Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

I read this collection of short stories for part of my young adult book club. As such, I’ll be looking at it primarily for its use in the classroom. The stories are primarily about relationships or characters seeking better lives. They span America and India (and some other locations). First, a brief overview of each story:

“A Temporary Matter”
A young couple, still hurting from the stillbirth of their first child, is given notice that the electric company will have to turn off their power for an hour each evening as part of scheduled repairs. The couple is forced to interact in the darkness as opposed to ignoring each other, as they have grown accustomed to do since the tragedy.

“When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine”
Told from a child’s point of view, this story focuses on a man named Mr. Pirzada, from Pakistan. Living in the US after the Pakistani civil war, the man is reeling after losing contact with his wife and daughters. He brings candy for the speaker during his frequent visits, which seems like his way of lessening his guilt for the absence of his own daughters. The story highlights the differences in cultures, the universality of the human condition, and the way people react to stress and tragedy.

“Interpreter of Maladies”
In this story, a tour guide named Mr. Kapasi takes a family, Mr. and Mrs. Das and their children, on a tour of the Sun Temple at Konarak. He notices the family doesn’t seem to care about each other, especially Mrs. Das, and he begins to have hope for some type of long-term/long-distance interaction with her… or possibly more.

“A Real Durwan”
Boori Ma is in her sixties and takes care of an apartment complex. She always tells stories about her old life, and the stories seem embellished, to help her reconcile her current condition. Though she seems miserable, things start looking up when one of the residents installs a sink for everyone to share, and the other residents catch the fever to improve the place. But perhaps they are allowing themselves a bit too much freedom and abandoning the caution that had kept them safe.

“Sexy”
The story follows an affair between a young woman and a married man. This is the first story that caught my eye as possibly inappropriate for high school students depending on the audience. The language mentioned that he “entered her,” which could possibly be disturbing for some readers. And yet the story does have literary merit as it plays with the definition of “sexy” and includes a second story as a foil to the affair.

“Mrs. Sen’s”
This story follows a woman who feels isolated after her husband took a professorship in the United States. She does not know how to drive, and he tries to teach her as a way of giving her some independence. At the same time, she takes on a babysitting job for extra income. Yet everything she does seems to clash with the American culture she is so uncomfortable with.

“This Blessed House”
After knowing each other for only months, a young couple marries. They find several tacky Christian items in their new house (salt and pepper shaker, a giant poster, etc.), which the wife is thrilled about and displays on the mantle. The husband reminds her that they are not Christian. The artifacts become a point of contention, and it is revealed that the husband feels distanced from his marriage and seems to prefer solitude.

“The Treatment of Bibi Haldar”
Bibi Haldar has a history of seizures, and no one has been able to diagnose a cause or prescribe an effective remedy—until she is told that marriage is the only cure. Because of her reputation, no one wants to marry her. Spoiler: she is finally cured when she becomes pregnant from an undisclosed man and spends the rest of her days as a single mother and business owner. This tale read almost like a fairy tale to me.

“The Third and Final Continent”
In this story, set in 1969, a man travels from India to England, then to America, to start his life. He is married in India via an arranged marriage. While waiting for his wife’s paperwork to clear, he rents a room from a 103-year-old woman. In a rarity for this anthology, he and his wife grow to love each other and live a happy life.

In some ways, the story in this collection start to feel repetitive in the motif of a passionless love—and with the sense that it is nearly impossible to find a real love. There is a sense that characters are each self-absorbed and never truly communicate their thoughts/feelings/desires/goals to each other. Several are together simply because they have been together for so many years.

I do think the stories are valuable for studying cultural differences and assumptions. They would be ideal for looking at women’s studies, for instance. As a teacher, I would be more tempted to choose one or two short stories to read in isolation, though I could see an AP Lit class using the entire collection.

The characters do feel real enough—even though they are only short stories, the characters all feel that they have depth and could become the subject of an entire novel if the author felt so compelled. The only story I would try to avoid is “Sexy” because it’s about an affair and has the most blatant mention of sex, but some populations would be fine with this. Nothing was explicit.

Living/teaching in a relatively privileged county, I can see these stories being used to highlight element of life students may not have had to encounter—loss, the search for love and purpose, falling into a life without having truly thought about one’s identity or goals, the way we treat outcasts, whether we have sympathy for others and whether our experiences help improve our ability to sympathize.

As a teacher, I would probably have my students choose one character from a story and do additional research in a character profile, examining what makes this character tick and possibly connection to characters from other works of literature and even the student’s own life.

Some cautions for high school: depictions of sex, drinking, smoking, extramarital affairs.

Underrepresented populations: Indian

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a fictional something that should be left in the past. Today’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the poignant YA novel The Girl Who Flew Away: https://www.amazon.com/Girl-Who-Flew-Away-ebook/dp/B06XKDFXTZ

 Sulfur

By Val Muller

Even in Georgia, the day was brisk, leaving streets empty. It was the first week of January, and most people still had their Christmas decorations up. Was it to make the cold snap feel less brutal? Or maybe the Southerners simply hibernated when temperatures dropped too low: the decorations would come down when they could move again.

In any case, it worked out well for Andrea. She’d used extra perfume this morning—“holiday sparkle,” it was called, and it paired perfectly with the pine needle potpourri she stuffed into her satchel. If he asked about the scent, she could claim she was just being seasonal. Celebratory. That’s what people looked for in a nanny, right? A celebratory nanny would never have been involved in a—no, she had to move past it.

She took a deep breath and double-checked the address on her phone. Yes, this was it. 13450 Hummingbird Lane. His name was Mr. Weinstein, although her expansive Internet searches could not tell her whether he pronounced it as steen or stine. A forgivable offense, but given her situation, she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

He answered the door holding a handkerchief to his nose, then he dabbed his red nostrils and invited her in. He closed the door behind her before reaching a hand and offering a shake. She told herself not to hesitate and to grip firmly, glad she was wearing thick leather gloves against his germy hand.

“Andrea Climbury,” she said.

“Goob to meet you,” he said. “Excuse the mose.” He motioned to his head, obviously congested.

“Of course,” she offered. At first she frowned at his lack of introduction—she still didn’t know how to pronounce his name. But then her face broke into a smile. With a stuffy nose, there was no way he could smell anything about her—pine tree or otherwise. She swore with the last interview, the sulfur ruined everything.

“Come on into the study,” he said, checking his watch. “Elissa is just finishing her map.” His face drew into a smile at what must have been Andrea’s surprised expression. “She still maps. She’s only three,” he said. “I mow, my ad made her sound a bit older. Unintentional. She’s a bit precocious, is all. She loves books.”

“I certainly do love to read to the little ones,” Andrea said. “It’s one of the reasons I answered your ad. At my last job, books were a big—” She caught herself. “And I’ve worked with children of all ages.”

Mr. Weinstein motioned for her to sit on the couch. She glanced around the study. The books were all leather and looked older than even Mr. Weinstein. They had to be worth at least twice what he paid for his house. Several rare volumes sat open on pedestals.

“Elissa loves to read,” he explained.

He retrieved Andrea’s resume from his desk and joined her at the other end. “So, Ms. Climbury, I see you’ve moved here from up north. Andover, was it? Now where do I know that town? I’ve never been to Massachusetts, but the name sounds so…”

Andrea sighed. This was it, then. He’d make the connection and she’d be on the search for a job again. If Georgia wasn’t far enough, then where in the world could she go? Distract him, stupid!

“Yes, there was a little girl there. Madison. She loved to read, too. That’s how—” She forced her face into a smile. “Anyway, I was, um, heartbroken when her parents decided to send her to boarding school.”

He nodded, but his face was elsewhere, trying to retrieve a memory. Then it relaxed. “That’s right! Andover. Late last year—Andover was the site of that, well. I don’t know what to call it, actually.”

The Portal to Hell. That’s what the media had called it. The house that randomly opened up in a sinkhole filled with what appeared to be smoldering magma. Unexplainable by geologists, architects, and city planners. A new tourist destination for fans of nearby Salem, and witchcraft, and the occult.

Andrea scratched her nose, and it burned with the familiar scent. She feared she’d remember the scent as long as she lived. To be fair, Madison had been a nice girl. Even to this day, Andrea blamed the books. They’d turned the child into a young Dr. Faustus. And then all it took was a passing taunt on the way home from little Madison’s rival. A few Latin chants later, and little Jenny’s house had become a portal to Hell.

Madison’s parents told Andrea the decision for boarding school was unrelated to the sinkhole incident. It wasn’t completely clear they knew their daughter was to blame. So what if Madison had been standing on the rim of the smoldering crater when the fire department arrived? But Andrea suspected they’d put two and two together. Why else would they send their daughter off to Wisconsin?

Same reason Andrea was down in Georgia.

Andrea looked up to see that Mr. Weinstein was frowning at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You probably don’t like talking about that very buch.” He sniffled. “I’m sure it was traumatic for your town.”

Andrea turned her face to sniff out the pine scent of her satchel. It helped cover the itchy sulfur that had infused itself into her on that fateful day. “In any case,” she said, “I’m eager to start in a new position right away. Like I said, I love working with kids.”

A pitter-patter on hardwood interrupted the conversation. “Speak of the devil,” he said, “here’s little Elissa now.” He turned to a wild-eyed little girl in a pink, frilly tutu with a sequined purple witch hat. “How was your map? You ready to do some reading?”

“Yes!” she squealed.

Andrea looked around, searching for the stash of children’s books that had to be somewhere. But little Elissa was already busy pushing a wooden stool up to a pedestal stand containing a very old, leather-bound volume.

“The Necronomicon,” she chirped, offering a toothy toddler smile to Andrea and her father.

Mr. Weinstein turned to admire his precocious little daughter. “Miss Climbury, I’m sure the two of you will get along just fine. I’ll leave the two of you to get acquai—”

But when he turned toward Andrea, he saw only an empty couch, felt the draft of the front door opening to the cold, and even through his congestion caught the faintest whiff of sulfur among pine.


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

 

 

A member of my book club chose this as one of our reads this year. The novel is based on a true part of America’s history: Georgia Tann and the Memphis Tennessee Children’s Home Society. According to historical records, Tann coerced parents to sign away the rights to their children, sometimes having mothers sign over their children while still part unconscious from childbirth. Sometimes Tann would resort to outright kidnapping. And then she sold the children for a high price to families desperate to adopt.

Wingate creates a fictional family—the five Foss children—who are left alone on their boat home on the Mississippi while their mother is taken to the hospital with complications trying to deliver twins. While alone, a group of adults kidnap the children, promising the children their parents will be there soon. This storyline, taking place in 1939, is one of two interwoven tales in the novel. We learn chronologically about the Foss children as they struggle to stay together and navigate the abusive orphanage.

The other storyline takes place in the present day. A 30-year old lawyer named Avery Stafford has returned to the South from Baltimore. She’s being groomed to be her father’s replacement in case the politician should have to lose office due to his bout with cancer. She’s not quite happy about her life, though she has accepted her place in the wealthy family and all the grooming it entails. Essentially, her life is a never-ending PR stunt. Every opportunity is taken to put a positive spin on the family, and there always seems to be an assistant watching her to make sure she isn’t tainting the family’s reputation. Her mother and future mother-in-law are constantly pestering her (and her fiance) to set a wedding date, reminding them that it would be a good PR opportunity should it be needed.

During a visit to a nursing home, Avery is “accosted” by one of the elderly residents, who takes her dragonfly bracelet, an heirloom from Avery’s grandmother (who is staying at a different, more expensive, retirement home). It’s clear that the old woman recognizes Avery, or at least the bracelet, which leads Avery to put her lawyer skills to good use, tracking down the truth about her family’s history and its connection to the Children’s Home Society. Avery is tough and not easily intimidated, and once she commits to solve the mystery, it happens fairly quickly.

Throughout the tale, we hear two voices: Avery’s 30-year-old voice, and the voice of a young adolescent (identify withheld: spoilers), who was part of the Children’s Home scandal. I enjoyed the younger voice more. It’s less obvious and more honest. Avery was never allowed to be honest with herself, and she isn’t until the very end, making some of the plot points fairly obvious. Perhaps that is the point.

As I read this novel for a YA reading group, I wanted to include a bit about appropriateness for the classroom. There are no explicit scenes in this book. At the children’s home, there is some violence and suggestions of sexual abuse, but nothing too explicit. If it were a movie, I’d see it as a PG-13 if they included the fight scenes as written–but moreso because of the unpleasantness of the living conditions at the orphanage and the threats made by the workers there.

In terms of under-represented groups, there are the “river gypsies” referenced in the 1939 chapters—families reminiscent of the culture in Huck Finn (which is referenced several times throughout the novel). The orphans themselves offer a reminder that not everyone has a stress-free family situation. Even the wealthy who adopted the children were fighting their own battles (infertility, infant loss). And then there is a glimpse of the working classes—those who served the wealthy families and those who were so desperate for a job that they stayed at the Children’s Home Society despite what was happening there. In Avery’s time, there is the political issue that is still important today: the fact that those without lots of money are often forced to live in less-than-ideal senior living situations.

The reading level was not difficult (though there is some old-fashioned language in the chapters from 1939). An average high school reader would be able to read it with little trouble (though it’s not an easy read for that age; it’s more of an adult than a YA novel). The style was rather simple. There were not passages of swirling metaphors or beautiful prose that stood out; rather, the focus was on the story itself. I wonder, though, if a high-school student would be able to relate. The two protagonists are slightly younger than a high-schooler and more than a decade older.

While I thought I would not relate to Avery because of her family’s wealth and political savviness, I ended up feeling sorry for her. It was clear by the end that she was in her own type of prison—the same way that one of the Foss children felt imprisoned even when adopted into a wealthy household. Her decisions were not her own. As the novel points out, it’s the same reason Huck Finn decided to run away at the end of Twain’s novel: personal freedom was more important to him than anything else. It’s a lesson Avery embraced by the end.

Disclaimer: My story, “Dorsal Fin,” appears in this anthology. The anthology was published several years ago, and I thought I’d wait a while to review it to avoid an immediate conflict of interest. I receive no financial benefit regardless of how well the anthology sells.

The anthology contains 75 pages of horror stories, 11 stories in all. The stories are just realistic enough to be plausible but just speculative enough to fall into horror. They run the gamut of witchcraft, murder and hitchhiking, taxidermy, and more. I enjoyed the anthology. It was dark but not super explicit. There were no stories that made me truly want to cringe (though the taxidermy story made me come close). Rather, the stories allowed the reader to use her imagination to fill in the explicit bits. And there were certainly elements to disturb a reader.

I liked how each story had its own style, so they always felt fresh. On the other hand, they were all of similar quality: I always felt I was being given relevant details without any uselessness. While short, the anthology kept my interest.

My story, “Dorsal Fin,” is based partly on my ability as a kid to jump into my mother’s mind. Once, when lost at Kids ‘R Us, I heard my mom calling to me and telling me where she was, even though when I asked her about it, she said she hadn’t said a word and didn’t even realize I was lost (she thought I was just browsing clothes). Similarly, when my husband and daughter wandered off at Walmart, an image of fabric jumped into my mind, and sure enough I found them by the craft section next to the fabrics. But in each of those circumstances, a bit of panic inspired me to use my mind in ways it is not normally used. In the story, a character has a similar ability and is stranded in paradise—a desert island and is in need of a way to create panic to reach out to her mother for rescuing.

All in all, the anthology is a good read for around Halloween, or—if you’re like me—during the darkest days of the year.

A friend loaned me this book as a “quick summer read.” I put it on a stack that got misplaced over the summer, and I recently found it again.

Quick—she wasn’t kidding! Even going to bed exhausted, I was able to finish this book in about three days, reading it before bed and while keeping an eye on the kiddo in the bathtub. The font is large and spaced out, and the pages fly by quickly. Chapters can be read in about two minutes.

When I read that it was about the murder of someone in East Hampton, I couldn’t imagine it would be a good read. I didn’t want to read about rich folks and their problems. But it starts off in an engaging way and keeps it up the whole time. The book is about the millionaires of the Hamptons and those who have very little. It’s about detectives, lawyers, townies, aspiring sports stars, drug dealers… the diversity in character helps keep the work engaging.

The premise: an aspiring basketball player named Dante is charged with the murder of three—and then four—people. Tom Dunleavy believes Dante is innocent, and he takes it upon himself to defend the boy.

As Tom makes headway on the case as almost an amateur detective, he faces discrimination from his former friends, who believe Dante is guilty, and he can’t seem to get his love interest to forget about his past mistakes. In the meantime, essential witnesses and others begin disappearing, murdered by someone who has many of the cops under his control.

The narrative is told in alternating chapters—the list of characters and a brief description appears at the start of the novel for ease in reading. The use of varied points of view both adds and detracts from the suspense. For instance, when we read from Dante’s perspective, we learn whether he is actually the killer or not. On the other hand, the varied use of perspective builds dramatic irony. And without spoiling it, there is a narrative voice that we cannot trust, and that makes for the twist advertised on the back cover. I did feel a bit betrayed by the one dishonest voice.

It was a book without much substance but a quick read with enough intrigue to keep someone interested. A perfect beach read.

Welcome to The Spot Writers. December’s theme is to write a story that involves baking or a fire, something to take our minds off the chill in the air.

This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s one-woman publishing company, MacKenzie Publishing, has published two anthologies: OUT OF THE CAVE 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. BUY IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS!

***

Hot for a Reason

by Cathy MacKenzie

“I’m so hot.”

“Me, too.”

“And so bright.  I’m blinded.”

“Yeah, I agree. But what can we do?”

“Not much. We’re holed in here. Literally.”

“Literally?”

“Yeah, kinda means there’s no hope.”

“We’re doomed, you mean?”

“Yeah, kinda. Until we burn out.”

“But everyone burns out eventually, right?”

“Yeah, can’t help burnout.  Life’s like that, but if we didn’t burn out, we’d explode. And we don’t want that.”

“Nope, that would be serious. We could cause a tree fire and the house would burn down. No one needs that at Christmas.”

“I agree. So I’m happy for burnout, the lesser of the evils.”

“You’re such a nice person.”

“Haha! I am, aren’t I? Am I glowing with your praise?”

“You are. Nice and bright.  I love your blue.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. Green looks nice alongside me. And how about neighbour Red?”

“Red, like Elfie on the shelf.”

“Haha, that’s his name. I heard his girlfriend is Eleanor. Two kids were here earlier talking about their elves: one named Red, the other Eleanor. They put Eleanor in Barbie’s bed and waited for Red to join her.”

“That sounds X-rated.”

“Nothing happened. The kids gave up when an older child said they weren’t supposed to touch the elves. That ruins the magic.”

“Christmas is such a nice time of year.”

“It is.”

“Let’s shine as bright as we can. And spread our glow throughout the land.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. And wish the world a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS and PEACE ON EARTH.”

***

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

I dreamed about David Bowie (as Ziggy Stardust) last night, so I thought this would be a fitting topic for today’s Fantastic Friday post.

One of my works-in-progress involves a journey to Mars. I’ve been fascinated with the concept ever since my dad woke me up one morning years ago to tell me about a dream he had. His dream involved a colonist responsible for colonizing Mars (and of course, things went awry, but we won’t get into that now).

But the concept of colonizing Mars isn’t just for fans of sci-fi. There is something infinitely hopeful about imagining another chapter for humanity. Whether we move simply to expand or whether we move out of necessity, the underlying hope is that there is something worth saving, or preserving, or sharing.

I was reminded of this topic when I came upon an article about a team from MIT having won an architectural and engineering contest by designing a concept for a habitat on Mars.

These days, it’s easy to get caught up in a hate-filled media, which seems to make money by pitting one side against another. But to follow the advice of Fred Rogers, whenever something bad happens, it’s important to “look for the helpers.”

In the journalism class I teach, students noted that stories about negative things tend to be much more detailed, with sources chosen to support one side or another. Stories about positive things—like police officers giving out free turkeys or helping a child abandoned at school—tend to be short and to the point. While these stories are shared, they tend not to arouse the passions that the more incendiary ones do.

But the truth is, there is so much good in humanity worth preserving. The winning design for a city on Mars involves spheres that each contain a “tree” and helps to foster a water-rich environment while protecting the inhabitants (about 50 per sphere) from the harsh elements of Mars.

I was also encouraged to read that the theory behind the “city” can be applied to perhaps desert or ocean life here, providing a more human-friendly environment. It’s good to see people coming together to use their brains for productive purposes in an age where politics on all fronts seem to want to do the complete opposite.


Have you read The Girl Who Flew Away? In this novel, which may be my favorite, I wove a tale of hope into a trying situation. Addiction. Adoption. Friendship.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s theme is to write a story that involves baking or a fire, something to take our minds off the chill in the air. Today’s story comes to us from Val Muller. If you’re looking for heartwarming, check out her poignant YA novel The Girl Who Flew Away: https://www.amazon.com/Girl-Who-Flew-Away-ebook/dp/B06XKDFXTZ

Warm

By Val Muller

Maxine mixed the dough tenderly. She’d always done it so, always by hand, never with the bread maker or even with the mixer Ron had bought her for Christmas so many years ago. She added the cranberries and walnuts by hand, kneading them in with the dough.

When the bread was resting in the oiled bowl, she walked across the kitchen to the living room. She rolled a sheet of newspaper into the shape of a donut and stuck some kindling through the middle. Then another. And another. She smiled, remembering when Ron had taught her how—his father’s Boy Scout trick for starting a fire. She set the three donuts at the base of the fireplace and stacked them gently with more kindling.

She struck a match and watched the flame lick the newspaper, each donut catching in turn. Her hand at the back of the fireplace confirmed the updraft. The fire would take. As the kindling ignited, the orange glow illuminated the brick hearth, the metal of the bellows glimmering next to the brush and dustpan. She could almost feel Ron’s arms around her as she gazed into the fire.

Almost.

She stacked a triangular log on the flame, just a small one to start. She sighed, inhaling the familiar wood scent. Then she walked to the sink to wash her hands of flour and soot. She dried them carefully before taking her wedding ring from its bowl on the windowsill.

Even after five years, she still wore it. She would always wear it.

But five years, already…

She glanced at the dough, already lifting the towel that covered it into a rising lump. She poured some wine and padded to the fireplace, adding one more log. The lights from the neighbor’s house twinkled in through the window, the triangle of multicolored lights from their front window and the white icicles hanging from their front porch.

It hadn’t quite felt like Christmas yet this year, even with the cold.

The yeasty scent of the bread rising mixed with the crackling fire, and she stared into the flames until the clock told her the bread was ready for baking. She uncovered the bowl, punched down the dough, and cut it into two sections, shaping each into a ball and plopping them onto her stoneware.

Ron had always wanted to eat one right away, still warm enough that the butter melted. The other he would save for turkey sandwiches or French toast the next day. Maxine’s heart fell a bit at the thought. She had no one to dine with. Only the fire.

When the bread finished, she turned off the oven and left the stoneware on the counter to cool. The two loaves looked up at her, almost as if they, too, were questioning this tradition.

Yet she had to. For Ron.

Didn’t she?

She placed the first of the loaves onto the plate, the way she always did for Ron. She sliced it directly down the middle three times, choosing the middle two pieces for him. The butter had been sitting out all afternoon, so it was spreadably soft now. She slathered it on extra thick, the way Ron always liked.

She placed the slices next to the two halves of the warm bread and took the plate to the fire. “Well, Ron,” she said. “I hope you enjoy.” She glanced at the fire and up the chimney, imagining the smoke traveling all the way up to heaven, giving Ron his birthday treat from his beloved wife. Thirty-one years she’d baked that bread for him, and then five years after that.

Thirty-one years that just wasn’t enough. She knelt down, taking half the bread in her hand and getting ready to cast it into the fire, the way she always did, when a ringing doorbell jarred her as from a trance.

She put the plate on the coffee table and hurried to answer the door.

A band of children from the middle school—she recognized little John from next door—stood, decked in red and green and silver and gold. They held choir books and smiled up at her. “Ms. Maxine,” John said, his breath making swirling patterns in the cold. “For our school outreach project, we’re spreading holiday cheer through carols. May we sing to you?”

Maxine nodded and crossed her arms against the cold as the group started up a round of “Little Drummer Boy.” When they finished, they looked at her expectantly.

“How about one more?” she asked, clapping. Their little faces looked so innocent, even as old as middle school. They still had their whole lives ahead of them, a lifetime of finding true love, a calling, a passion. She smiled for them.

They were singing “Angels We Have Heard on High” now, and she wiped a tear from her cheek. How did that get there?

When they finished, she held out her hand. “Wait, wait just there, just for a moment.” She hurried in and sliced rapidly, cutting up the rest of the first loaf and all of the second. She slathered the pieces with butter and brought them out on her large snowman platter.

“Just a little something,” she said. “To give you carolers energy. Cranberry and walnut bread was one of Ron’s favorites.”

John smiled. “It’s so warm,” he said, biting into one of the pieces.

“Just out of the oven,” she said.

“Almost like you knew we were coming,” said another caroler, smiling as she bit into the warm bread.

“Someone did,” Maxine said, smiling up at the plume of smoke rising from her chimney into the sky.

It finally felt like Christmas.

 

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

 

 

22860078_1455523874565520_3981533813585540576_oI found this image on my Facebook feed. The prompts come to us courtesy of www.TextMyJournal.com. If you’re on social media, you’ve probably seen people posting one thing to be thankful for per day. November is always a hectic month for me. It’s a busy time of year for teachers, and the inconsistent schedule makes it hard to remember to do things every day. So I’m posting my “thirty days of thankful” for today’s Fantastic Friday post.

If you haven’t done your own posting, I would encourage you to reflect on these thirty prompts. Perhaps you might journal about each. I find that when I look for things to be thankful for, I’m happier, can fall asleep more easily, and have more energy.

So here it is, my thirty:

  1. Today, I am grateful for a healthy daughter. Every time I hear a story about a child having to go to the ER, I realize that every moment is precious.
  2. Though I have a love-hate relationship with my smartphone, I am thankful for the ability to connect. Social media and my website has allowed me to stay in touch with those I used to live and work with, and family I would otherwise only see once or twice per year.
  3. I am grateful for the color blue. Anyone who knows me knows that winter is my most hated time of year. On those gray days where the sky and snow blend together, I feel lifeless and hopeless. But all it takes is a clear day, when the blue sky breaks through the clouds, to remind me of the magic of nature. The deep, clear blue is a promise that eventually the stark white of snow will be replaced by green and yellow and red and all the other colors of spring.
  4. As I reflect on the month, I remember how sick my family was with a terrible cold that seemed to be passed around from one person to the next. I’m always grateful for warm soup on cold days. It’s easy, it’s inexpensive, but it warms the spirit as well as the body.
  5. November’s weather contained three seasons in one. Among my favorite “sound” memory this month is the sound of wind whispering through the trees. (I learned a while back that the term for this is psithurism). Walking around the yard with my daughter, we often talk about different sounds. One of her favorites to imitate is the sound of wind whooshing through trees.
  6. I’m grateful for nature in general. During the month of September, my husband was busy closing out the fiscal year and had to work late nights and weekends. Staying alone with a toddler all that time was taxing at times, but we went on several hikes using a toddler backpack, and I find nature always re-centers me, whether it’s a formal hike or a few moments sitting in a chair in the afternoon sun of the back yard.
  7. One of my favorite memories is the moment when words came alive for me. I’ve blogged about it before, but it’s worth mentioning again. My dad had me memorize “The Night Before Christmas” as a young child. I was too young to understand all the figurative and descriptive language of the poem, but I remember the time he showed me a full moon glowing against the snow in our backyard and recited the line “the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow / gave the lustre of midday to objects below.” I realized then that those word could evoke the image I was seeing—snow glowing in the moonlight—whether I was somewhere dark and cold or warm and tropical. Words have power, and I knew at that moment my life would involve them.
  8. Most recently, I am grateful for the book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. It’s my daughter’s go-to favorite, and even if she’s in a bad mood before bed, reading it to her almost always calms her down.
  9. I’m grateful for my house. There’s nothing like ending the day warm and safe.
  10. I often joke that I could eat pizza every day and not tire of it. There’s something about the saltiness of pepperoni that I never tire of…
  11. Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. It’s a chance–and an excuse–to be creative and weird and help others have fun doing so.
  12. On cool nights this time of year, I’m grateful for soft fleece blankets (despite the fact that they are magnets for corgi fur!).
  13. Throughout my life, any time I have been stressed, sick, happy, tired, energized, writing has helped me to consider my thoughts. It’s served as a creative outlet, a stress reliever, and a way to empower myself in situations in which I lacked control.
  14. IMG_4828While I’m not a fan of winter, I am grateful for the sight of the sunrise. This is only visible to me in the winter because the neighbor’s tall trees normally block the sun.
  15. I don’t even have to think about how thankful I am for summer. As a child, my mom read me a book called Barefoot in June, and it truly embodies my love of summer and warmth, the time of year when animals and people can all enjoy the outdoors.
  16. Several years ago, I partially tore my ACL. I didn’t realize how much of my body I’d taken for granted until I could no longer walk very well, let alone run. Since then, I’ve lost the weight I gained post-injury and work out to stay strong.
  17. I am thankful for the knowledge that there is always something to learn. When people believe they know everything, or are smarter than others, they shut down and stop learning and growing. I’m glad that I still maintain a sense of curiosity and a wonder to learn.
  18. This may sound cliche, but I am writing this particular bit at my desk at work, where a laminated poster of Van Gogh’s Starry Night hangs on the wall. The imaginative nature of the swirls, the blue and yellow color scheme, and the references to it in Doctor Who, one of my favorite shows, makes it a personal favorite.
  19. This morning, my toddler woke at 4 a.m., screaming for me. Usually, she wakes up early in the morning, turns on her musical puppy doll, and goes back to sleep. Clearly, something frightened her. When I went in, sleepy and cold from being jolted out of my covers by her screams, I was rewarded by the touch of my daughter’s sleepy arms finding comfort against my shoulders. And although cold and tired, it is a task I am privileged to have.
  20. I’m grateful for my husband, who is there with patience when our daughter needs just one more story before bed or wants to take apart her toy just one more time to change the batteries (even though they were just changed ten minutes earlier).
  21. Whenever I hear Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, I’m filled with adrenaline and hope. There’s always been something amazing to me about a composer’s ability to reach beyond his or her lifespan to share an artistic vision with the future. The song always gives me chills.
  22. The tale “Stone Soup” is a story I’m thankful for. It was my earliest study in human nature–about people being willing to share and what motivates them. I read a version of the parable of the loaves and fishes in Blythe by John Kramer, and it explains an alternate version of how Jesus was able to make a small amount of food feed an entire crowd. It was nearly the same principle as stone soup.
  23.  I write this with a smile. When I hear Christmas music, I have a Pavlovian response: I want to clean the house. Over the years, since I have hosted Christmas, I tend to associate holidays with house cleaning. And I mean this is our yearly clean-the-house cleaning. As in, I scrub the refrigerator, top to bottom, putting shelves through the dishwasher, take apart the stove top, mop the floor–twice. While cleaning can be stressful, the house sparkles for weeks afterward. Cleaning is the Christmas tradition I’m thankful for!
  24. I am grateful for the challenge of being a working mother and a writer. While it’s a lot to juggle, the balance of the three helps me keep everything in perspective. A bad review might ruin the day of a writer, but balanced with the smile of my daughter, it’s worthwhile. A mouthy student might ruin a teacher’s night, but having my daughter and my writing makes me realize there are more important things to spend my mental and emotional energy on.
  25. This week, my husband has been sick with pneumonia. I was grateful for the moment he told me he felt slightly better–rather than worse. Perhaps we’re taking a turn toward health again!
  26. I am grateful to live in a country that promotes freedom of expression in many forms. Most of us take our rights for granted or become offended by others’ freedom of speech, not realizing how horrible the opposite truth would be.
  27. I think almost daily about how glad I am for contact lenses. To have peripheral vision is an amazing reality I missed last week when I had to wrap up ten days of wearing glasses (following a bout of pink-eye).
  28. This month, I was blessed with random acts of kindness: a coworker leaving an amazing cupcake disguised to look like a sundae; several texts of well-wishes following several bouts of family illnesses; and a nice note from my sister.20171120_163351
  29. I’m thankful for my sister, who had a beautiful wedding this month 🙂
  30. I am once again thankful for my ability to write, to share these Fantastic Friday posts with you and hopefully spread happiness and hope through my works.

Welcome to The Spot Writers. November’s theme: write a story set in a library. This week’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie.

Cathy’s one-woman publishing company, MacKenzie Publishing, has published its second anthology, TWO EYES OPEN, a collection of sixteen stories by sixteen authors, to read during the day . . . or at night, as long as two eyes are open. Not “horrific horror” . . . more like intrigue, mystery, thriller. Simply a “good read.” Available on Amazon

Also available: OUT OF THE CAVE, the first anthology, suitable for 13 and up. 

***

The Library

 by Cathy MacKenzie

“We can’t go in,” Mark said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Cos it’s locked up. And . . . your father— why would you want to?”

“Ya,” Anthony chimed in. “Why?”

I ignored them and continued walking toward the steps while my friends Mark and Anthony lagged behind. I didn’t realize they had stopped until I heard them yelling.

I turned around.

“No!” they said in unison.

I moved toward them. “If I’m okay going in, you guys should be, too.”

Mark latched onto my hand.

What male kid grabs a guy’s hand? Only Mark.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Mark said.

The three of us were fooling around after school, trying to stay out of mischief. I’d gotten into trouble recently when I stole a chocolate bar from Plum’s Grocery. Mom hadn’t seen the theft, but I gave myself away when I started munching on it before we reached the car. I should have waited until we were home, after the groceries were out of the car and I was safely in my room. Mom almost sent me back into the store to fess up and apologize, but she was cold and cranky, so she had flung her arms in the air and said she would deal with me later.

We had unconsciously veered toward the abandoned library outside of town—at least they had. I was the leader, and that’s where I wanted to go. Not sure why. To see the scene of the crime?

I didn’t want to do any more bad deeds, but the yellow police tape, which had turned a mustard colour since the last time I saw it, had been removed from the building. The front door wasn’t nailed shut and the windows weren’t boarded up, so who was to say we weren’t allowed in?

“Look. It’s just a building,” I said, pointing.

That wasn’t the case, though. The library was huge and old, monstrous like a mansion with secret passageways and strange rooms, like conservatories and ballrooms and billiard rooms.

I liked books—not that I read much—but I pretended, and the younger librarian—not the old one, Mrs. White, whose name matched her hair and gave me the willies—used to help me pick out the best books. (Years from now maybe I’ll read, when I’m ancient and crotchety like Mrs. White.)

“Come on, guys. It’ll be fun,” I said.

Not many abandoned buildings exist in our town of Prattsville. Heck, in this place, where everyone knows everyone, nothing is secret except probably in the minds of parents—like my mother, especially—who think the worse about their kids. And why not? There’s nothing for us to do except get into mischief—and worse. Nothing as bad as murder, though.

Mark dropped my hand, no doubt suddenly realizing he was clutching it.

“What do you want to do, Parker?” Anthony asked.

“Go in,” I said, without hesitation. “Let’s explore. Why did they close it anyhow?” I snickered, knowing more than them about what had taken place there shortly before it closed, but that wasn’t the reason for the closure. Just coincidence and damn progress. A bigger building, not necessarily better, on Main Street instead of at the outskirts of town.

“Dunno,” Anthony said.

Mark was silent.

“You in, Mark?” I asked.

He’d have to say yes. What else could he say? The odds were against him.

We crept to the front steps. The cool November wind picked up. Snow wasn’t in the forecast, yet I swear I saw flakes swirling through the trees flanking the building.

I was glad October was over; Halloween and all that. October was the scariest month. November denoted the start of winter. December, Christmas. One good month out of the last three of the year.

I shouldn’t be afraid. Not in November.

But I was.

And I knew why.

I shuddered.

My two friends shivered. From the cold.

They didn’t know. Not everything.

We gripped each other’s hands while walking up the steps. I pretended to be more scared than I was because that made them feel better. Plus, I didn’t want to arouse suspicion.

The double wooden doors loomed in front of us, with its two polished lion-head brass doorknobs and the tiny, grimy windows inches from the top, much too high for us to peek through.

I grabbed hold of one lion’s head, hoping it wouldn’t bite off my hand, and we walked into the monstrosity of a room. Dark, damp, dingy.

Mark produced a flashlight and swung it around.

I scanned the room. Nothing out of the ordinary. Wall-to-wall shelving and aisles of free-standing shelves. I expected to see discarded books the movers had knocked from shelves and couldn’t bother picking up. I had hoped there’d be something interesting. A best seller. A first edition. A limited edition. But, nope, no books.

Empty. But eerier with the flash of light.

And chilly and creepy, like all abandoned buildings. A surplus building waiting for the demolition crew. When would the town tear it down? What do I know? I’m just a kid, right? A stupid kid, with not enough sense to tie my shoelaces. That’s what Mom says.

I expected it to look different. I didn’t ask their opinions. As far as I knew, they hadn’t stepped inside in forever, and I doubted either had returned any books they’d checked out—had they checked out any or even read them.

I shouldn’t judge. No one can clue in what’s in others’ minds.

“Let’s keep, going,” I whispered. “Down here.”

My father had always admonished me: “Be a leader.” Look at me now, Father, I almost shouted, but he couldn’t hear, no matter how loud I shrieked. No, he would never hear me again. Mom could never again say, “Just wait until your father comes home.”

He’s been gone for almost two years now—twenty-three months, two days, six hours to be exact. Died in this very building.

I stepped four paces until I heard my friends creep behind me. Tip-toeing as if we had to be quiet and not wake spirits. Or whatever creatures slept in deserted libraries. Maybe book fairies? That’s all the rage now. Hilarious, as if fairies flit around putting books in odd places for people to find, read, and leave somewhere else for another individual. Ya, right, as if people are really gonna do that and not keep the books to fatten their shelves.

“Down here,” I said, heading to the back rooms out of the public’s view. Rooms for cleaning supplies, storage, whatnot. These items would normally be stored in a cellar, but cellars are basements, and the library had been built on a concrete slab. No cellar.

Along the way, I touched the shelving. Cold, hard metal reminding me of ornate sterling silver candlesticks.

I paused at the two small washrooms—one for men, one for women; gender neutrality was unheard of when the library had been built. Even when the building bustled with bookworms, no one made a stink about washrooms. Mom says there are three large washrooms in the new library, but I haven’t been there yet. No desire to; not anymore.

Miss Scarlet used to sashay to the female washroom. Sometimes, when no one had been about, I leaned on the door, listening to female sounds while she was inside. She was the younger of the two librarians, the prettier one, in her early twenties. Oh, so young. Much closer to my age than my mother’s. She’s the one who helped me locate books. Of course, I never read what she suggested, but I checked them out and returned them the next day, eager to see her again.

My father, apparently, was eager to see her, too, but I didn’t know that until near the end.

Scarlet. The red. So much red.

My father. Killed by one of the top metal shelving pieces, which was found alongside his body. Mrs. White found him in the back of the building, in one of the never-used rooms, shortly before the building had been vacated, after Mom thought he had abandoned us to take off with Miss Scarlet. I guess the odour got to her one day. For an old biddy, she still had her sense of smell.

Miss Scarlet is missing.

My father’s murderer has never been found.

I was careful to remove all fingerprints.

I dare you to find one clue!

 

***

 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

CaraMarie Christy: https://calamariwriting.wordpress.com/