Val Muller

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

Puppy Love at the Folk Art Museum

Val Muller

It had been a year since his father died, yet Melvin still felt lost. From the outside, things were the same, but to him, life felt like a shell only. If something funny happened at work, he still thought about calling his dad on the way home. Dad was always one for—well, Dad jokes, stupid puns, and goofy misunderstandings. But as quickly as the instinct hit, so did the remembrance.

There was no one to call on the way home. It was almost like Dad’s absence made all the humorous anecdotes lose all meaning. He found himself on this cloudy Saturday heading to the Apple Valley Folk Art Museum, a favorite of Dad’s. He had gone many times with his father, and lately he hadn’t been able to get the museum out of his mind.

*

The museum was folk art, naïve art, just the kind James had loved and painted. Rose could barely believe he was gone—from breathing to buried in a matter of weeks. The whirlwind of death and paperwork and funeral and well wishes had settled, and now things were too quiet.

Well, except for Beamer.

Beamer was not quiet. James’s service dog, Beamer made his presence known through soft but insistent communication. James had a zillion tasks for the service animal. Rose had none, and the dog was languishing under her care.

“Care.”

She was just as much a dog person as the artistic James had been an accountant. It’s true that opposites attract, but it’s not true that your opposite wants to take care of your emotional support dog after you die. If only she could find someone to take the dog.

*

Melvin found the painting, the one his father loved. It was a folk art piece depicting an unidentifiable planet—it wasn’t Earth, since Earth was visible far away in the space backdrop—and dandelion seeds were floating in the air.

Dad had loved the painting because of the irony. The nuisance plant on Earth was thriving on the planet, and the painting implied that the seeds were helping to terraform it. Folk art and sci-fi, a mix Dad chuckled at.

There was something hopeful about the idea of continuing on. Life after Earth. That sort of thing. Mel stared at the painting and sighed. Despite the familiar and hopeful message, Mel felt no closer to closure than he had for the past year.

Behind him, something whimpered softly. It was an older woman and a dog—the dog wore a bright vest labeled “service animal.”

“Oh, pardon us,” she said.

Mel looked from the woman to the painting, then back to the dog. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Were you waiting for a turn at this painting?”

The woman dismissed the idea with the wave of her hand. “Yes, but you looked so lost in thought, we wanted you to take your time.”

“We?”

The woman laughed sadly. “Me and—well, I guess me and the dog. I’m Rose. This is Beamer.”

“Beamer,” Mel said. “Like the car.”

Rose laughed. “That’s exactly the joke. James used to tell people he always travels with his Beamer.”

“A dad joke.” Mel smile-frowned. “My dad would’ve loved it.”

Rose’s eyes understood immediately. “I’m sorry—when?”

“He loved this painting.”

Beamer whimpered and pulled toward Mel.

“Sorry.” Rose pulled back, but Mel reached out and pet the pup. “I know it says he’s a service dog, but James stretched that certification as far as it would go. He wanted to bring this dog everywhere. Now—”

But she stopped short. Here, in front of her husband’s painting, this young man was gazing into Beamer’s eyes as lovingly as only one man had done before.

“Hey,” Rose said. “There’s this nice little coffee shop down the street. Why don’t we—”

And they did.

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story that features a springtime ritual.

Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series. Stay tuned for an illustrated re-release of the first three titles and the release of book 4!

Mom’s Weekend Off

By Val Muller

It was the day that woke the soul. That’s how Patty thought about it, anyway. You know the one: the first spring day after winter when the sun is so warm that it’s dangerously close to feeling too hot, but it isn’t because the cold of winter is still stuck into the inside of your bones, which are saturated with winter’s chill. It’s that time of year where you will feel you will never say too hot again.

Dan and the kids were away til the morning, and Dan told Patty to enjoy herself, a once in a blue moon free weekend day alone, a full 24 hours. She promised she had only one task, and then she might go to the movies or take a bath or just hang out in the hammock and read. She would only eat cereal and would not lift a finger in the kitchen other than that.

Just the one task, then it would be time to relax. It was time for the birdhouse clean-out, her annual harbinger of spring. The last two weekends it had rained, so Patty had done the typical indoor spring cleaning, but it didn’t feel like spring until the birdhouse cleanout, the emptying of last year’s nests to make room for this year.

Of course it required the ladder, so she went to the garage to retrieve it. Several cardboard boxes had piled up since Christmas, too big to fold up into the recycling bin, and now they blocked the ladder. She’d been meaning to take them to the recycling center. She guessed now was just as nice a day as any. So she went to the van to lower the seats, making room for the cardboard.

Of course, that’s when she saw the detritus left by the kids all winter. It was their chore to clean the car weekly, but it had been so cold that everyone had let it slide for weeks, and now the floor of the van was a graveyard of dead French fries, candy wrappers, and Cheerios. She couldn’t just leave that mess until Monday, so she swept out the floor and then took a vacuum to it. Finally, the van was ready, and she stacked the cardboard and left, nodding to the birdhouse as she left the driveway.

“Be right back,” she told it.

On the way back from the recycling center, a group of Boy Scouts were selling mulch at the edge of a parking lot. It had been three years since Patty re-mulched the flower beds, and they were having a “buy three, get one free” deal. They even loaded the mulch into the van for her.

Back home, she unloaded the mulch and scowled at the mess it left in the freshly-vacuumed van, so back into the house, get the vacuum, clean the van, put the seats back up. But then the four bags of mulch were in the middle of the driveway. Dan would not be able to pull through when he returned with the kids. So, into the garage to get the hoe, break open the mulch, and head to the gardens.

Which needed to be weeded.

By the time that was finished, it was nearly dinnertime. Patty stood in the kitchen, trying to decide which cereal to pour, but the warm weather called to her—no, it demanded a barbeque. So into the freezer to look for something to grill. Digging through the shelves, she caused an avalanche of several opened-and-frozen bags of shredded cheese, which of course she insisted on consolidating while the steak thawed long enough for her to grill. She dug through even further to find the oldest of the frozen bagged vegetables to make with the steak. Then she organized the veggies in order of expiration date.

As she heated the grill, she realized the patio furniture was still covered for winter, so she removed the covers, but then there was the half-built wasp’s nest under the table, which she had to clear, and then of course she took a sponge and soap to the table and chairs.

The sun was nearly setting after dinner, and she hurried to store the furniture covers in the garage until next winter. In the garage, she saw the ladder leaning against a wall, now visible since the cardboard had been cleared. The wind kicked up and reminded her of the loose piece of siding on the front of the house, so she moved the ladder, got out the rubber mallet, and hammered the siding back in. While up there, she saw the gutters had pulled loose from melting ice, so she hammered in the nails, moving carefully along the front of the house until it was too dark to see.

She put the ladder back in the garage and scratched her head. It was hard to shake the feeling that she was forgetting something. But the kids were with Dan, she reminded herself. She had no responsibilities for a few more hours. Her muscles were more achy than normal, so she went upstairs to take a bath.

The next morning, no one woke her, and she slept until the pitter-patter of feet traveled through the hall. “Mom! We missed you!” her son was screaming.

“Will you read me the mouse-cookie book?” screamed her daughter.

Patty sat up in bed, discombobulated by the strange feeling of having had a good night’s sleep. She took a moment to process the situation while Dan stood over her.

“Wow,” he said. “Still asleep at ten, and the nest from the bird house still sticking out. You really did take it easy. Good for you—I didn’t think you’d be able to just relax. You always did work too hard. Let me know when you’re awake,” he said. “I’ll get out the ladder for you.”

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about new neighbors moving in. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit series. 

Return of the Light

By Val Muller

The fire crackled, and Samantha tossed another log on it. She half turned, was almost about to shush the dog—Bella always startled when Sam threw a log on the fire. But then Sam remembered. Bella was gone. It hadn’t been a year, not quite. It seemed like forever. Then again, it seemed just yesterday that Bella had been there, at her feet. 

But last year, at the winter solstice, Bella had been there at the campfire, keeping watch in the night, the darkest night of the year. 

What’s supposed to be the darkest night of the year, anyway. There was a darker one. A night without Bella. The first night, then the next one, and many, many more. It was getting easier, but some habits were hard to break, like searching for a dog at her feet, looking for a begging pup at mealtime, that sort of thing. 

The fire at winter solstice was a tradition, but doing it alone was not. This celebration was about the return of the light—the return of the sun. It was supposed to be happy, but—

Sam stared into the fire and imagined the next year stretched out before her, stretched out the way a dog would stretch, head down, rump in the air, just like—

No, the fire dancing along the trees was playing tricks on her. Sam could swear she saw a dog stretching by the tree, but surely it was just a log or a—

“Simba!” a voice called. 

“Hello?” Sam called back. 

The “log” turned to her and scurried over, tail wagging. It was no log, but a golden doodle, and a happy one at that, showering her in kisses. She’d almost forgotten that ineffable feeling, the one that transcended the senses, the unconditional joy and Zen of the present brought when a dog—

“Simba!” the voice called again, and the dog reluctantly backed away and hurried to the voice at the edge of the fire. 

“I’m sorry,” the voice said. “Simba’s a little excited to be at his new house. Isn’t he, you good boy, you.” The man’s voice degenerated into dog cooing. Then the man, realizing his neglect of fellow human, turned to Sam. 

“Mike,” he said. “My wife and I moved in just this morning.” He motioned to the darkness, toward the recently-sold house. “Poor guy’s been crated much of the day. You a dog person? He seems to take quite a liking to you. I’ll have to have my wife come over in the morning. The two of you seem like you’d get along. You don’t have dogs, do you?” 

Sam took a breath, allowing the shock of it all to dissipate. She turned to the fire, watching the crackling flames make patterns on the logs—now a dog, then a cloud, then a person jumping, now a bird in flight—the solstice flames embracing the ephemeral nature of life. She looked up as the circle of light embraced her new neighbor and his companion. Then she took a deep breath and spoke, for only just a second imagining Bella still at her feet. 

#

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to write a story that involves waiting for something. Today’s tale comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie.

Along with several short story collections, books of poetry, and two novels, Cathy has published three anthologies under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. The latest one is titled NO ONE SHOULD KISS A FROG, available on Amazon and other retailers—300 pages of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry by 75 authors around the world.  She also has a call out for submissions for another anthology to be published in 2024, to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Contact SuchALossAnthology@gmail.com for submission guidelines.

Cathy continues with Melvin, a character she can’t seem to get rid of…

***

Wayward Lee

By Cathy MacKenzie

Melvin woke with a start. The bedroom was awash in blackness. He rubbed his eyes, rolled over, and glanced at the illuminated clock. Five a.m.? What the hell! Within seconds, the howling wind assaulted him.

Lee wasn’t due to hit southern Nova Scotia until mid-afternoon. What was it doing here this early?

And then—

He jumped out of bed.

“Marie! Marie!”

His wife groaned and pulled the covers over her head.

“Marie! The kayaks!”

“Wh—what you talking ’bout?”

“We forgot to bring them in yesterday. They’re in the middle of the storm. Oh, Marie, we gotta go down and get them.”

Marie sat up and glanced at the clock. “Mel, it’s five in the morning. I’m not going anywhere.” She cocked her head. Her eyes widened. “Is that wind? What’s it doing here so early?”

“That’s just it. Lee is early. I gotta get my kayak.”

She yawned. “That’s on you. I’m going back to sleep.” She fell to the pillow and covered her face again.

Melvin knew his wife was scared. She’d never sleep, not with this wrathful wind raging, but he’d never sleep either, not with his Blue Origin in danger.

“Well, I’m going. You sleep all you want.”

She popped up again. “Mel, at least wait until it’s light outside. You can’t see a thing. Another couple of hours isn’t going to matter.”

“It might, Marie. It might.”

“Come back to bed. Cuddle with me a bit.”

That was an invitation he couldn’t resist.

*

Melvin woke when light skirted across his eyelids, forcing him to open his eyes. He wriggled out of Marie’s embrace. “Marie, it’s morning. Gotta go.”

She rolled over. Sighed. “Okay, I’ll go with you. But be quiet. We don’t want to disturb William.”

They hurriedly donned clothes. Rain boots. Rain jackets.

Once they were outdoors, the wind wasn’t as bad as it had sounded. They tramped down the path to the lake.

When they reached the shore, Melvin abruptly stopped. “Marie!”

“Oh, no, Mel.”

The kayak, right side up, lay several yards from the dock, the front end gouged into the sand, half in and half out of the water.

Melvin raced to his beloved Blue Origin. He was dismayed to see the hatch door open and full of sand. Seaweed lay on the kayak’s hull. When he peered under the deck, toward the bow, he discovered seaweed wedged in between the pedals.

He sighed. “It’s a mess, Marie, but at least it’s okay. It’s in one piece. Nothing broken. No cracks. Do you see any cracks?”

“Whew! Mel, that scared me for a moment. And I don’t even like kayaks! No, no cracks that I can see. Here’s the oar.”

“It’s a paddle, Marie.”

“Whatever.”

They each grasped a carry handle, Melvin at the bow and Marie at the stern, and hauled the kayak to the boathouse.

*

“Melvin, what’s that? Melvin! MELVIN!”

“What now, Marie?” Melvin jumped out of bed.

“Trees hitting the windows. Is Lee here now?

*

In the end, Hurricane Lee was a non-event in the Porters Lake area of Nova Scotia. High winds. Rain. No power outages—at least not where Melvin and his family resided. So unlike Fiona the previous year when Mel lost over a hundred trees and power was out for ten days. We won’t even mention Juan or White Juan. Or compare.

Nope…

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

 

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story involving waiting. 

Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit series Corgi Capers.

Lurking

By Val Muller

The autumn chill bit the air. Leaving the window cracked open seemed like such a good idea earlier, when it was warm and sunny. Now, Christy shivered against the cold. Her heavy fleece blanket was barely enough to keep her warm, and she drew the covers up over her shoulders like Garfield in those old cartoons. 

She glanced toward the other side of the bed. Normally, she’d curl up against John for warmth, but of course it was the night of his board meeting. It only happened once a month, but of course it was on the day she forgot to close the window. John never got cold, and he would gladly get out of bed to close it for her.

If he were here.

How long would the meeting go? Once, it went past midnight. How bad would it be if she texted him? “Can you hurry up the meeting so you can come home and close the window?” Hmmm, would he think that was cute, or would it annoy him? 

Christy turned over under her warm cocoon to get comfy as she pondered. It might annoy him, especially if the Board started arguing over funding again. How petty she was to consider texting him about such a thing. It was just a stupid window. She should either fall asleep in the cocoon or close the window herself. 

She peered out from the blankets, and her heart jolted. She was facing the closet door, and it was hanging open. Her nightstand lamp was reflecting off something, creating a grumpy-looking semblance of a face from deep among the clothes. She felt like a child as she pulled the cover back over her head.

Why the hell was the closet door open? She never left it open like that. Probably John had been searching for the perfect outfit for the meeting, and he left in a rush. Christy fought uninvited thoughts and memories. As early as kindergarten, she learned that you never, ever go to bed with the closet door open. It’s an invitation to monsters, after all. It fell into the same category of never letting your foot hang down over the edge of the bed, or sprinking salt over your shoulder if you spilled any. 

Irrational as it was, now she would never be able to fall asleep. Her kindergarten self would be screaming for Mom by now, insisting the offending Portal to Nightmares be closed. But Christy was alone in the house, and she had to either make her way through Cold and Nightmares to remedy the situation, or else wait for John.

As she waited, she rehearsed how she would say it. Of course it would have to be casual. She would have to downplay its significance lest he tease her or, worse, pick up on her fear. Of course the grownup in her knew there were no monsters in the closet. She could explain the logic of that using words. But how to explain the visceral nature of this fear, the primordial dread of darkened passageways opened to the vulnerability of sleepers?

She shuddered to think that the open closet door was going against every bit of biological wiring within her. She ducked back in her cocoon and pulled the blanket tight over her head. This was going to be a late meeting. How long could she wait? 

From her warm bubble, thoughts intruded like marching insects, each bringing a minuatae of dread. Shadowy claws scratched at her consciousness, and the unbearable silence of the room tortured her ears. Where was John? The minutes passed like years in a life sentence, and now, every sound of the house settling brought new paranoid fears of home invaders and wild animals and the supernatural. John’s meeting would never end.

*

John seemed surprised when he got home. Not only was Christy still up watching TV, but she had dragged her heavy fleece blanket all the way to the couch downstairs. She must have felt like a kid again, left home alone to do all manner of crazy things, and here all she chose was to watch a little extra TV. 

He was still shaking his head about it as he led his sleepy wife up to bed and closed the window and closet door as she arranged her blanket back on the bed amd settled to sleep.

The Spot Writers–Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/ 

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story involving a penguin. Today’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit series Corgi Capers. 

Note: getting ready for my own baby penguin, I forgot to post this story on August 30. The penguin has since safely arrived and sleeps just about as well as the baby in this tale.

Postpartum

By Val Muller

“The female emperor penguin,” Winnie said, looking up from her phone, “breeds during the coldest of winter. She lays an egg and then leaves it with the male while she goes off to feed. It’s the male’s job to keep the egg safe and warm.” She glanced at her husband. “For several months.” As if to punctuate the statement, the baby made a slurping sound. Winnie would have to burp her soon so she didn’t spit up. There was nothing worse than the warm smell of baby spit-up. 

As for Winnie’s report on emperor penguins, it was met with only the soft snoring of Winnie’s husband, who in his sleep had managed to pull the pillowcase over his eyes to shade them from the lamp Winnie turned on while feeding the baby. 

“You know, for months I waddled like a penguin,” she told her sleeping spouse. He continued to snore away, sleeping more soundly than a baby. Babies didn’t sleep all that soundly, she realized. How he could sleep through the crying baby, or Winnie’s clumsy fumbling for the light, or the shifting around as Winnie situated the baby…well, guys were just biologically wired for a good night’s sleep, she guessed. Biologically wired for a good night’s sleep. 

She continued scrolling through her phone as the baby quenched its insatiable appetite. She clicked the next search result. 

“Sea horses,” Winnie announced. “These are interesting. A seahorse—” she turned the phone to show a picture of a pair of seahorses to her sleeping husband— “A female seahorse will lay dozens or hundreds of eggs in the male’s abdomen.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of implanting the eight-pound bowling ball she’d been carrying for nine months directly into her husband’s stomach. It was like a reverse of that scene from the alien film. Her hubby stretched on the table, her forcing the embryo right into his gut. Ha! See how you like it! 

Guys would die if they had to give birth, she thought. Her laughter echoed in the dark, but it did not disturb the baby. Then her chuckles subsided and she continued reading. “The males carry them until they are born into the sea.” Her sleep-deprived brain offered more imagery of her husband spontaneously spawning a baby into a hospital-ocean, and she laughed again. She imagined her husband’s shocked expression as the baby just ejected from him. In her mind, his legs turned into the twisted spiral of a seahorse, and he floated down the hallway, past the nurse’s station, asking for postpartum supplies. 

The baby did not appreciate the disruption and protested. 

Winnie shifted the baby and continued scrolling, her fascination with reproductive habits of Earth’s creatures fueled by middle-of-the-night cortisol and the weird mix of postpartum hormones traveling through her veins.

“Now the octopus,” she declared to the darkened room. “This is an interesting one. The female octopus lays her eggs, stops eating while she cares for them. And get this: she never eats again. Once they are ready to hatch, she dies.” She looked at her sleeping husband. “I guess that’s one way to escape getting up for all these feedings. Just give up all at once. A good, long sleep…” 

She laughed a bit, but then she stopped. The Google rabbit hole she had fallen into was getting dark, and she knew these were just her sleep-deprived night thoughts. The baby drifted to sleep, and she swaddled it back up into the bassinet. She turned off the lamp and sat in the darkness, only the glow of her phone illuminating the darkness. She chuckled again, almost a whisper, contemplating whether women ever murdered their husbands for resting too peacefully. Surely, in the history of humanity… 

How would they do it? She looked around the room. Probably smother them with a pillow. The idea made her chuckle, and she tried to stifle her laughter, telling herself it was just the inappropriate musings of a sleep-deprived mom trying to rid herself of excess hormones. 

The chuckle must have been much more disturbing than a baby’s cry. Her husband sat up in the darkness. 

“Why are you awake?” he asked groggily. 

Winnie laughed. Why was she awake? An emperor penguin keeps the egg safe for month, a seahorse carries the babies until delivery, and a human male sleeps through all manner of things. Why, indeed? 

“Because,” she said. “The emperor penguin gets to go out to sea to feed, and it’s been a while since I treated myself to something. I’m going out to get a breakfast sandwich.” 

Her husband looked out the window. “It’s dark out. What time is it?” 

“Almost five. Places will be open for breakfast. I’m going out to sea. You keep the egg safe, Mr. Penguin. It’s my turn to swim, and you get to waddle now. Watch that baby.”

She pulled on her shoes and headed out the door, taking only a moment to glance back at how perplexed her husband looked, sort of like the blank stare of a male seahorse as he prepared to spawn his children into the sea. Or like an emperor penguin preparing to face the coldest two months of winter with the egg securely between its ridiculously comical legs.  

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/