Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

(Late) Flash Fiction: Hugger-Mugger Eyes by Cathy MacKenzie

August 3, 2017 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. August’s prompt is: Where have you always wanted to vacation? Pick a country and set your story there—only in this story, the dream location, sadly, is a setting for disaster. Please excuse the lateness of this post. I was away on vacation and had terrible Internet connectivity!

Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Her one-woman publishing company, MacKenzie Publishing, has just published its second anthology, TWO EYES OPEN, a collection of sixteen stories by sixteen authors, to read during the day . . . or even at night, as long as two eyes are open. Available on Amazon.

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Hugger-Mugger Eyes by Cathy MacKenzie

Behind the makeshift draperies of the master bedroom rises the sixteen-foot stone wall. The wall’s presence has never been intimidating before—once even served as a comforting barrier to the outside world—but now it’s a solid fixture to be feared. Though Wilma can be unreasonably scared at times, her fear and the danger are real. Every day, everywhere she goes, eyes confront her—the same ones she is certain spy into the bedroom through the sliding doors from high atop the wall. Those eyes watch and wait, biding their time until they strike again, for everyone says they’ll return. That’s what burglars do—once they’ve successfully burglarized a place, they’ll allow the occupants a week to replace stolen items and will ransack again. Wilma is certain of that fact, and no one can convince her otherwise. Foreigners—the perceived rich in Mexico, or anywhere—are easy prey.

A friend chastised her the previous day. “Don’t say ‘robbed.’ You weren’t robbed; you were burglarized. A burglar is a thief who enters a building with the intent to steal. A robber is a thief who steals by threatening violence. You weren’t there, so you were burglarized, not robbed.”

What are you? A walking dictionary? But when Wilma later checked a dictionary, she found her friend was correct, which didn’t help her mood.

She gulps and holds her breath, gripping the sheet tightly to her chin. What’s that? Every minuscule noise puts her on edge. The room is as dark as coal with the heavy blankets draped over the rods, which is better than the wispy, see-through drapery. She was happy with the drapery as it was—until the break-in happened. Though the sliding doors open to the outdoors, she and her husband enjoyed complete privacy on the small patio because of the high wall—or so she’d thought.

She hasn’t slept for four nights. She dozes for several minutes and then awakens in a cold sweat. Whether awake or asleep, she’s alert to every sound, familiar or not, for who’s to say what’s normal and what isn’t at a particular moment.

She nestles against her husband’s backside. “You awake?”

He’s not awake, not at three in the morning. Brave, unconcerned Hubby fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. And no wonder, considering the numerous times his wife disturbed him the last several evenings.

“You awake?” she repeats.

“I am now.”

She wraps her arms around his waist and fingers his chest hair. If fear grasped her too hard and she lost control, she’s certain she could rip those strands from their roots.

“There’s someone outside,” she says.

“No one’s there.”

“I hear something. Don’t you hear it?”

“Go back to sleep. There’s nothing there.”

Hubby remains calm and sympathetic to his wife’s plight. He wouldn’t dare become upset, not after what they’ve been through—what she’s been through, for she re-lives the horror over and over. The episode is usually far from his mind, especially when he sleeps. He is bothered if he dwells on it except macho men don’t reveal weakness.

“Sweetie, go back to sleep. There’s nothing there.”

He rolls over and holds her tight.

Oh, how she loves the feel of his warm, strong body against hers. Despite that, she doesn’t feel safe; no one can quash her uneasiness.

“I can’t sleep. I just can’t.”

He rubs her back. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Tomorrow’s another day. The sun will be shining. Things won’t seem so scary then.”

“I’m scared in the light, too. I just want to go home.”

“We can leave. Just say the word.” He kisses the side of her head.

“Yeah, but how do we change our flight? It’s non-refundable. Our credit cards are gone. Our money is gone.”

She snuggles farther into her husband, wishing she can disappear for a week until it’s time to fly home.

~~Based on actual events when the author and her husband wintered in Mexico one winter and robbers (or is it “burglars”???) entered their rental while they were out for an evening. When they returned, their computers, tablets, and cash were missing. Hubby later found his wallet (with credit cards intact but money gone), which had been tossed under the bed in the spare bedroom.  ~~

***

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/

 

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Book Review: Mechanica by Betsy Cornwell

July 31, 2017 No comments

I chose this book as part of my interest in exploring the steampunk genre. It’s a young adult version of Cinderella, only it involves elements of steampunk and a super-empowered protagonist.

Mechanica, or Nicolette, is a girl whose mother passed away. Following the traditional fairy tale, her father remarried a less-than-kind woman with two daughters of her own, both of whom have ugly souls. The book plays with elements of the traditional fairy tale while adding its own twist.

While the world created is a steampunk one, there are also elements of magic: the people have discovered a realm of fairies who use magic, such as a potion that allows you to remain hidden from people who know you.

On her sixteenth birthday, Mechanica discovers that her mother left part of her workshop hidden and ready for Mechanica’s use. There, she fixes tiny, sentient steampunk insects as well as a horse, Jules II, that her mother had created. She doesn’t fully understand how the creations seem to have a consciousness, but she learns that there is something called ashes that her mother acquired, and that spooks even the fairy folk. A small sprinkling of the ashes (which move on their own where they are stored) seems to add life to the creations.

I enjoyed the way the tale played with traditional elements of the fairytale while adding a modern twist. The main character was certainly empowered and left behind all the helplessness that many “damsels in distress” seem to show. I also liked the steampunk element, though there was a weird mix of fairy and steampunk.

What I would improve is the order of the story. It was told in Mechanica’s voice, and it seemed like she wasn’t always able to organize it into the most effective tale possible. At times I felt she repeated herself or told us something she should have mentioned earlier, simply because it came up at that point in the plot. While I understand it’s told in an authentic teenage voice, it felt a bit rough from a reader’s perspective. Still, I’m glad I read the book, and I would pass it along to anyone wanting to read about an empowered individual taking her destiny into her own hands.

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Fantastic Friday: The Bees Have It

July 28, 2017 No comments

Earlier this year, Cheerios made headlines by giving out millions of seed packets (though not without controversy) in an effort to help people plant more flowers, thus providing more pollen for the bees.

As you’ve likely heard, bees are essential to Earth’s ecosystem and responsible for much of our food supply. Yet in recent years, their natural population has been on the decline: with colony collapse disorder, bees were abandoning their hives. Many factors have been blamed, including changing climate, crowded living space, mites, and pesticide use. Regardless of the cause, it’s important to save pollinators. Bees and butterflies help sustain the plants that we need to eat and sustain the rest of our food chain.

Despite the “bee-pocalypse,” as it was dubbed by Time magazine, I have been heartened recently to hear about the excellent steps people have been taking to help remedy the situation. I often hear people say things like, “What does it matter? It’s a drop in a bucket.” I like to think that a bucket is made of many, many drops, and put together, each individual drop contributes to the whole.

I snapped this shot of a bee pollinating a Rose of Sharon plant in my front garden a few years ago.

I snapped this shot of a bee pollinating a Rose of Sharon plant in my front garden a few years ago.

I was heartened to learn in a recent newsletter that Franklin & Marshall College, my alma mater, has done its small share to save this important species. At the schools’ Center for the Sustainable Environment, there’s an observation hive built into the wall in the director’s office. It was constructed by Dan Chambers of the Lancaster County Beekeepers Society to allow people to observe the ways bees work and live but also to provide them a sanctuary. The college also has hives at another campus, a mile down the road. Though small, the effort to provide more homes for bees is doing its small part to help the population that might just help save our planet.

It’s also important that people stay educated about bee populations and recognize “good” bees from the more harmful wasps they might be inclined to exterminate.

I was especially heartened to learn that the private market stepped up: because of the crisis and the demand for bees, beekeepers stepped up to the challenge, and now the honeybee population is more than it was when the colony collapse disorder began. Beekeepers and farmers have been working together to rent out bees for farms needing them, or to rent space on farms for bees to have hives if honey is the desired product. I always love hearing about how the private market steps in and helps people work together voluntarily to solve a problem.

If you’re looking to help the bees, consider planting a pollinator garden. Several sites on saving bees recommend sticking with native plants (which is what most of the controversy was surrounding the Cheerios packets), so a bit of local research might be necessary, including researching pesticide use (or lack thereof). Though this contradicts advice if you’re looking to prevent mosquito-breeding, many sites remind us that bees get thirsty, so if there is not water nearby, consider a bird bath.  If you’re feeling brave, you can purchase or build your own hive, or provide a location for bees to “move in.” F&M College has provided a guide for anyone interested in starting a pollinator garden.

Bee Lazy!
And another fantastic piece of information for a Friday: leaving weeds and letting lawns grow a bit can actually help the bees: clover (which grows on lawns) contains flowers that help feed the bees, and many weeds (like several variety in my own yard!) flower, too. Mowing, I often see bees frequenting the flowers. So don’t call it slacking when you let your lawn get a little unruly—calling it doing your part for the bees 🙂

Recently, I’ve started taking over a bit of my front garden. The previous owner(s) had covered it in several strata: landscaping mesh, rock, and mulch of varying degrees. Now that the landscaping mesh is starting to disintegrate, I am reclaiming the garden bit by bit, trying to plant hardy, native flowers. (One of the suggestions is to plant flowers that bloom at different times of year so that the bees will always have something). This is my goal. Though I’m in a constant battle with deer that seem to eat even “deer resistant” vegetation, I hope that my garden will help at least a handful of bees and butterflies and do its small part to help our entire ecosystem.

Fantastic Friday none

Flash Fiction: Staycation

July 27, 2017 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt: Where have you always wanted to vacation? Pick a country and set your story there—only in this story, the dream location sadly is a setting for disaster. This week’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of The Girl Who Flew Away, a young adult tale that tackles adoption, addiction, and loyalty wrapped up in a dangerous wilderness journey.

Staycation

By Val Muller

Mortimer Harris loved rules. As a child, he was always in bed by nine, just like his mother insisted. There was something satisfying about lying in bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, and watching the minute hand sweep across the “12” at such a clean, precise right angle with the hour hand on the “9.” He watched the perfect alignment for a full minute, enjoying the peace of his room before turning out his light. He always shook his head at his brother, John, whose bedtime shenanigans kept their parents busy well past nine. Shook his head metaphorically, of course. He couldn’t have shaken it for real. His head was—literally—nicely resting on his pillow at 9 p.m. and would stay there until at least 6 a.m., the earliest he or his brother was allowed to wake. There would be no literal head-shaking until at least then.

He looked forward to each heavily-regulated day in grade school and high school and took pride in having perfect attendance, and no tardies, and no infractions of any sort. He loved the precision of it all: keep your locker clean and tidy, get to class in the six minutes allotted for traveling, be on the bus no later than seven minutes after the dismissal bell. The comfort of rules was like a warm blanket wrapped around his soul (but only between the hours of nine and six; even his soul had to be awake when protocol dictated it).

When he grew up, he was glad to find a home in a heavily-regulated HOA. The homeowner’s association he found was one with the most rules in all of Arbor County. Grass was to be cut to six inches in height or less (Mortimer preferred an even three). Rooftops and siding were to be power-washed in the spring. Halloween decorations could be put up starting on October 1; Christmas décor could go up the day after Thanksgiving. Decorations had to be put away three days after each holiday’s completion, though Christmas décor could be up until the sixth of January.

The list went on and on: rules regulating shrubbery and bushes, stone walkways, shutter color, front door embellishments, types of trees and flowers. Cars had to be parked a minimum of two feet from the edge of the driveway, but Mortimer preferred leaving at least four.

With his love for regulation, Mortimer preferred stay-cations to vacations. Stay-cations allowed him the pleasure of taking care of his house without having to worry about work getting in the way. (Once, when he was really busy, he let his grass grow to an average of 4.5 inches before he had a chance to cut it—there would be none of that this week!) Vacations were the total opposite. There were very few rules on vacations, and some of his coworkers even tried to argue that that was the point. But who would want to go somewhere with no rules, where people just acted on a whim and flew by the seat of their pants?

Not Mortimer, that was for sure.

At 6:59 on the first day of his stay-cation, the neighbor, Ed, was out mowing the lawn. Mortimer looked at his watch. 6:59 meant that Ed was mowing two minutes earlier than the county—and the HOA—allowed. Mortimer shook his head—literally this time—while sipping his coffee.

Ed looked over, sneered, and cut the engine. “Give me a break, Morty,” said Ed. “I’m taking the family to the beach this morning. We were supposed to leave already, only I forgot about the damn lawn. Got to mow it now, or by the time we get back from vacation, the HOA will have fined us. Damn HOA.”

Mortimer smiled inside. Ed often deserved fines. The last time his house had been power-washed was seventeen months ago. And Ed often took the trash can to the curb several hours before the 5 p.m. regulation allowed. Sometimes he even left the empty cans out for a day afterwards. He was a rulebreaker and a scofflaw.

Mortimer looked in the driveway. Ed’s SUV was parked almost at the edge of the driveway—a clear violation—and was packed with bags. His wife watched impatiently from the kitchen window, and his kids were running around in the open garage with inflatable rafts, their screams a violation of quiet hours by a whole minute and a half.

Too bad the HOA mandated that anyone mowing the lawn other than the homeowner him- or herself had to be properly licensed and contracted. Mortimer was neither, and so he didn’t bother offering to mow for his neighbor, even though he had nothing else to do that day.

“Well,” Mortimer said, “you did start a few minutes earlier than—”

But Ed simply shot him a look. “Mortimer, don’t start up again.” He started up the mower and continued his work. Mortimer watched him mow while he finished his coffee. At first, he enjoyed Ed’s straight, precise lines. But then he noticed that Ed left a long strip between the edge of the patio and the start of the lawn. HOA regulations were very strict about that: if a clean line couldn’t be made with the mower, the homeowner was required to use a weed eater or edger.

“Ed,” Mortimer called, walking to the fence.

This time, Ed left the mower engine idling and trudged to the fenceline.

“You missed a spot,” Mortimer said.

Ed flashed him a look, but he said nothing. He pulled the mower back to the missed spot and re-mowed, leaving a clean line. Mortimer sighed relief. Then Ed picked up his pace and flashed Mortimer a look. He mowed several clean passes before his lips curled into a devilish smile. On one of the passes, he sporadically twisted the mower a bit, leaving a line of two to three inches of long grass between the neat, even rows.

Surely an oversight. Mortimer wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. Surely Ed had simply slipped. He’d see the mistake and re-mow it on his way back. But then Ed did it again. And a third time.

Finally, he cut the mower engine and wheeled it into the garage. His kids cheered and hopped into the SUV. “Can we go? Can we go?” they shouted.

Mortimer tried to stop the family as they pulled away, but Ed would not roll down the window or even slow his car. Mortimer was stuck, alone, on his staycation, looking at the lawn directly next to his and the three horrid stripes of tall grass Ed had left.

Mortimer hurried to his highlighted and dog-eared copy of the HOA regulations. Surely there was some provision in there, something he would be allowed to do, some action he could take. But he was stuck. He was not allowed to hire someone to mow a neighbor’s lawn, and he himself could not mow, given that he was not licensed or contracted.

He logged onto his computer and composed a strongly-worded email to the board. Surely they’d fine Ed.

But what good would that do?

At nine p.m. that night, Mortimer tossed and turned in bed. He shook his head—quite literally, for it was not resting on the pillow—and then did the unthinkable. He actually got out of bed and glanced out at the neighbor’s lawn through the window. The nice, even lines flowed together like smooth waves in the ocean—until they broke with the choppy unevenness of the three spots Ed had neglected.

Ed shook his head again and returned to bed. It was going to be a long staycation.

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/

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Writer Wednesday: Bullying–Stealing Rationality

July 26, 2017 No comments

Back in my childhood, which thankfully happened before the Internet explosion and before everyone was “connected” online, bullies were few and far between. I vaguely remember each class having usually one bully, and the bullying happened in person so that other students were witnesses and so that few secrets were kept from teachers or parents.

I remember being pinched on the cheek for calling someone by their full name instead of their nickname. The teacher and my mother found out about it. I remember being “called out” for wearing clothes that weren’t “cool” enough or for being a teacher’s pet from time to time (because I did all my homework). But the bullying happened at school, and I went home to my own dis-connected world, where I could interact with my parents, my sister, and my friends in a safe environment that helped rebuild my self-esteem.

During those days, it was always understood that the class bully had something wrong at home, something that caused them to be a bully, and usually they had appointments at the counsellor’s office regularly. Witnessing bullies helped me realize that not everyone is kind and well-intentioned and that not everyone has a stable life at home.

But then in middle school, an event happened that left a scar. A school bully—someone with a notorious reputation and an intimidating physique—took the phone from me. Yes, it was the days of pay phones. I had been a spectator at a sports game (basketball, maybe?), and it seemed half the school was there. I was never a fan of sports, so a few moments before the last play, I snuck out to use the payphone to call for a ride home: I anticipated (correctly) that there would soon be a long line.

Scarred Leter Final

In the novel, Heather is branded with a “T,” a symbol of her adherence to the truth despite the consequences.

A few others had the same thought, and I was maybe the fourth person in line. It didn’t take long for the rest of the school to line up, with the queue stretching down several hallways as all the middle school kids called their parents to request a ride home. When my turn came to use the phone, the school bully—we’ll call her “X”—showed up. She took the phone from my hand, but I wouldn’t let go. The adrenaline rushed, and I knew this was a moment I would never forget.

“You can wait like everyone else,” I said.

X turned to the rest of the line and laughed. “Look at this,” she told the rest of the school. I’m holding the phone in my left hand, and she has to use both of hers!”

I stared up at her. Of course I had to use two hands. I was a tiny sixth grader, and X was already in eighth grade, with the rumor that she had been held back at least once. She could eat me for dinner.

I knew I would have no chance in a fight. I would be left bruised and bloodied. I would probably not get even one hit in. I had never been in a fight before, but that evening I was ready to take a beating. I was ready to stand for a cause. I thought of how proud my parents and friends would be. Here I was, standing up to bullying, standing up for all those students who were being honest and waiting their turn in a very long line. But something happened that deflated the heroic moment.

I turned to my friends and asked them to get an administrator. It made sense to me: I was brave enough to “hold up” the bully, buying time for an administrator to come and rectify the situation. Justice would be restored. All I needed were a few brave friends to get someone from the office.

That didn’t happen. My friends were cowering in a corner, near a plant by the main office. “Just give her the phone,” I heard someone whisper.

Really, honestly, no one was going to get a principal or teacher. They had all accepted that there was a bully in the school and that she had a “right” to take the phone at any moment. It was a battle already lost, one no one wanted to acknowledge.

I gave up. What kind of world was it that no one—not one person out of several hundred—was willing to take a stand with me? What kind of world was I even fighting for?

And I was lucky: bullying was limited to the school grounds when I was growing up. Today, it’s literally in everyone’s pockets. With the Internet and the prevalence of cell phones, students feel anonymous and empowered. Students I taught admitted to me that they have said terrible things to each other from behind a computer screen. They have taken pictures of each other in compromising positions, such as when a classmate bent down to pick up a pencil, and posted them online with funny captions. No, not funny—demeaning. Bullying.

And yet, from the safety of the screen, students don’t quite feel that they’re being a bully. They simply hit “send” and wait for the “likes” and comments to follow.

What they don’t see is the ramifications of what they’ve done. Suicide rates are on the rise among young people. In part, I think social media isolates them and makes it more difficult to find an in-person network to rely on. In part, social media gives everyone the opportunity to become a bully.

Bullying takes away rationality and forces people to act out of fear or hate or disgust. When “X” took away the phone, she also took away everyone’s ability to live in a society with rules: the earlier you get in line, the earlier you get to call home. Unless you are a bully.

With social media, bullying forces students to react emotionally. Logic is thrown out the window. What about the girl photographed while bending down to pick up her pencil? Her underwear was showing. It was neon pink. The students acted like this was the end of the world, and they made her feel terrible about something that literally took five seconds of her day. How many times was she forced to relive that moment?

Thinking rationally: if most people bend down far enough, their pants will start to slouch. And pink underwear? Who cares? Doesn’t everyone wear underwear? The bully who pinched my cheek in kindergarten took away the opportunity for a rational discussion about why she preferred her nickname rather than her given name. But instead, I lived in fear of her for the rest of the year, keeping clear of her as much as I could.

The sad reality is that with social media, the lack of rationality is compounded: emoticons and memes and .gifs encourage emotional reactions that don’t involve thought. If someone posts a funny picture of a friend bending over, I can simply click on a laughing emoticon and then move on with my day. I gave my reaction maybe two seconds. The person pictured now sees a laughing emoticon and is the butt of a joke: and she has to relive that moment over and over.

In writing The Scarred Letter, I wanted to imagine what would happen when a main character—someone with the spirit of Hester Prynne—decided to stand up for the truth regardless of social ramifications. Could it be done?

Could you live an entire day standing up entirely for what you believe in? Did you buy a cup of coffee? Do you know where the coffee came from? What about the cup? Is it recyclable? If you tossed it in a recycling bin, did you follow up to make sure it actually does go to a recycling facility? Did the cream come from cows that are treated right? What about the taxes you paid on that cup of coffee? Do you know where each penny of your tax dollars goes? Do you agree with all of those costs? I think it’s almost impossible to live completely truthfully: it’s much easier to ignore and move on.

Heather Primm in The Scarred Letter stands for what she believes in, and the entire school turns against her, some adults included. She is left to determine which path to take: to stand up for the truth or to give in and live an easy life.

Bullying is a horrendous problem, and solutions include teaching compassion, empathy, and coping skills. I hope in writing The Scarred Letter that I reach readers and help them to consider the ways we are all connected and that our actions and interactions matter more than they would have ever thought.

Scarred Leter FinalFind The Scarred Letter at Amazon, from the publisher at Barking Rain Press, or anywhere books and ebooks are sold!

And if you’re looking for ways to combat bullying, check out these sites for great resources on what to do if you are being bullied and how to help others:

 

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Fantastic Friday: Part of Each Other

July 21, 2017 No comments

Ray Bradbury’s story “The Visit” tells of a woman who travels around, visiting the recipients of her son’s organs after he passed away. In the story, the characters experience something haunting, unreal, awkward, and yet very touching as they interact, referring to the gift of life (or sight) that the woman’s son has afforded the recipients. While nothing can heal the pain of loss, knowing that a part of the person lives on reminds the characters that we are all more connected than we realize.

Last week, I read a news story about a woman in Alaska who on the day of her wedding received a visit from the recipient of her late son’s heart. The visit was arranged by her fiancé, and it included the chance for her to hear her son’s heart beating on the day of her wedding, even though her son had passed away prior to the big day.

The story is heartwarming to me. This time, it’s a case of someone making a physical difference in the life of another—and then the favor being paid back, two strangers connecting as they realize their significance to each other. But in a broader sense, it’s a reminder of the fact that we all interact and influence each other, even if we don’t realize it.

We tend to remember the things that stand out—whether good or bad. I’ve often referenced the fact that I can recall my excellent teachers but not my mediocre ones; at the same time, I can also recall the terrible, terrifying teachers—even the ones I never had but whose actions and reputations made me fear the simple act of walking down the hall.

Though I’ve never received an organ donation, I have received many “gifts” from others in the form of advice, encouragement, anecdotes, and support. And these, too, have been life-changing.

As I reflect on all the people who have had positive impacts on me, I like to think about the ways I interact with others. What, if anything, will they remember about our interactions? In ten, fifteen, twenty years, will our interaction be among those that have inspired them? Each interaction is like a seed: some will take, some won’t; but I hope those that do grow into flourishing branches with beautiful flowers.

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Flash Fiction: A Reason Not to Work Retail by CaraMarie Christy

July 20, 2017 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writer’s! This month’s prompt is The Sound of Silence: Write about staying quiet when you feel like shouting.

This week’s post comes from CaraMarie Christy, the young-un of Spot Writers. Visit her blog on Word Press at Calamariwriting and check out her book from 2006, Fairies Fly. Bonus points if you ask her about her book photography.

A Reason Not to Work Retail

by CaraMarie Christy

“Hello, welcome to Dream Dresses!” I smile, but when my boss only gives me a half-approving nod I add, “How are you ladies doing today?”

“Good, how are you?” One of them mumbles.

“Great.” I’m not doing great. My feet hurt like hell. “Just so you know, all our rompers are on sale for eighteen dollars today, ladies.” And even at that price, I still wouldn’t buy them.

My boss gives me a big sunny smile. It’s like a gold star around here. But she loses it when she realizes she has to finish the schedule for next week, so she calls me up to guard the register while she’s bent over the employee binder.

A woman across the store watches me step behind the counter. There’s a floral romper in her hands, from our newest collection, just out of shipment this morning.

She dashes up to my counter and slams the romper onto the table, wrinkling every inch that I’d just ironed before we’d opened the store and gives me a hard stare. She keeps staring as she demands, “Five dollars.”

Five dollars? Did she want five dollars off? Because there was no way an outfit like this was going to be five dollars. Not with the way Dream Dresses operated. Not even if there was a giant tear in the butt. That’s what insurance is for. No discounts, no haggling of any sort, no returns without a receipt… Good old, corporate America.

“THIS IS FIVE DOLLARS, CORRECT?” the woman says, louder because I’m floundering. I want to tell her to get out of the store if she’s going to look at me like that. Like it’s my fault that the dress isn’t the price she wants. Like I’m trying to steal money from her.

My boss pulls her head up from the employee binder and snaps for me, “Eighteen dollars, ma’am. Show her the price tag. We don’t do discounts.”

This riles up the customer. She waves the romper in my face and then waves it at a rack. There’s a five-dollars-sign where she’s pointing, all right. Only it says, “five dollars all purses!”, not, “five dollars anything you want to be five dollars!”.

My hands are tied, I’d like to go in to the system and change it, but getting in trouble is not worth making. I repeat the price my boss said. My customer grinds her teeth and glares.

“Five dollars.”

“Eighteen.” I repeat again, like the well-trained robot that I am.

“Five.” “Eighteen.” “Five.” “Eighteen.” “Five.” “Eighteen.” “Ten.”

Jesus. I want to scream no. I want to scream at her that my job is not worth giving her a discount. That every item in the store has a code. I scan the code and it gives me what the item is worth, not the other way around.

The woman wrinkles the romper one last time, flicks her nose up into the air, and tosses it across the counter at me, “I don’t want it then.”

I want to fling it back at her as she walks away. Instead, I squeeze the register tight and smile for the next customer.

 

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/

 

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Writer Wednesday: the Brandon Fisher FBI Series

July 19, 2017 1 comment
This week, I’m happy to feature Carolyn Arnold in my Writer Wednesday feature. She’s the author of the Brandon Fisher FBI series. A spotlight about the series appears below the interview, and at the end of the post, you’ll find the link to a giveaway she is hosting.
Arnold is an international bestselling and award-winning author, as well as a speaker, teacher, and inspirational mentor. She has four continuing fiction series and has written nearly thirty books. Both her female detective and FBI profiler series have been praised by those in law enforcement as being accurate and entertaining, leading her to adopt the trademark, POLICE PROCEDURALS RESPECTED BY LAW ENFORCEMENT™.

 

What motivated you to start writing?
I started as a teenager as a way of dealing with my emotions, and from there I wrote novella-length romances. However, it wasn’t until I was thirty that I wrote my first full-length novel. In fact, I’d been away from writing for thirteen years. Since 2006, though, my life changed and writing’s been a part of my daily life since then.

What keeps you going throughout the writing process?
Writing is something I love to do, but refining a story to publication it is a lot of hard work. What keeps me going is focusing on all the readers who love my books. They are why I keep writing. I want to entertain and inspire people and writing lets me do this.

What is the hardest part of writing?
I love the writing part and even the editing process, but I’d have to say that the later takes a lot more focus, dedication, and hard work. You definitely have to be committed to a project to pay good money for editors and to read and rewrite a manuscript so many times that you lose count.

Please describe your work ethic as an author.
I have always viewed writing as something very important. Even before I made a dime with my writing, it was never a hobby. Once I decided to self-publish, I’ve always approached the industry with the respect and professionalism it deserves, and I have emulated the traditionally published market. Some authors will drink while they write or edit, but you would never catch me doing that!

How do you balance your work as an author with the other aspects of your life?
I have goals and deadlines, but on a daily basis, I go with the flow of life. If I’m stressed or get feeling overwhelmed, I’ll step back and see what needs to be adjusted in my schedule. Walking my beagle Max or taking him to the dog park, or visiting a beach (during the summer) helps me to step away and clear my mind as well. And, of course, I always make time to catch up with friends.

Have you ever been on a manhunt or at the scene where a dead body was found?
I took part in my local police department’s Citizen’s Academy. As part of this, I received an inside look at seventeen divisions over a ten-week period. As an added benefit, each student was afforded a ride-along. And mine… Well, I went on the perfect one for a crime writer.

My ride-along actually started out with a manhunt. I experienced the excitement of wanting to find the guy and found myself scrutinizing every male I spotted in the area just to make sure he wasn’t the one we were after. Unfortunately, the search moved to the downtown area from the eastern end of the city where the hunt had begun, and the sergeant signed off the investigation. By the end of my ride-along, about five hours later, the man still hadn’t been found.

After the sergeant left the investigation, he turned to me as he was driving and asked if I had ever seen a dead body. I told him I had at memorials and funerals and then asked why. I soon found out that our next stop involved one.

I figured I’d catch a glimpse of the deceased under a tarp or being wheeled away, but I got far more than that. I received a front-row seat to a death investigation. For hours, the sergeant and I were mere feet away from the body. I witnessed firsthand how it changed color over time, but I also found that I went into detective-mode. The forensic identification unit—essentially CSIs—was called in and arrived with collection kits. The team members gloved up, snapped photographs, took fingerprints from the deceased, and more.

The entire time that I was on scene, I noticed myself going into a detached state—the result of adrenaline. Later that evening, it began to sink in that I had spent hours with a dead body, and I was nauseated. As more time passed, I became weepy as it sank in that the deceased had been a husband, a father, a lover, a friend…a person. That night I dreamed about the man. It wasn’t a nightmare, but I was an officer trying to figure out what had happened to him.

I couldn’t imagine returning to the field the next day and having a similar experience or witnessing something even worse, like a violent murder scene or that of a fatal car accident.

How do you know so much about what criminals think?
I can’t answer that without incriminating myself… Just kidding.

Everyone has what we call a “dark side.” In writing these books, I suppose you could say I tap into this side of my psyche. Whatever I can scheme up is possible, and I write that which scares and excites me.

When did you know that you had hit the big time with your books?
When I got to say good-bye to my day job! Even before I fully resigned, I had cut back a five-day a week job to four days, then to three. It got to the point, though, that I loathed going in for that many days, and I knew it was time to make the move and become a full-time author. That was in the summer of 2014. Since then, I incorporated my own publishing company in the summer of 2015, and, at the start of 2016, my husband joined me there full time.

 

Profilers. Serial killers. The hunt is on.

Do serial killers and the FBI fascinate you? Do you like getting inside the minds of killers, love being creeped out, sleeping with your eyes open, and feeling like you’re involved in murder investigations? Then join FBI agent and profiler Brandon Fisher and his team with the Behavioral Analysis Unit in their hunt for serial killers.

This is the perfect book series for fans of Criminal Minds, NCIS, Silence of the Lambs, Seven, Dexter, Luther, and True Crime.

Read in any order or follow the series from the beginning: Eleven, Silent Graves, The Defenseless, Blue Baby, Violated, Remnants.

Grab your copy of the first book, Eleven, for FREE on Kindle and Nook!

AmazongoodreadsBN

CAROLYN ARNOLD is an international best-selling and award-winning author, as well as a speaker, teacher, and inspirational mentor. She has four continuing fiction series—Detective Madison Knight, Brandon Fisher FBI, McKinley Mysteries, and Matthew Connor Adventures—and has written nearly thirty books. Her genre diversity offers her readers everything from cozy to hard-boiled mysteries, and thrillers to action adventures.

Both her female detective and FBI profiler series have been praised by those in law enforcement as being accurate and entertaining, leading her to adopt the trademark: POLICE PROCEDURALS RESPECTED BY LAW ENFORCEMENT™.

Carolyn was born in a small town and enjoys spending time outdoors, but she also loves the lights of a big city. Grounded by her roots and lifted by her dreams, her overactive imagination insists that she tell her stories. Her intention is to touch the hearts of millions with her books, to entertain, inspire, and empower.

She currently lives just west of Toronto with her husband and beagle and is a member of Crime Writers of Canada.

Connect with CAROLYN ARNOLD Online:

Website | Twitter | Facebook

And don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter for up-to-date information on release and special offers at http://carolynarnold.net/newsletters.

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Here, you can enter to win: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/28b5dae6418/

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Book Review: Magic Tree House (multi volume)

July 17, 2017 No comments

Earlier, I reviewed the first book in Mary Pope Osborne’s series.  With a little one at home, I’ve been delving into some of the children’s books that came out after my childhood so that I can be ready with recommendations. I purchased a collection of these books at a consignment sale and decided to give them a read, since even my high school students refer to them as a formative part of their childhood.

The series follows Jack and his sister Annie as they discover a treehouse that takes them wherever they want to go—provided they find the location in the book and then make a wish about it.

Today’s review highlights several titles in the series:

Book #2: The Knight at Dawn
The morning after discovering the tree house, neither sibling can sleep, so they leave home while it’s still dark and sneak into the tree house, where Annie wishes to see a real knight. They find a mysterious “M” medallion and realize that someone named “M” is also traveling using the Magic Tree House and books. I enjoyed this book because it took illustrated the dangerous side of the world of knights.

Book #3: Because I bought several of these books at a consignment sale, I was disappointed to see that book 3 was missing; instead, I had two copies of book 4 (one of which I gave away during a contest here on my blog). What I gather from reading book 4 is that the siblings travel to ancient Egypt, where a cat helps them escape.

Book #4: Pirates Past Noon
Jack and Annie can hardly wait for the rain to stop so they can go to the tree house and resume their travels. They do so armed with the “M” medallion, Jack’s book, and Annie’s sense of adventure. It’s a cold and rainy day, so of course they are intrigued when they see a book with a sunny beach. They inadvertently wish to be on the beach (haven’t they learned by now?) when a group of pirates appear. They become involved in a pirate treasure hunt, though the violence and danger was a bit downplayed, even for a children’s book. A parrot looks out for them, and at the end of the story, we learn the identity of the parrot, the cat, the knight, and the pteranodon from previous books—the same identity as the mysterious “M.” I won’t spoil it for you. I do find myself craving a few more details to help me become immersed in the setting, the way I felt when I read about the knights in a previous book.

Book #5: Night of the Ninjas
The spoiler referenced in my review of book 4 is revealed to the reader as a prologue summarizing the adventures from the first books and identifying their fellow traveler. Spoiler below.

The traveler is Morgan Le Fay, of Arthurian legend. She is identified as a “magical librarian.” At the beginning of this tale, they find a distress note from Morgan and decide to follow an open book in hopes of helping her. As usual, Jack wants to wait and research the time period, but Annie jumps right in, once again leaving them unprepared for their newest adventure.

As they travel back to old Japan, they learn the way of ninjas, becoming one with nature. They find the first of “four things” that Morgan asked them to find—a moonstone. And the mouse that they found in the beginning seems suspiciously relevant, staying in the tree house for the two to resume their quest in the morning.

So far, this was my favorite of the series, as the characters seem to be developing and learning a bit, and they’re involved in a long-term quest rather than dappling in random time travel. Even though the series is for kids and predictable, I like how clues are woven throughout to help eager readers “figure it out” before it’s revealed. I have more books in this series and will review them from time to time as I read them between “grown-up” books : – )

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Fantastic Friday: Sky Meadows

July 14, 2017 No comments

Last weekend, my family drove about an hour out of the way to meet family for ice cream. We weren’t coming from home, so we took a different route than we were used to. Things were looking familiar until out of nowhere, a beautiful valley opened up revealing a farm that looked like it might as well have spawned off of a page of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles.

Part of me thought I was dreaming. I was so stunned that I didn’t want to look away even to grab my phone to snag a photo. It seemed like something right out of a novel: had we entered a time-warp and gone back in history? After we descended a hill, the view disappeared, and I regained my senses. That’s when I saw a sign: Sky Meadows State Park.

According to the Sky Meadows website, the “1,864-acre park has scenic views, woodlands and the rolling pastures of a historic farm that captures the colonial through post-Civil War life of the Crooked Run Valley.” When I told my sister about it, she nodded. She had gone hiking there a few weeks earlier.

I recall an article in National Geographic about whether the “young” generation will find an interest in national parks. The article contends that younger generations don’t like the sense of isolation that nature often brings. They like to feel connected, to go somewhere social. For me, life is too social and connected. Driving in the car, we had one phone (and “phone” is now assumed to mean “cell phone,” whereas “land line” is used to specify an old-fashioned phone) navigating using the traffic app Waze to notify us of traffic obstacles and one phone in use to text our whereabouts to the other members of our party so we would all arrive at the ice cream shop at the same time.

When I saw the beauty of the historic farm, I felt that reaching for my phone, even to capture the moment on “film,” would somehow desecrate the experience. Phones and technology and cars and modern sounds seemed not to belong in the pastoral valley. I longed to scrap my plans for the day, get out of the car, and walk into the valley. I imagined what a person like Tess Durbeyfield might have experienced as she approached each new farm for employment. Without a phone for distraction, what details would she observe? Without an air-conditioned car, what scents would she smell? What sounds would she hear without the whooshing of cars along the highway?

It made me think of the cool comfort of summer grass between barefoot toes and the touch of dew on a summer morning.

It was a fleeting moment, but a quiet and poignant one. Reflecting back on the day, I don’t remember much about the texts I sent. I don’t remember what obstacles Waze announced were on the road. But I do remember that moment frozen in time when I gazed at the way things used to be.

On the way home, we decided to take a detour to try to capture the view. There was no pull-off to take a picture, but the barrage of signs that reminded drivers that there was no stopping, standing, or parking allowed made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who found beauty in the location.

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Nonetheless, on the way home, I turned on my video camera function on my phone and hoped that a few of the frames would offer a screenshot that might capture some of the beauty of the spot. I’ll admit that the result does no justice to the valley–I had to crop out the guard rail and the “no stopping” signs from the road–, but it offers just a small glimpse.

Nonetheless, it was a moment I will remember for years to come, and a trip to Sky Meadows will certainly be in my future. For anyone afraid to “disconnect,” I encourage you to face your fears. You may just find the results refreshing.

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