Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Flash Fiction: The Language Addict by CaraMarie Christy

February 23, 2017 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers! This February’s prompt: Pick up the two books closest to you (a mandarin textbook and A Court of Mist and Fury). For the first book: copy the first 3 words of the book. This is how your story will start. For the second book: copy the last 3 words of the book. This is how your story will end. Fill in the middle. As an added challenge, turn to a random page in each book. Choose the most interesting word on each of those pages. Include those 2 words in your story. Interesting words from these: humanities and wrath.

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 when she was twelve, Fairies Fly. Bonus points if you ask her about her book photography.

The Language Addict

by CaraMarie Christy 

Essential phrases: Hello. That’s it. A one word list of everything I need to remember to make people like me. The only thing you ever need, in any language, is that one word. My mind whirs, as only an old woman’s can, with thoughts, ones from the past cluttering the new ones, popping behind my eyes as I consider what to do to entertain myself. I’ve got four more hours left on this flight. Hanging into the third-row aisle, I have a nice expansive view of my companion choices. That’s all us old women ever think about anyway: who to talk to. There’s the couple arguing in Dutch at the back of the plane, the French flight attendant that keeps narrowly avoiding my elbow, and the man in the black coat sitting suspiciously next to the exit. But my eyes have been especially wondering toward the woman across the aisle from me. Her eyes are dark and there’s a faintly square shape to her chin. I want to ask her in… No.

Because if I reach across this aisle, and assault this woman with a two-week’s course of her supposed native tongue, it would be an invasion of her space, much more than a simple smile and the phrase “guten tag!”. And if she doesn’t speak German, then she can smile, nod, and go on reading the book in her hand. And if she does speak German… Bam. Friend. But for her, this could be a connecting flight to lord-only-knows where. Or she could be a tourist like me, which would be just as swell as a real German. Even if she is a German citizen, only 78% of Germans natively speak German. She could be an immigrant. And that will get us nowhere.

In the pleather seat in front of me, there is a sewn pocket overflowing with textbooks. I’ve stuffed them there. The wrath of the young gentleman to my right, when earlier I elbowed him six times while trying to flip through every page for how to say “spinach” (turns out it was just “spinat”), was enough to set me straight. Read like a chicken and be glared at or keep my arms to my side. I chose to keep him happy. I’d be interested in his language, but his flippant way of sneering at my books and penny loafers made it abundantly clear–American. Definitely. I don’t know why, having lived and worked in U.S. elementary education all my life that now, in retirement, I’ve grown to dislike “American”. I’ve got a taste for other types of humanities now, other ways of speaking. They seem much more fun.

The thought chills me and I want to edge away from this young man. I scoot further into the aisle, my hip gouging into the arm rest. It’s the woman on the left who is interesting. There’s a world of possibilities with her.

English, French, Chinese, Spanish… She could speak one of them. The big guns. The chances of that were high. And I knew plenty of words from the big languages.

I’ve convinced myself of it, when I find myself leaning across the aisle, smile pasted on, and give her a good, “Guten tag! Sprechen sie deutsch?”

WRONG. Three words too many come out and I can feel my ego soaring while the rest of me, the part of me that knows how to weave around a social interaction, comes crashing around my ears.

“Eh, sorry…” Laughs the woman. Her eyes twinkle and she never loses her smile as she says, “Ah… Español?”

Yes. A big gun. One of the biggest. Three weeks with Mr. Harviar at Northern Virginia’s Sterling community college. I know this one. The old and new thoughts collide. In my attempt to find something, anything to say… I pull out the first phrase that comes to mine. I can’t hear Mr. Harviar saying it in my head. Instead, it sounds like a little Hispanic girl selling soft and hard tacos.

“Porque no los dos?”

My ego crashes down to the floor, where the rest of me had been scattered. The woman forces a laugh at the old, overused joke, then makes a point to ignore me, leaning back in her chair, reading a novel that I can’t even translate the cover of. I slink back into my own seat, scooting toward the right, to remove myself completely from teetering into the aisle, then pull out an Amazon catalogue from the pocket in front of me. The American man’s eyes are on my neck, as I ignore my travel guides and my books.

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: The Complete Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

February 20, 2017 No comments

Satrapi’s graphic novel is also a memoir. It’s presented as a comic strip detailing her childhood and adolescence in Tehran during the Islamic Revolution and her older adolescent years in Vienna. In the introduction to the novel, Satrapi summarizes the history of Iran, noting that the influence of foreign countries, including Great Britain and the US, caused issues with the country. She notes also that Iran has of late been associated with the fundamentalism and terrorism we have all come to fear; however, she reminds us that the actions of the extreme few cannot speak for an entire nation. In part, this novel is to help tell the truth of her home nation.

The story she tells is real and gritty. Profanity is not prevalent, but it is used when needed, and it certainly has impact. She is honest in telling her reactions to the various political upheavals she experienced, as well as her personal struggles in Vienna. In some ways, it’s a coming-of-age tale. In the end of the novel, she is only in her early twenties and has just arrived at the realization of who she is.

I enjoyed the perspective she offered on life in Iran. In many ways, it reminded me of elements of the novel 1984. The people seem always to be in fear of the ever-present religious committees whose existence “insures” that everyone behaves in a moral manner. She noted insightfully that when women are preoccupied with how long their coverings are or whether bits of their hair is showing, they are unable to be concerned with their lack of personal or political freedom. I felt like I was reading about the idea of “facecrime” in 1984, in which people have to be so preoccupied about presenting the correct facial expression that they cannot follow a rebellious thought to fruition.

As a freedom lover, I appreciated Satrapi’s parents’ spirit of freedom and the fact that they used their resources to offer her as much freedom as they were able. Her accounts of the constant wars between Iraq, Iran, and others (especially those interested in oil) helped me affirm my beliefs that the best government is one with limited powers, as regimes all seem prone to abuse.

I admit I am not a connoisseur of graphic novels. I appreciated Satrapi’s honest and cartoonish style. I wish she had provided a few more panels that took true advantage of the artistic medium to communicate emotions and concepts.

The novel was a relatively fast read, but because of its contents, I would caution that it’s best for a mature high school audience or older. I prefer fiction to nonfiction, but the graphic novel format helped convince me to give it a try, and I appreciate the insight into a culture I usually only hear snippets about. I did recently learn that the novel has been made into a movie, and I plan to watch it. It will be interesting to see how the two compare–it looks like the film is in French (with subtitles, though the subtitles are white, against a black-and-white graphic novel format; we’ll see how rusty my French is!).

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A Road of Anthracite by Dorothy Colinco

February 16, 2017 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers, bringing you a weekly dose of flash fiction. Today’s prompt involves a bit of fun: Pick up the two books closest to you. For the first book: copy the first 3 words of the book. This is how your story will start. For the second book: copy the last 3 words of the book. This is how your story will end. Fill in the middle. As an added challenge, turn to a random page in each book. Choose the most interesting word on each of those pages. Include those 2 words in your story.

This week’s story comes from Dorothy Colinco. Check out her blog for fiction, books reviews, and book news.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time

First three words: It was 7

Bonus word: Wellington

Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk

Last three words: road of anthracite

Bonus word: transatlantic

 

A Road of Anthracite

by Dorothy Colinco

It was 7 years after that first meeting that we spoke again. The first time was initiated by me, but chance had its hand in our second meeting.

In the moments when I thought about my good fortune, the bounty of my life, I was sometimes checked by a sudden realization, a miscalculation of the good and the bad, and I’d remember, “Oh yes, I have a brother who has rejected my very existence,” and I would read a doorstop of a novel or paint or review the taxes of the small business whom I worked for until I no longer remembered.

I remember walking along 7th Avenue, perfectly content in this city that was supposedly overdone and stale and gentrified and no longer the center of the universe, though it still was to me. I was headed to the restaurant, the one he suggested after I requested a meeting. I didn’t have to explain who I was. He must have known by my name on social media, but even without that, my picture gave him clues The end of my nose, my hooded eyelids, the fullness of my top lip.

I remember reading the menu posted outside the restaurant, entrees I had never hear of at the time – beef wellington, niçois salad, escargot. I was about to give the hostess my name when I saw him at a small table in the corner of the room. I had never seen him before, but I too had clues: his hairline, the arch of his brows, his cheekbones, so like my own. The resemblance to a face that was forever lost to me hurt.

As I sat down, he looked up, and I thought I saw him startle as he too registered the resemblance before he took on a neutral air.

He reached into his briefcase and took out a checkbook.

“How much do you need?”

“What? I don’t – That’s not what I-” I stared at the pen hovering above the table. “That’s not what I wanted.”

He seemed confused, and then, irritated.

“What, then?”

I suppose I wanted to tell him that I was angry at being rejected for no reason, that I was sad about our father passing, that I was again angry that I’d been deprived of someone who had access to memories of him. But at 23, I didn’t know all those things, or at least I didn’t know how to say them out loud.

And so I left. I didn’t want his money. I didn’t even need it. I was doing very well for myself. My modest flat was exactly that, but it was also paid for each month, on time.

I was 30 when we met again. This time, I was not a discarded half-sibling licking the wounds of rejection but an accountant at a law firm who published short stories in little-known magazines in her spare time. I had moved into a different but still modest flat, and my tendency toward everyday simplicity afforded my occasional luxuries, like the transatlantic cruise we had unknowingly both booked; I was with my close friend, and he was with his wife. It was at the piano bar that we found each other. My friend Claire had found a beau on the ship who invited her to dinner, so I sat alone at the bar while listening to Piano Man. In another setting, it may have been too on the nose, but floating on the Atlantic Ocean with strangers whom I’d see for another 7 days, it was pitch perfect.

It was then that the bartender brought over a drink paid for by “the gentleman over there.” I almost waved it away, but I noticed a tilt of the head that was not unfamiliar, the bar lights glinting off cheekbones that were like the ones I brushed highlighting powder on earlier that evening.

I didn’t touch the drink for a while. Condensation was slipping off the glass when I finally picked it up and brought it to my lips. It was bitter, with an underlying current of something sweet and bright, like citrus.

I couldn’t discern what this drink was – an olive branch? A bridge? A door, perhaps, opened after being shut forcibly and for so long.

As I stood and moved toward the seat across him, I decided it was a road, though not an easy or pretty one. It was rough and hard and unforgiving. It was still a road, though it was a road of anthracite.

 

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/

 

Dorothy Colinco, flash fiction none

Fantastic Friday: The Snowman

February 10, 2017 No comments

I’m a bit too far south and just missed the most recent snow, but several states enjoyed a snow day yesterday.

If you’d read any of my snow-related posts (like The Great Snow Nightmare or several posts inspired by the blizzard birth of my daughter), you’ll know I’m not a huge fan of the cold stuff. But even I’ll admit that there’s something magical about the snow.

My earliest memory of the power of words, one I often share at my author talks, is a night when my dad took me to the dining room window one winter to show me how the full moon made the freshly-fallen snow glow. He quoted a line from “The Night Before Christmas,” a poem we’d memorized together (“the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the lustre of midday to objects below.”). To me, that moment of staring at the snow under the moonlight made literature come alive. I realized that the poet had captured exactly what I was seeing—a magical, snowy scene—and set it down on paper to be read and imagined forever.

My husband is just the opposite. He loves snow days and always appreciates the beauty of snow (I remind him of this every time I send him out to clear the driveway! I love summer: I get to mow the lawn. He loves snow: he has to shovel and snowblow!)

When I first met him, he introduced me to one of his favorite childhood songs. It came from a film version of The Snowman, a book by Raymond Briggs. I found the entire thing on YouTube. Because it’s Fantastic Friday, I’ve included the version that has the introduction by David Bowie (after all, there’s got to be something warm to counteract all that snow!)

The story follows the reaction of a young boy who wakes up, thrilled to find a magical winter world outside his door. I imagine it’s how my husband must have been as a kid. I’ll admit, when I was younger, there was definitely something magic about snow. In this tale, the boy shows the snowman his world, and then the snowman takes the boy up in the air to visit a snowy wonderland. The tale, with the exception of a song—and David Bowie’s introduction, if you’re watching that version—is wordless:


I read just yesterday that author Raymond Briggs was recently honored with a lifetime achievement award. In the midst of all the hateful news out there lately, it’s refreshing to read something positive.

Besides, I hear it’s supposed to be near 70 this weekend 🙂

Fantastic Friday none

No Flash Fiction this week: Miracles for Matt

February 9, 2017 No comments

Good morning, everyone. Welcome to what is normally your weekly dose of flash fiction. This week is supposed to be Cathy MacKenzie’s turn to write a piece. She will be back next month with free flash fiction for you, but today, she is busy with a matter a bit more pressing.

Her son, Matt, who is only around my age, has been diagnosed with a very rare form of heart cancer. This week, he had an operation to remove his heart and receive an artificial one to help him hold out long enough to hopefully receive a transplant.

In lieu of Cathy’s fiction piece for today, I wanted to share a GoFundMe page that has been set up for Matt. You can read more about what he and his family are going through. Please don’t feel obligated to help, but if you choose to, know that the family will be grateful for even a dollar.

Cathy has been a member of The Spot Writers since its inception years ago. I often think of her as the “mother” of the group, the one who keeps us organized and on-task so we can bring you your weekly flash fiction. I look forward to her returning to our group, and I send all my thoughts and prayers to her son and his children.

Til next time!

 

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/

Uncategorized none

Writer Wednesday with Joan Fallon

February 8, 2017 No comments

This week, I had the chance to meet Joan Fallon, author of literary and historical fiction, including her most recent work, The Thread That Binds Us. I admire the fact that she’s lived in various places around the globe–not to mention her background as a teacher, which we share.

IMG_1822Tell us about yourself:

I was born in Scotland but left when I was quite young. Since then I have spent half my life in England, where I worked first of all as a teacher and then later, as a management consultant and trainer. For the last twenty years I have lived in the south of Spain where I dedicate myself to writing both literary and historical fiction.

Tell us about your book:

My latest book is called The Thread That Binds Us. It is the story of Susan, an ambitious career woman, who has reached late middle-age. She is desperately trying to hold onto her job, is always at logger-heads with her son and now she discovers that her parents had lied to her all her life. When Susan discovers that her father had an illegitimate son, she is at first horrified and then obsessed with finding out more about this child. But her obsession with finding him begins to threaten her seemingly happy marriage.

Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?JF_TTTBU_SMALL

Yes, books are my passion and I grew up reading everything I could get my hands on. So, from an early age, I always wanted to write but I had a full-time job and a family and it just wasn’t possible to devote the time required for writing.

What is your “day job”?

My day job now is a mixture of writing, self-publishing and marketing my books. That doesn’t leave me any time to work at anything else.

Who is your favourite character in your book, and why?

The main character in almost all my books is female. I began working in the late sixties and during that time and through to the nineties I felt that I was a woman struggling for recognition in a man’s world. Because of that almost all my books have a strong female protagonist.  I like to write mainly about women and the challenges they have to face because I understand them best. That doesn’t mean I don’t have some very likeable men in my books, too. In fact in my latest book, the rather put-upon, easy-going husband is my favourite character. He is at his happiest when he is out on the golf course with his ancient friends or walking his dog by the river. But I like Susan too because I can see some aspects of myself in her.

If you were to be stranded on a desert island, what non-survival item would you bring along that you couldn’t live without?JF_TSC_EBOOK_SMALL

At first I thought I’d bring along a Kindle with thousands of ebooks on it but there could be problems with charging the battery. So I would go for an enormous box of pens and paper. I could write and then read what I’d written years later—if I was still there.

Are any elements of your book autobiographical or inspired by elements of your life?

None of my books are autobiographical but many of them have been inspired by elements in my life or someone I’ve known.

Are you working on any other projects at the moment?

Yes, I’m about halfway through the third book in a historical trilogy set in Moorish Spain, entitled the al-Andalus trilogy.

Finally, where can we find you?

I am on the usual social media sites and have a webpage for my books:

 

JF_TEF_COVER_LRhttps://www.facebook.com/joanfallonbooks

https://twitter.com/joan_fallon

http://www.joanfallon.co.uk/index.html

http://www.joanfallon.co.uk/blog.html

https://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard

http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=157658100&trk=nav_responsive_tab_profile

I also have a twitter account and web page for things about living in Spain:

http://www.notesonspain.com

https://twitter.com/notesonspain

 

 

 

Writer Wednesdays none

Flash Fiction: Festival of the Matches

February 2, 2017 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers, bringing you a weekly dose of flash fiction. Today’s prompt involves a bit of fun: Pick up the two books closest to you. For the first book: copy the first 3 words of the book. This is how your story will start. For the second book: copy the last 3 words of the book. This is how your story will end. Fill in the middle. As an added challenge, turn to a random page in each book. Choose the most interesting word on each of those pages. Include those 2 words in your story.

Today’s tale comes from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter, The Man with the Crystal Ankh, and the Corgi Capers mystery series.

Note: My first book happened to be Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy, so my opening is “On an evening…” My second book is The Complete Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi, so my closing is “…had a price.” My random words are “vexation” and “cabinetmaker.”

Festival of the Matches

By Val Muller

On an evening in May, the last evening in May, the sounding of the bell summoned Erin to the town square. She left home bedecked in white, the flowing white dress her mother had been making for the past year, little by little, as time allowed. Her bare feet padded along the dirt path, and she adjusted her crown of flowers, the one young Ella had made her yesterday.

Little Ella, only five, her eyes so full of dreams as she wove the daffodils and daisies and counted the days and months and years until her own Festival. Little Ella, only five, her eyes still full of hope. Erin looked back, only once, to see Ella standing there, mum’s arm around her, gazing longingly at Erin. At the fork, Erin joined three others on the path. The quartet fell into step, their white dresses sweeping the packed dirt.

The evening’s festivities would decide her fate. It seemed so strange, for so much to rest on a single evening. But this was the way. This had always been the way. Besides, the Matchmaker was never wrong, was she?

Erin padded heavily, trying to hide her breathing. She had to remember to stay calm. Confident. Sweating was a bad sign. She wanted the Matchmaker to see her for who she was. For the Choosing. It wouldn’t be long now, just over the bend.

There.

Another line of young women joined them at the town square, forming a group of seven.

Seven. A lucky number.

On the other side of the square, dressed in white tunics and white shorts, stood the seven young men from the neighboring villages. They all looked the same, a blur of nerves and hair and skin starting to bronze from May’s early sun. As tradition demanded, they joined the women and formed a circle around the well, where the Matchmaker, bedecked in capes and robes and flowers, sat in the wicker throne that had been erected the day before.

She clapped her hands, and behind her, the musicians filed in, taking their places around the gathering and struck up a melody. It was hopeful and sad and excited and worried. The melody held all the emotions Erin tried to keep inside on this day of her Festival. Its melody climbed with the hopes of the future and fell with the pain of nostalgia.

She curtsied, and on the other side of the well, the seven young men bowed. Relying on muscle memory, Erin fell into the Dance of Choosing the way she’d been practicing. She focused on their eyes. Her mother said the eyes told all.

Some were dim, some nervous. But one. They sparkled like the stars, they glowed like the sun, they held the mystery of the moon. It was everything mother told her to look for.

He was the one.

The Matchmaker would know.

When they danced together, when their hands touched, his skin set hers afire. She’d seen him before, now that she thought of it. He was the blacksmith’s son. He’d shoed the family’s horse once or twice. He was strong and kind and…beautiful.

Erin glanced at the Matchmaker to make sure she knew, but she was looking away, clapping to the music and smiling at the musicians. Maybe she knew already. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t looking.

The partners changed, and she curtsied to the next young man, a nervous chap. Erin focused on her breathing. In. Out. Just breathe. The Matchmaker had to know, right? She’d matched mother and father, after all. And they seemed happy together. Most of the time, anyway. Except the days when mother seemed so full of vexation that she left for long walks hours at a time. Long walks Erin followed her on once or twice, long walks that ended at the riverbank at a picnic lunch with the miller from the next village.

A picnic Erin left them alone to finish.

But still, the Matchmaker knew.

And so when the festivities drew to a close and it was time for her to announce partners, Erin held her breath. Everyone from the village arrived, all holding torches and candles and flasks of wine for the celebration after the weddings.

When her turn came, the Matchmaker took Erin’s hand and presented her to the crowd. “And this young woman will find her true happiness with…”

The blacksmith, Erin thought. The blacksmith. The blacksmith. Across the flickering torches, his eyes met hers. He stepped forward even before the Matchmaker made her announcement.

“With the cabinetmaker.”

Two hearts sank, and the cabinetmaker’s son smiled and stepped forward to claim his bride. Erin shuddered as she took his hand, her eyes locked with the blacksmith’s. With those eyes that reflected summer evenings and skies ignited by stars and love and hope and the future.

And then she looked away, to the eyes of the cabinetmaker, now her fiancé.

Her mother held up a picnic basket full of celebratory wine and snacks she would serve Erin and her new husband right after the wedding. The music swelled as the ceremony drew to a close, and the couples stood at the town center for the group wedding ceremony. It was a happy but efficient affair. The seven eligible couples from the four surrounding towns would now be wed without incident and become productive members of their respective towns.

Erin looked up at the stars for the last time as a single girl. Then she took the hand of her husband as the ceremony ended and reached for a glass of wine. Efficiency had a price.

 

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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Flash Fiction: A Wait with Gabriel by CaraMarie Christy

January 29, 2017 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. We’ve all been waiting for 2017 to start and now it has! Waiting is rarely the most fun topic to cover, but for this prompt, we have to write a scene/story that’s whole premise is around waiting in a line. And try to make it as interesting as possible.

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 when she was twelve, Fairies Fly. Bonus points if you ask her about her book photography.

A Wait with Gabriel

By CaraMarie Christy

This didn’t look like the bank. It had to be the bank, because she had parked her 2001 Civic outside of a bank, but as Melanie Court had walked through the familiar squeaky double doors, something felt different. The fluid in her stomach swirled and her head ached till she was sure that she was fainting, dropping like a rock toward the ground. When her vision cleared and her headache eased, there was something different about the room she was looking in at. Her TD Bank, in Melderstown, MA, a town where bank tycoons knew they didn’t have to spend much money facilities, was a gray place, with moth-eaten chair and rusty chandeliers. This bank felt so much bigger, but no… It couldn’t be a new one. Someone would have gossiped her ear off about the jobs brought in by the construction. It was just somehow… incredibly renovated since her last visit. Now her bank was decadent, covered in gold trimming and mahogany booths.

And the line.

She was about to head back to her car, when she saw the number of people leaning against the tills and plucking at the red velvet ropes meant to section off one line from the next. They were packed in, almost side by side, but no one seemed to be looking at one another. They all just stared at their hands, some with theirs clasped in front of them, almost as if in prayer, and Melanie felt awkward being the only one staring, so she looked down at her own, chipped pink paint nails.

They were such a wreck, that she dared to look up at the lines again. A young man, in a pressed suit with deep amber skin and a winning smile, was making his way up and down every line, with a small tray. It seemed awfully too small, Melanie thought, for the number of coffees he was managing to give away. Almost no one refused him, and he gave the young boy that did a different cup, with darker liquid, and a big smile. After a few rounds, he stopped at Melanie.

“Coffee?” His smile might have been the most beautiful she had ever seen. “Bit of a wait to get through without coffee.” Her tongue went numb and she couldn’t form words, so she blushed, and tucked away a gray strand of hair. “I could get you some cocoa if that is more your taste? Or wine. Definitely no shortage of wine around here.”

Wine at a bank? Just before she was supposed to drive home? As uneasy as she felt by the offer, Melanie’s chest felt warm and comfortable in line. She was in no rush and had already moved up three people. It would be waste to leave now.

She held out an apologetic hand for the coffee he had offered. “I guess I haven’t been to TD in a while. Didn’t know it got this busy.”

“TD…? Aw! TD Bank?” The man closed his eyes. She could see them roaming gently beneath his lids, like he was searching for something. Then he opened them with a smile even more dazzling than his last. “They really should have fixed the bricks holding up their sign. It was a real shame. Not many people don’t see it hitting them like that. Maybe a shame and a blessing though. A blame? No, that’s already a word… how about… a shessing? Whatever it is, I’m glad you’re not nervous.”

It didn’t matter that he spoke strangely, Melanie decided, or used “they” instead of “we.” This man was dazzling. Whoever made the dimples in his cheeks was a genius. She had made great progress in the line while he was occupying her. She wanted to wrap her arm around his and hold on to him for a while, she would probably never get a chance to speak to such a handsome young man again. Not at her age. They would reassign him to a different bank soon, for sure, somewhere more crowded. Melderstown was never really like this. Today had to be some mistake.

“When did your sign break? Are they going to make you fix it?” No, they would give that job to someone else. Tom down the street or someone from Larry’s construction. This man, in his white shirt and flawless dark skin, was too clean-cut to be outside. He was a jewel and needed to be locked up in a treasure trove. Melanie blushed again.

He half-smiled at her. “I’d guess it broke half a second before you stepped through our doors. And me? No, I’ll stay here. My name is Gabriel, I just like helping around this place. Especially the dog room.”

More people had filed in through the doors. Gabriel flashed her one last smile before he gestured with his free hand for her to look forward. They had slowly walked so far, and talked so long, that she had made it to the front of her line, stepping up to the woman at the till without thinking about it. The young woman was almost as beautiful as Gabriel. She looked Melanie up and down with a stern, icy gaze.

“Go up the staircase to the left behind me and pass through the gates at the top.” The woman opened the door to her booth and Melanie was sure she shouldn’t be allowed in such a high security area. This was where all the money was kept! And other people were stepping back too. The woman pressed her, “You can head up now, Mrs. Court.”

Mrs. Court did what she was told. When she was halfway up the stairs, she stole a look back at the bank, and could have sworn that the man in the suit, carrying the silver tray, had bright, feathery wings on his back.

 

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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Fantastic Friday: Alive

January 20, 2017 No comments

The novel Dandelion Wine is one of my favorite novels by my favorite author, Ray Bradbury. The moment that stands out to me is the moment when a main character realizes he is alive. It’s not that there’s anything particular about the day—it’s just that the character realizes he is human, he is alive, and he has the ability to do things with those two facts.

He awakens.

I was talking to my husband the other day. As an introvert, I do sometimes prefer to stay away from people from time to time, and we were talking about why. I mentioned that what I object to most about human beings in general is when they squander time and opportunity. What I meant is, I resent when humans don’t realize they are alive.

Though I’m not particularly into country music, I can’t help but think of Tim McGraw’s “Live Like You Were Dying.” Like Bradbury’s novel, the song wishes that the listener one day get to experience the true blessing that is life. When we understand that life is short, that some chapter is about to draw to a close, that we are about to lose a loved one or our health or an opportunity or a house or anything, we start living more deliberately. We tend to see the positive—what we’re about to lose—than the negative.

Unfortunately, it often takes an emergency or a crisis to realize that one is alive. It often takes impending death or loss to realize what we have. I hate seeing people wish away time, counting down days until whatever—Christmas, high school graduation, the weekend. What they don’t realize is that they are wishing away time. It’s a cliché, but it’s true: we are never promised tomorrow.

One of the things I love about literature is that it often tries to remind us of this fact, to remind us of what it means to be human, and to encourage us to go out and do. Live. Ayn Rand’s heroes embody this idea. They commit to their identity, and they do everything in their power to realize their potential. Not all characters—or people—are so sharply focused. But even those as hopeless as Meursault in The Stranger finds himself contemplating the gift that life is—or, for him, was.

For Christmas, one of the gifts I received is a stuffed Bastet from Squishables.  A fun toy, no doubt, but it has some serious connections to my musings.

The history of Bastet is complicated and not fully understood, but in short, it is an Egyptian goddess in the form of a cat and a protector of various elements, depending on which myth one reads and which part of early history one studies. I received it because the ankh, the looped cross on its forehead, is featured in my recent young adult novel, The Man with the Crystal Ankh. The ankh is an Egyptian symbol of life, and ever since elementary school, when I made a paper mache model of a pyramid, I have been fascinated with ancient Egyptian’s fascination with eternal life. It always seemed to me that they grasped how sacred life was (though some of their practices suggest they did not apply that sacredness across the board…), that going through life they always had something in the back of their mind making them wonder about their place in eternity.

crystal-ankh-200x300In my novel, the primary antagonist seems to be obsessed with life—holding onto his years. The ankh becomes his symbol as he struggles to extend his life beyond what is promised to even the oldest human. To me, he’s an antagonist because he’s missing the point of life. To be human means to be limited in the life we are promised here on earth. Being a hero doesn’t mean finding a way to extend that life unnaturally; rather, it means finding a way to make that life meaningful.

It’s why my heart soars each time I re-read Bradbury’s epiphany in Dandelion Wine and why I love new works of literature to see the ways characters choose to make their lives meaningful. It’s why I detest when people count down the days to one event or another—because they are squandering what comes between then and now. And it’s why I love finding fellow human beings who truly appreciate the gift of life and find ways of making each day meaningful.

Here in the real world, we don’t have magic. We don’t have a supernatural ankh we can wave around to extend our days on earth. But as humans, we have our own “magic.” We are alive. Each and every day we are conscious, we have the opportunity to plant seeds, to put down roots, to make connections to others that will live on long after our time is up. That is the true gift we are given as humans—the gift of being bound by time, and in being so bound, to be inspired to transcend it entirely.

 

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Flash Fiction: Promissory by Dorothy Colinco

January 19, 2017 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers, bringing you your weekly dose of flash fiction. This month’s prompt is to write about waiting in line, making it as interesting as possible.

This week’s story comes from Dorothy Colinco. Check out her blog for fiction, books reviews, and book news.

Promissory

by Dorothy Colinco

She pretended not to feel the eyes that were examining every inch of her. She could feel their gaze on her slightly scuffed shoes and no longer white-bright but still neatly-folded socks. She remembered the fraying hem in the back of her skirt toward her left side. Before she could stop it, her right hand flew to her left elbow, feeling for rough bumps but instead feeling smooth skin, thankful that she remembered to put lotion on this morning.

Most of them tried not to gape and whisper, though she almost wished they would so she would have some reason to feel the righteous indignation she felt. Some stared with dreadful pity in their eyes. She couldn’t blame them — of course they were curious. This was the line for students who couldn’t take final exams because they hadn’t paid tuition or book fees.

Why was she standing here? If she had been in their shoes, wouldn’t she gape as well?

It was natural to wonder why the daughter of the founder of the very school they attended had to, one, pay tuition in the first place, and two, miss exams because she couldn’t afford it. It was unjust, yes, but mainly bizarre. She was the main attraction in this circus of an act in which students were summoned in the middle of taking an exam to stand in a long line of shame. It was all too third world. If she were back in the States, teachers would be severely reprimanded for mentioning that she had free lunch provided by taxpayers.

They were to either bring a check to the registrar or sign a promissory note. “I promise to pay X amount on X date.” Her classmates joked about that English word. “Promissory – it means I PROMISE I’ll pay; Sorry!” She didn’t even have a check to fidget with for the benefit of her peers.

Through most of this, she held her head high, intently studying the health advisory poster on the wall covered in a sheet of protective plastic.

Some of her peers couldn’t filter their reactions. “You have to pay?” What was worse were the reactions of the ones coming to her rescue. “She’s just like one of us.” What they meant was that she was down-to-earth, that she didn’t see herself as above them. But what she heard was an indictment. She heard that she was a fraud, carrying the founder’s name but not having the bank account to back it up.

The first time this happened, she thought it was a clerical error. Surely someone would catch it, or at least after she waited had waited in that excruciating line, they would see her and say, in a slightly panicked voice, “Oh, what happened? You weren’t supposed to be on the list!”

But when her turn came that first time, because she always waited her turn, never using her name to cut corners, skip lines, or —apparently— avoid paying tuition, the registrar saw her and, with a veiled expression, asked her to sign a promissory note, never once making eye contact.

That first day, she waited until she was home to start crying from shame and embarrassment, begging her Nanna to please pay her tuition on time. “Rice comes before tuition, Anak.” That word of endearment for a young child made her think of her father, a great man, rich in character and virtue but poor in silver. He had chosen a Spartan life for himself and, consequently, for his children.

After the promissory note was signed, the pink copy for her Nanna stuffed into her pocket before, she hoped, her peers could see, she made her way out of the registrar’s office, walking past everyone else still in line. She was careful not to run, but she still walked quickly to avoid having to stop and talk to anyone. She arrived back at her desk, where several of her classmates raised their heads before focusing their attention back on the exam.

She took her pencil and picked up where she left off. Now that her eyes were on her paper, she felt other classmates steal one last look at the founder’s daughter, back from delaying the payment of a debt.

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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