to Nathan last night.”
“Sweetie, what are you talking about?” Granny asked.
She motioned toward Nathan. “Look at Nathan’s neck. See the red blotch? That’s dried blood. That’s where the vampire got him. Sometimes they don’t kill you, you know. It all depends how sharp their teeth are.” Nancy figured she’d be a good vampire. Suck up enough blood to satisfy her urge but not enough to kill.
Nathan, his face even redder, yanked up his collar. “What you guys looking at?”
Their mother growled again. “Kids, hush. Sit down, Nancy and Granny. I have eggs and bacon.”
Nancy ignored her mother and whispered to her grandmother again. “See, I told you I saw a vampire.”
Granny leaned in to her. “I believe you, sweetie. I saw the red mark. But let’s keep that our secret.” Her eyes glistened.
Was she crying? She looked sad.
“You missing Grampie?” Nancy asked.
“I am, sweetie.”
“Sorry, Granny.”
“Life goes on. Companionship is a good thing. I think being a vampire would be a good occupation when you grow up,” she said.
***
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Millicent Hughes: https://www.danburyonfire.com/
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about why or how a young person decides what career or path to follow. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the poignant coming of age tale The Girl Who Flew Away.
Transcendental Beauty
By Val Muller
“An egg candler? You mean, as in candles?”
I nodded and smiled, but Mom’s brow was doing that thing again, that squinty thing it does when she’s mad.
“An egg what, now?” Dad asked. He peered over the folded edge of his newspaper. “A handler, like as in, a packer? You want to work at a factory, son?”
I shook my head. How could I make them understand? “Not a handler. A candler. Remember that old cartoon we watched at Uncle Mike’s house? The one where the farmer holds up all the eggs to a candle until he finds the egg that has the chick in it?”
My mom’s brow was now a map of the Grand Canyon.
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Well, that’s what I want to do.”
Dad’s newspaper fell to the table. “So you want to spend your life holding up eggs to candles? Am I hearing this right? You’re taking five AP classes so you can hold an egg to the candle?”
The air grew dense.
“Are you taking drugs?” Mom asked.
“No!” I felt my face flush. “It’s just—” I tried to picture the German classroom, to picture the beauty of it in a way that my parents would understand. The way Frau made everything soft and welcoming. Even the German language sounded like soft poetry the way she spoke it. “For Easter, Frau Beckham let us make eggs.”
“Make eggs?” Mom asked.
“Who the hell is Frau Beckham?” Dad asked.
“His German teacher,” Mom said. She lowered her voice. “I think he has a crush on her.”
The blush rose to my ears.
“Aren’t you supposed to be learning German in that class?” Dad asked. “Is it a cooking class? Home Ec is for girls.”
“We’re learning German,” I insisted. “She was giving us the directions in German.”
“The directions?” Dad asked. “On how to be an egg candler?”
“No, the egg candler wasn’t Frau’s idea. She had us decorate Easter eggs. We blew the yolks out and then decorated the eggs. Now they’re hanging on a tree on her desk. Mine is the one right in front.” I swallowed a smile. “It’s pink with a purple heart in the center.”
“You blew the yolks out? In the classroom? On desks where kids sit?” Mom asked. “She could give someone salmonella that way.”
“You just make a little hole on each side,” I explained. And then you break the yolk and then blow it all out into a bowl. If we were in Germany, we would have used the eggs in the bowl to cook something.”
“Good thing you were in a public school classroom, then,” Mom said. “That all seems rather unsanitary.”
“She had the desks all covered. She brought these little table clothes, and she set them each with lots of napkins and even some chocolate eggs. And her dress matched, too. All very spring-like.”
Dad rolled his eyes and picked up his paper again. “Looks like our son has spring fever for this Frau.”
“Maybe I should call the school,” Mom said, her voice so much less dismissive than Dad’s. “This all seems rather unhealthy. And an egg candler…” She scrolled through her phone screen. “The median salary is laughable, James. This is not the job for a son of ours. Not one who is bound for college.” She put her phone down and squinted at me. “I think I will call the school about this Frau, planting ideas in your head of making you a bum.”
“Yeah, son. A factory job is no place for you.”
“Mom, an egg candler is not a bum.” I turned to Dad. “And you don’t know what my place is, anyway. Besides, it wasn’t Frau who got me thinking about that kind of a job.”
My parents looked at me, my dad’s eyes glaring over the paper.
“In English class, we’re discussing Existentialism. The idea is that nothing really has meaning until we impose it. So this whole idea that we have to go to college…”
“James!” Mom scolded.
“…and work fifty weeks a year just to spend tons of money on a two-week vacation…”
“You’re on thin ice, boy,” Dad said over the paper.
“…and work to exhaustion at college just to find a competitive career that will make us sleepless at night and stressed during the day…”
My parents exchanged glances. I, in the middle of them, felt their impact as if I were caught in a firing squad. But I couldn’t stop myself.
“So instead of sitting behind a desk all day, or stressing about clients, or worrying about competition, why not find something amazing, like the simple beauty of an egg? Why not look inside the beauty of nature every day? It’s very Transcendental, actually. Emerson and Thoreau would—”
But that was it. Their looks had killed me. I swallowed hard, like swallowing over an egg stuck in my throat, before getting up to do the dishes. I had to hurry: I had lots of work to do for my five AP classes if I had any hope of getting into a good college.”
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Millicent Hughes: https://www.danburyonfire.com/
Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this week is to use these five words in a story or poem: riot, tear, leaf, bread, nurse.
Clark’s Memorial
By Millicent Hughes
Real nice to see you this morning, sir. Haven’t seen you since … well, you know…. My own boy, Clarkie, Clark Hamilton … fallen like a leaf from a tree. Well, our boy, our Danbury boy, ain’t that right, sir?
Yes, the pain of his death has worn off a bit, thanks for asking. The official notice was just a deadly shock. But since I got that letter from Richmond, the real letter, from that officer, I truly do feel better.
A thinkin’ person wants an explanation, you know. Just some answer as to how a little wound ends up to kill a man when doctors do battlefield amputations and the men live. ‘Course, I s’pose all the docs nurse them officers like they was Queen Victoria, don’t you think?
Died real noble in battle, you say? That idea might satisfy some, but it didn’t satisfy me! I wanted the real truth and nothin’ but the truth. I knew my boy was not a victim of another young man, a boy with a gun just like his’n. I wasn’t turnin’ a blind eye with some twisted idea of ‘glory in the grave.’
What say? Oh, what you heard is true, all right. Clarkie was wounded at Cedar Creek there in Virginia. but it ain’t where he died nor what he died of. Not by a long shot. I had the report he was taken to Richmond, so he must have come off pretty good to survive the battle and go on the cars to that prison.
No, that ain’t a tear! Why you think that, hey? No, sirree, bob!
Say, rather than tell you about it, I’ll let you read that letter for yourself. I carry it in my billfold. Nice enough that that officer cared to send it, let alone tell his mother and me the actual fact of the matter. Here, did you want to see it?
No, don’t refuse like that, sir. It ain’t real personal, like you say. I want to publish this letter to the world. That’s why I carry it ever’wheres. I want to show people that ain’t a drop of humanity in them Confederationist devils. Why the decent population down south don’t riot agin ‘em, I don’t know.
And one man dared to tell me the truth. He wrote me this letter, sir, namin’ it plain. My son, Clark Hamilton, met with murder, murder by starvation. Starvation by the fools in them Confederate states.
No, that officer din’t have nothin’ to do with our boys, just happened to be there is all.
I’m sorry you ain’t got the courage to read it. I’ll just put it back in my moneyfold for anyone who’s interested. P’rfaps next time you’ll see fittin’ to take a look.
Nice seein’ you again, sir.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Millicent Hughes: https://www.danburyonfire.com/
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to use these five words: riot, tear, leaf, bread, nurse.
Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. “Like” her WOLVES Facebook page to keep up to date on her first novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK (coming soon!!): https://www.facebook.com/WolvesDontKnock/ (No! This book is not about werewolves or vampires!)
***
Too Much Silliness by Cathy MacKenzie
The outside commotion dragged Natalie from her dinner. She peeked out the bedroom window to darkness, but when flares soared high into the sky, she saw police brandishing their guns. A full-blown riot!
She yanked the drapes together as if blocking the scene made it less threatening. The action reminded her how she closed her eyes when she didn’t want someone to see her—as if doing so made her invisible. Such silliness!
Returning to the kitchen table, she demolished the last of the bread and soup. The soup had cooled in the few minutes she’d been in the bedroom. She closed her eyes, imaging the horror outside—outside on her very street, right outside her window! How could that be?
The world had changed; violence was the new normal. Unknowingly, she had picked the right profession. Nurses and doctors were in demand. At first, she hadn’t been certain she could follow through with her chosen career, but gradually, during her forty-plus year as a nurse, the sight of blood became her new normal.
Except she wasn’t working any longer and missed those days at the hospital.
She missed her husband, too.
She let her face drop to her hands, ignoring the tear that plopped to the table. Her sweet Bill. Whatever in the world had she been thinking?
She dipped her index finger into the blob, which had increased with the addition of several more tears, and traced the outline of a leaf. The shape resembled a teardrop, reminding her of dear Bill. A teardrop leaf. She snickered. How silly!
She smacked the blotch, surprising herself.
She sighed and returned to the window, peeking between the drapes. The din had lessened though a throng of people still lingered.
She went to the closet and withdrew an almost weightless box from the top shelf, placing it on the floor and removing the lid. Ah, her nurse’s cap, which she hadn’t worn for the last ten years, not after she’d been forced from the hospital due to her age. At least that’s what she told herself.
In reality, she had been fired for drinking blood, caught in the act by a sickly patient who had screamed at the discovery. Natalie had tried to wheedle her way out of the predicament, but blood dripping down her chin was the only evidence needed.
A policeman had the audacity to ask if she were a vampire. A vampire? Hadn’t they gone out with the dark ages? Had they ever been real?
“You’re too silly. I’m not a vampire.” Her words had been spewed to deaf ears—except for the dratted patient who had given Natalie away. Natalie had wanted to throttle her white, turkey-gobbler neck.
She sighed and twirled her waist-length hair into a bun, ensuring it lay neatly on top of her head. Had she really been fired because of the blood? She had convinced herself she had been fired due to her age, which gave her a legitimate reason to hate her employer and the staff, who had been itching for her to resign for years. Luckily, she had managed to keep her pension. She had worked the requisite thirty plus years; no one had the right to snatch that from her,
What a load of crap! It wasn’t against the law to drink blood. And silliness to boot! So much silliness that no charges had ever been laid. The hospital, not interested in adverse publicity, wanted to forget the incident. Old Mrs. McNaughton, the woman who had caught her in the act, was senile and adamantly refused to testify. They had no case even if the hospital had wanted to press charges.
Natalie’s supervisor at the hospital had declared her a nut case. Natalie grimaced. After over thirty years at the same hospital, she should have held the supervisor positon, not some upstart twenty-year-old who didn’t know the difference between a needle and a thermometer.
“What kind of imbecile drinks blood?” Natalie’s supervisor had added after declaring her a nutcase.
“Me,” Natalie had said. “I was thirsty.” She kept a straight face but inside her guts constricted with glee. She had known it was the wrong reply, but she couldn’t help herself. She had whispered it, though, so only the supervisor heard it, which made the younger woman even more irate. But the telltale blood was the nail that kept the lid on the coffin, so to speak.
“Never mind,” Natalie had said, “I quit,” even though she was aware she was a tad late; she had already been fired.
She had paid no never mind to the awe-struck onlookers, snatched her handbag and her pristine white cap that had fallen from her head during the “excitement,” and raced from the ward. She hadn’t set foot in that hospital since. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing she might be sick.
Without more pondering, she set the cap on top of her head. It sat perfectly, wedged on her bun, but just in case, she secured it with two bobby pins.
After a final look in the mirror and a minor adjustment—must look presentable, dearie—she closed the door behind her and descended the three flights of stairs to the ground level.
The evening was darker than usual with the streetlights destroyed by rioters, but riots meant injuries. Injuries meant blood. No one would see. A dark corner would exist, somewhere, away from the cops and the flares.
She licked her lips in anticipation. Her dear, sweet Bill flashed in front of her. She prayed she could snare a wounded, unconscious man. Alive was best, one who resembled Bill. Poor Bill, gone much too soon, but she had enjoyed his last moments of breath even if he hadn’t.
She snickered. Much too much silliness! She’d never find another Bill.
***
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Millicent Hughes: https://www.danburyonfire.com
Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this week is to use these five words in a story or poem: riot, tear, leaf, bread, nurse.
Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the poignant YA tale The Girl Who Flew Away, a story of friendship, family, addiction, adoption, and forgiveness.
Valentine’s Day
By Val Muller
Why on Earth would she agree to babysit her niece and nephew on Valentine’s Day? Allison took a deep breath and closed her eyes, making the living room full of children disappear for a few seconds. Her own seven- and five-year olds were rambunctious enough, but to take on a toddler and a crawler at the same time?
Allison tried to remember what it had been like. It was hard being new parents, and Melanie and James had only been at it for a couple of years. Their little Brucie, the crawler, still wasn’t sleeping through the night, and Marianne was going through her terrible twos. No wonder Melanie and James needed a break.
Still. Did they have to go out on Valentine’s Day?
In the middle of the week?
After hopping their kids up on chocolate and lollypops?
Allison opened her eyes again. The television blared Peppa Pig, but before she could come to terms with the fact that she knew the episode by heart, she noticed little Brucie’s mouth. It was outlined in bright blue, and the color was dripping down his chubby cheeks in long, sticky lines.
“Marianne, don’t let your brother eat your lollypop,” she sighed. “He’s too little for candy.”
Marianne’s eyes flashed, and she took a handful of Lego Duplo blocks and chucked them across the room. She sputtered a string of gobbledygook that sounded like witchcraft and then crossed her arms in anger. Then she hurried to the bookshelf and flung several bedtime storybooks with the fervor of one ready to start a riot.
“Mom, Marianne didn’t do it,” Amy said. Amy, the seven-year-old. The only one adult enough to offer any assistance.
Allison chuckled at that thought. A seven-year-old as an adult. This was her life now.
“Well then who did?” Allison asked.
Amy pointed at her brother. Adam smiled guiltily, revealing a row of blue teeth. In his hand was the offending item. “Adam, Brucie’s too young for candy, okay?”
The kindergartener shrugged. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Everybody deserves candy.”
Something about this annoyed Marianne, who was already on the verge of tears. She charged Adam in an attempt to steal his lollypop.
“Pop!” she screamed.
Adam resisted, his hand knocking to the ground the plate of bread and butter he’d insisted on for dinner and then promptly ignored. The plate flew like a frisbee and hit Brucie on the forehead. The baby wailed immediately.
Allison hurried to pick him up. This better not have left a bruise. Melanie and James were still in that honeymoon phase of parenting where they cared about every little injury. They’d probably take off work to bring the baby to the pediatrician to check for a concussion or some other injury they researched on the internet. Allison kissed the wound to no avail.
Meanwhile, Adam and Marianne were coming to blows.
“Amy, please help!” Allison asked.
The seven-year-old shot a “why me?” look.
Marianne ran to the carnage of books and ripped out several pages, shredding them and throwing them in the air like leaves.
Allison shot a look at her daughter. “Please, Amy” Allison begged. “Help mom out this evening, and I’ll take you to Target to pick out any toy you want.”
At that, Adam froze. “Me too?” he asked.
Allison sighed. There went the money she saved by not hiring her own babysitter and taking a date night of her own. Instead, she agreed to babysit for her sister’s kids and allowed her husband to work late.
“I guess,” she sighed. “If you help take care of Brucie and Marianne.”
Adam sprung into action. A roll of tape materialized from nowhere, and he dove into action, putting together the torn pages like a nurse sewing together a patient. Marianne stared, captivated at the process.
Amy picked up little Brucie and took him to the bathroom, where a minor fuss indicated that his face was being washed. A moment later, the four of them were sitting on the couch just as a new episode of PJ Masks was coming on. Allison couldn’t help but smile. It was an episode she hadn’t seen before. A rare treat. She snuck into the corner of the room and plucked three of the chocolates her husband had given her before work this morning. She popped one in her mouth and hid the other two behind her back. These were quality chocolates, not to be shared with children. Not even mature seven-year-olds.
She eyed the bottle of wine on the living room table but decided she could wait until Melanie and James came to pick up the kids—and until the hubby returned. For now, in the warm glow of the television and the soothing sweet of candy, the chocolate was enough.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Millicent Hughes: https://www.danburyonfire.com/
Following a sixteen-year-old named Sarah who is having a self-proclaimed existential crisis, this book is gritty and strange. This review contains spoilers.
At the very beginning of the novel, I got the impression that Sarah was just an angsty teenager frustrated with life, which made the book seem like a cliché of a YA novel. But I was not familiar with A.S. King. As the story continues, it becomes clear that this author walks the line between reality and magical realism. And as this becomes apparent, it’s also clear that Sarah’s frustrations are beyond ordinary: there are underlying issues Sarah is unwilling to confront. The story isn’t really just about a teenager going through an angsty time. It’s about larger issues.
Sarah is an artist. Or at least she was. But now, she seems unable to draw. She’s frustrated with life, thinking nothing new or original happens. Even though she doesn’t quite realize it, she’s searching for what truly constitutes art. The title is inspired by one of her friends, who draws tornados, claiming that they contain all manner of debris that help define who were are and what we go through.
Sarah is going through her own tornado: she has dropped out of school after some drama with the art club and art class. Worse, she roams around Philadelphia, going to dangerous places, such as a run-down and abandoned school now used for graffiti and worse. She follows people around. Tries eating out of trash cans. And is obsessed with a homeless man who is, in her mind, a real artist. All the while, she mopes over the absence of her brother, who left her when she was ten.
As story continues, Sarah meets several versions of herself: a ten-year-old Sarah who has fresh memories of a disturbing family vacation to Mexico; a twenty-three-year-old Sarah who seems arrogant and annoyed at the teenager’s crisis; and a forty-year-old Sarah who seems to have things more or less together. When I first met the ten-year-old Sarah, I thought for sure she was a manifestation of Sarah’s memories. But then other characters begin to see her as well (and the other Sarahs as well).
We come to learn, through use of varied points of view and flashbacks, that Sarah’s mother has been in an abusive relationship with her husband since they first met. Although she seems down to earth and strong (she’s an ER nurse and has seen everything), she has been making excuses for her husband’s behavior since almost the start of their relationship. And it turns out the couple has stayed together partly for the “benefit” of Sarah and her older brother, Bruce. After a trip to Mexico during which Sarah’s brother was hit—hard—by their father, he decided to leave home (he was in college at the time) and has been out of contact since.
Once I saw that this was not a normal tale—and that it was about the ramifications of abuse and all the people it affects—I was hoping for a bit more. I wanted an additional twist. But the reveal comes slowly, and by the time it came, it was fairly obvious what had happened. But that was part of the point, I think: Sarah and her mother had made excuses and repressed memories so that the obvious was not so obvious to them. The method of storytelling in some ways mimics that. Even Bruce, who took some action, did not do enough to rectify the situation, and the slow reveal emulates that as well. I also liked the fact that Sarah’s brother went on to work with troubled youth—and he explains that sometimes, adults who behave horribly can trace those roots back to childhood. While it’s easy to hate people like Sarah’s father, it’s even suggested that his own childhood helped to shape him into the person he is.
All in all, the book should want to make readers want to reach out to seek help if needed or to offer help to those in need. I can see this book hitting home with readers depending on their experience. Since I’m reading this for a YA bookclub intended to screen books for potential use in schools, I would warn that there is some violence in the book as well as language. But more than the physical violence, the hidden emotional violence and torment is disturbing. Even beyond the abuse of her father, Sarah also encounters bullying at school—an art club that stole her best project and destroyed it so it couldn’t place in the art show—as well as observed a sexual relationship between Ms. Smith (the art teacher) and one of Sarah’s former (female) friends. The literary elements of the novel, for me, balance out this content, making it justifiable for student use with warnings in advance.
On a side note, the existentialist echoes reminded me of the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, especially the sentences: “I am a human being. I am sixteen years old. And that is enough.” To this end, this novel could be paired with other complex texts in a thematic unit on existentialism, such as Stoppard’s play, Hamlet, and Life of Pi.
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “hunger” (the hunger does not have to be literal).
Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie, who is diligently finalizing her novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK. Coming soon! (No, it’s not about werewolves and vampires!)
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“Hungering for a Nude” by Cathy MacKenzie
About ten years ago, when I was taking art lessons in Mexico, Dimitar, the instructor, asked if he could paint me—nude!
Immediately, I’d been aghast. The dirty old man! But I gave him leeway; he was in his eighties, after all.
But he had to be joking. Who would ask to paint me, a fifty-plus-year-old woman? And what fifty-year-old flabby female (like me) would agree?
He was serious!
Hmm… What would posing for a painting entail? Would I have to pay him for the privilege? Would he pay me for my time (and embarrassment)? I would want the painting (good or bad), but would he keep it?
I had shaken my head—literally. Silliness to even contemplate such an idea. “No!”
I took painting lessons from Dimitar for several years while wintering in Mexico, managing to produce several “masterpieces,” mostly of my grandchildren (so, of course they’re works of art!). One day he chastised me: “I suspect you used a ruler,” words I’ll never forget. I kept the ruler hidden behind my pastel paper or on my lap under a paint rag, confident he’d never see it. I enjoyed painting but needed the basic image first, and for that I used a ruler, measuring wee eyes and noses and lips and then doubling, tripling, or quadrupling them onto paper.
We didn’t go to Mexico in 2013, and when we returned the following winter I discovered Dimitar had died in February of 2013, at ninety-three. I was saddened. He truly was one of the old masters, and the art world would be darker without him. He’d also been a magnificent teacher; he taught me, and I don’t have a smidgen of talent.
We are back in Mexico this winter, and Hubby doesn’t waste time nattering that I should have accepted Dimitar’s offer.
“You lost your only chance,” he says.
I had for sure. “I know,” I reply.
“We could have had a painting of you by a real master.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure I could have posed naked.”
“Your private areas would have been covered. He would have painted them from his imagination.”
“Oh, really?”
“You’ll never look as good as you looked back then.”
Another non-compliment. But Hubby is right. Even though I looked gross back then, I look grosser today; most of us don’t improve with age. But I continued to waver whether Dimitar had been serious, not that it matters now.
Hubby continues to drone on about the lost opportunity.
I glance in the mirror and sigh, regretting my decision back then. “Yeah, I wish I had.”
(RIP Dimitar Krustev. I miss you.)
***
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Millicent Hughes: https://www.danburyonfire.com/
I happened upon an article about The Armada Tree in Northern Ireland. The Spanish Sweet Chestnut tree supposedly grew from a chestnut that was stored in a sailor’s pocket when he was buried in an unmarked grave after washing up from sea. While not completely proven, the story is a romantic one, and inspiring. That a living monument could mark someone’s passing is encouraging. And in a very real way, it illustrates the idea that we are all connected and exert influences that last beyond our days.
The gnarled tree reminded me of the film The Fountain¸ an artistic piece involving three interwoven timelines related to a search for immortality and an acceptance of death. In the film, a tree—the tree of life—plays an important role as characters reconcile what it means to live and to love and to die.
I remember being a child and talking to my parents about trees. They were trying to explain to me how slowly trees grow. I inquired about planting an apple tree and asked when we would be able to eat the apples from it. The answer was a bit shocking to me—turned out, I would have already moved out of the house by the time the tree grew to fruition. Back then, it was hard for me to fathom that. What did they mean, the apples wouldn’t be ready in time for me? How could that be?
They told me that planting a tree was a symbol of hope. Huh? When you plant a tree, they explained, you were thinking about making your yard (or wherever) a better place a long ways into the future. That meant you were thinking of your children, or their children, or the children of someone you’ve never even met. It meant you were thinking about making the world a better place even long after you were gone. It was the most hopeful thing one human could do for another.
In my novel The Man with the Crystal Ankh, the fictional town of Hollow Oak centers around a—well, hollow oak, an ancient oak tree with a partially hollowed trunk that was used generations ago to hide the child of a controversial coupling. Now, generations later, the town’s descendants are still trying to reconcile the events of their past.
The concept was inspired by all of the old trees I’ve encountered in my life, the large one whose girths speak to times long before my grandparents. The “protest tree” at my college, the looming willow at old Gallaher’s Estate, the huge tree providing shade for several play features at my child’s favorite park, the fiery yellow leaves of the tree on the front lawn of my workplace. Touching the bark and feeling the solidity of the tree in the earth, it’s easy to imagine the generations of people who must have passed below the tree’s branches. What stories did they tell? What worries did they shoulder? What hopes did they have for the future?
I imagine the trees watching days without horses, and then the emergence of clip-clopping on dirt roads, and the first roarings of motor cars. Like the Ents in The Lord of the Rings, they would stand firmly, only barely glimpsing at the days of humans. We would seem to pass them as an ether, a miasma of frantic energy that barely took the time to slow down and reflect.
As I plant new trees in my nearly-open yard, I do take the time to reflect. I listen to the chirp of a bird. I feel the warmth on my face as the sun provides a rare spring day in the middle of winter, and I glance at the trees that are already taller than when I planted them. And then I wonder what they may see in their lifetime and what they might inspire in those who follow me on this earth.
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story involving hunger. The hunger does not have to be literal. Today’s post comes to us from Val Muller, author of the YA novel The Girl Who Flew Away, available from Barking Rain Press or anywhere books are sold.
Satan’s Donuts
By Val Muller
Her stomach growled even before her alarm sounded. A tired swoosh of the hand turned on the television, and the merciless Morning News came on with something warm and bubbly resounding on the screen. It was the perky and very fit, athletic, and blonde reporter Janet Simmons. She was speeding down the sidewalk—backwards, always backwards so she faced the camera—in beautiful high heels and speaking into the microphone without even sounding winded.
The camera stopped as she turned briefly, revealing her mornings destination. Simmons was known for her fun local features on the morning news. This morning, she was standing in front of the heavily advertised Satan’s Donuts.
Sally giggled. It wasn’t really called Satan’s Donuts, of course. It was called Satin Donuts. You know, because of how smooth they are when they slide down your throat. One after the next.
Not that Sally would know. She had stayed on her diet everyday for the past four months and had already shed 20 pounds. But that was the easy weight. Now, her body seemed to have reached what it believed to be ideal weight. Her doctor disagreed, encouraging her to lose the extra 10.
Satan’s Donuts happened to have its shop just four blocks from Sally’s office downtown. They had already wallpapered the mail room with flyers for free donuts to celebrate their grand opening. Several co-workers had brought in boxes over the past week, taking advantage of the BOGO offer.
At work, donuts were everywhere.
These were not regular grocery store donuts or even national franchise donuts. These were the kind that Sally could smell as soon as she walked into the office. They smelled expensive. They smelled like they were made of ingredients of higher caliber then Sally traditionally ate or cooked with. They smelled like they were worth the calories.
These Donuts were Gourmet.
And there, on the screen, sitting at the 1950s-style counter on a Satan-red and chrome stool, was Janet Simmons. Skinny and smiling in her trim pink suit. In front of her, the store owner had set a dozen donuts, lined up along the counter so that the camera could pan them slowly and excruciatingly.
The camera paused as the owner cut a small slice of each one. Kind of like a pizza. Sally watched as thin and perky Janet Simmons picked up the First Slice.
This one was a traditional Boston cream. But it made the national franchise brand look anemic. It was like a giant puff pastry. The entire donut was just about as big as Janet Simmons’ trim face. The camera panned in for a close-up. The dough looked airy and soft. The custard filling glistened in the light, and the chocolate ganache on top looked good enough to be a meal on its own.
Janet Simmons bit into her little slice and exclaimed all kinds of heavenly sounds to let the viewer know exactly what they were missing. She put down the remaining portion of her little sliver and moved on to the next donut.
Yes, she was going to sample all 12. But it was clear her producer and an eye on the clock because she started speeding up her little taste test. She hurried through the powdered jelly and committed blasphemy when she shoved a double chocolate into her mouth without truly savoring it.
She didn’t even really give the maple and bacon donut the time it deserved.
Simmons did finally pause for the birthday cake donut, a rainbow-speckled wonder that looked good enough to die for. The pink of the sprinkles perfectly matched her suit.
Sally winced. Her mouth watered. A rough calculation suggested that even with her small bites, Janet Simmons had just ingested about 500 calories worth of goodness.
That’s right, Sally had researched it. Each of those donuts topped out above 800 calories. They were a dieter’s nightmare. And they were giving Sally a headache.
Her stomach growled as the segment on TV finally came to an end. And of course a McDonald’s commercial appeared, displaying an egg and cheese sandwich magnified to take up the entire 60-inch television.
Sally turned off the TV.
Her stomach growled as she pulled on her shorts and workout shirt. She checked the weather and tied her shoes. A glance in the mirror made her smile. She lifted her shirt to check out her abs. Sure they were nothing like Janet Simmons’– all the world would know, after Janet’s little visit to the yoga studio last for last weeks’ feature—but they were defined, and they were progress.
Sally headed through the kitchen to the front door and eyed the box of chocolate protein cereal that waited for her to finish her run. That and half a banana wouldn’t even equal what Janet Simmons had eaten that morning. And that was its own kind of victory.
Sally locked her front door and pounded the sidewalk at a brisk pace. A good run, she learned, was the best way to beat the hunger, and to look just a little more like Janet Simmons.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Dorothy Colinco: www.dorothycolinco.com
