Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Flash Fiction: The Fruitcake by Cathy MacKenzie

December 15, 2016 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. As the year ends, we’ll focus on the topic of “Endings and New Beginnings.” In keeping with the December theme, a FRUITCAKE must also appear.

Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out her anthology, OUT OF THE CAVE, horror stories for 13+. Great for youth AND adults. Twenty-one stories by twenty-one authors. Available on Amazon and Smashwords. Makes a GREAT Christmas gift!

***

The Fruitcake

by Cathy MacKenzie

Barb often wished her life was better though she shouldn’t complain; life could definitely be worse. But, as every year, the approaching holidays depressed her.

The other day she wondered if she might be manic depressive or perhaps she suffered from SAD. SAD: what apropos initials. Had someone picked the words “seasonal affective disorder” on purpose?

No, she reconsidered; she wasn’t depressed due to illnesses, physical or mental. She simply suffered from loneliness, and the holidays made it doubly worse. And Nick, her wanna-be boyfriend, didn’t cut it. She felt lonelier with him than without. She sighed and ran her fingers through her unruly hair.

She needed more—more than Nick could give her. What that “more” entailed, she wasn’t sure, but with the year soon ending, she had made up her mind: Nick would be history before the start of the new year.

And speak of the devil: there he was, the fruitcake himself. On her doorstep!

“Hey, Nick.”

“Hello, gorgeous.”

She loved that he thought her attractive, but he was a nerd—and a dumb one at that. Thus his name though she’d never used it to his face. She wasn’t that nasty! “You been stalking me?”

His face fell. “Of course not. Just waiting for you to come home.”

She eyed the gift-wrapped package under his arm. No, not a present. Looking at it spurred her on. She must let him down gently before Christmas—not after. She wouldn’t waiver this time.

He thrust the gaily wrapped package at her. “Here.”

“For me?” Why am I acting surprised? she wondered. ‘Cause that’s what females do. But I am surprised, just not in a good way.

“It’s nothing much. I’ve been sensing you’re down lately. Thought this might cheer you up.”

“Do I open it now?”

“Yes. It’s not a Christmas present. Just a cheering up gift.” He giggled.

She must get rid of him, sooner than later. Despite that, she dug into the small but somewhat heavy, rectangular package, ripping off paper like an eager child.

She stared. Stunned. “What’s this?” What a stupid question. Of course she knew what it was. Who wouldn’t? Fruitcake!

***

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: Grimm’s Grimmest

December 12, 2016 No comments

I’d always heard that Grimm’s Fairytales were much more gruesome than the popular Disney versions. I bought this book a while ago and finally picked it up to read. Its introduction is written my Maria Tatar, and it features the illustrations of Tracy Arah Dockray. The book itself is based on the stories told to the brothers Grimm.

moon1If you’ve followed my blog or my writings, you know that I enjoy dark tales, and these are certainly dark. For example, there’s a version of the tale we know commonly as “Cinderella,” but in this version, the evil stepsisters cut off parts of their feet in an attempt to fit into the shoes. There is a tale of a mother-in-law who tries to eat her grandsons and daughter-in-law, tales of people coming back to life, curing blindness, and tricking spouses.

They certainly are grim tales: tales of murder, illness, deceit, death, incest. What I found most interesting is the themes running through many. Those characters singled out to experience some bit of otherworldliness are never completely normal afterwards: they are either lucky, well-behaved, or evil. In any case, exposure to an otherworldly force makes them extraordinary in some way.

I found it interesting, too, just how many stories featured people able to come back from death, or heal the dead, or find some balm or charm to bring someone back, or cure blindness or grow back missing body parts. In some ways these stories remind me of practices of ancient Egypt, in which the dead had to be prepared just a certain way in preparation for what comes next. Given that religions of the world focus on this topic as well, I supposed curiosity about life after death has always been on our collective mind.

As freedom is a theme I strongly favor, I found it fascinating that so many of the stories feature a king, or someone in a similar position of power, who could simply make decrees and cause things to be so. I wondered at the fact that in so many of these tales, the only way to right injustice is to seek the order of someone in higher power, or use one’s wit to outsmart the offender. So many of these tales have as their crux the decree or promise of a king. I don’t recall a tale in which someone lacking power decided to rise up and fight the injustice of the system. Rather, as the introduction informs us, these tales were likely told around fires to give people breaks from their ordinary lives of tedious chores.

Despite the grim content, however, they are still told as fairy tales, so even if matter is dark, words are sparse. The tales lack the luscious detail that would otherwise raise the maturity rating on the book. They’re tales best savored one at a time. It would be a good book to leave on a nightstand or read while in a waiting room since each tale is short enough to read in one sitting.

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Fantastic Friday (on a Sunday): Music and Time Travel

December 11, 2016 No comments

I’m excited to announce the official release of my latest novel, The Man with the Crystal Ankh.

It’s about a high school student who discovers a hidden talent while playing the violin: by letting her mind relax with her music, she opens herself to be contacted by the troubled spirit of a late, beloved custodian in need of assistance. In the paranormal adventure, she learns that the residents of Hollow Oak have ties that run back generations—some more sinister than others.

crystal-ankh-200x300It’s the first in a trilogy, inspired by the important role music had in my life during high school. When I first picked up the violin in third grade, I felt an immediate sense of magic. From the smell of the rosin to the shiny varnish on the wooden instrument, everything about it made me feel connected to all those who had played the instrument before. When I dragged the bow across the string and produced my first raspy notes—and then watched as my violin instructor created beauty from that same instrument, I knew I had much to learn. But that was the magic of it.

When I learned to play classical music in middle and high school, I experienced awe. I’ve always been fascinated by time travel and the possibilities imagined by HG Wells and Back to the Future and Doctor Who. As I played a Vivaldi piece, I realized I was playing a piece from the 1700s. It was written by someone long since dead, and yet nearly three hundred years later, a group of people Vivaldi never met—probably never could have imagined—were coordinating efforts to reproduce a melody the composer heard in his head.

I realized then that art—music, writing, and visual art—was truly a gift to man. We are given a finite time on earth, but through our talents, we are able to create that which lasts beyond generations.

That idea gave rise to a premise in The Man with the Crystal Ankh. What if someone wasn’t satisfied with leaving behind a legacy or children, or music, or art, or deeds? What if someone wanted to extend his actual life beyond what was natural?

And so that’s what I pitted Sarah Durante up against in The Man with the Crystal Ankh. Using her talent of music, she has a chance to peek into the most sinister intentions of a human soul, and see if her good intentions and hope is enough to prevent his evil deeds.

Kindle edition available: just $3.99

Paperback version now available: Amazon.com

books, Fantastic Friday none

Flash Fiction: Goodbye by Val Muller

December 8, 2016 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month: As the year ends, we’ll focus on the topic of Endings and New Beginnings. Keeping with the December theme, a fruitcake must also appear somewhere in your story.

Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the YA reboot The Scarred Letter. Also check out her new YA novel The Man with the Crystal Ankh, releasing on December 12.

Goodbye

by Val Muller

The soft sounds of snoring carried over the crackling fire, and Elenore glanced over her family. Jill and Michael slumped together in the love seat, the contents of their empty wine glasses ruddying their cheeks. On the floor in front of the fire, Megan dozed in the sleepy embrace of her new fiancé. Her diamond ring sparkled against the flames, and their four-month old snoozed next to them in his bouncy chair. His chubby cheeks drew up into a smile as if he knew that his parents’ Christmas engagement was something to celebrate. And Michael Junior was asleep in the beanbag chair, the screen of his hand-held gaming toy turning his face orange and green and blue.

Next to each, an uneaten slice of fruitcake. It had been her mother’s tradition for years, a tradition Elenore kept when she made her home. Except her homemade fruitcake had been delicious. Jill—busy, busy Jill—had bought it from the store. A hard brick of a cake. Elenore had pretended not to hear the groans, especially from Michel Junior, about the outdated tradition. Family these days had outgrown such things. And so the slices would be deposited into the trash after Elenore was collected again for the Home.

And Elenore? She shifted in her wheelchair, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. She never thought she’d live to be a great-grandmother, but there she was, thrice blessed, and for four whole months now. Jonathan Thomas would have loved the little babe. In fact, she saw her husband’s glow in the little tyke’s eyes.

She glanced around the room at the typical post-Christmas mess. The wrapping paper balls, the tangled ribbons, the half-strewn trash bags. Elenore wished she could tidy up for them. Always so much for the young to do. If only she could help. But these old bones were all but useless.

“Can’t be walking around anymore,” the doctor had said. Old bones can’t handle it. So brittle they might snap. It’s why they installed the wheelchair alarm, to alert the nurses at the Home in the event that Elenore tried to go out walking again. Terrible shrieking contraption, that. Scared the living daylights out of her the first time it went off.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her diaper had needed changing for an hour now, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to bother Jill about it. She’d just wait ‘til the van from the Home came for her.

That was her life now, anyway. Waiting. What was another hour? She glanced at the sparkling bag dangling over her arm rest. What gift had they given her again? Was it a necklace? A candle? Maybe that was last year. She couldn’t remember anymore. She had no use for gifts, anyway. Even for the gift of time. All she wanted lived in memory.

The day darkened to twilight, and she glanced out the sliding glass door, enjoying the rare moment. The nurses at the Home always pulled the shades tight by 4 p.m. They said the residents went a little crazy at twilight, sundowning with the day. They said twilight was the most dangerous time for people in the Home. Best they slipped into nighttime unknowingly, peacefully.

Like dying in one’s sleep.

But it was a silly superstition. Nothing odd or upsetting about the sun going down. Elenore smiled at the reflection in the glass against the setting sun. Those eyes.

I missed those eyes.

Jonathan Thomas stood tall, his shoulders as broad as ever. He motioned for her.

What, me? Go outside in the snow at this time of day?

“It’s the best time,” he answered. “The moon’s out here on the north side. Come see. I’ll keep you warm.”

She struggled against the rubber lap desk they’d stuck in her wheelchair. It was meant to hold her in place, since the alarm didn’t seem to do the trick. Nasty thing, that lap desk. Near impossible to remove. Not from a seated position. Not with brittle bones. Maybe Michael Junior would help.

“No.” Jonathan Thomas shook his head. “Let the boy sleep. Come. Just you.”

She glanced around. Everyone was still snoring. No sense waking them. Maybe Jonathan Thomas was right. Maybe it was time for a new adventure.

The glass door slid smoothly open, almost as if it were made of gossamer strands of moonlight. Her legs felt strong again, and her feet crunched easily through the snow. She’d forgotten what it was to stand, and she nearly stumbled, but J.T. was there to catch her.

I missed your eyes.

“I know,” he said.

She took a step out to the yard, but J.T. stayed put. “You sure you’re ready?” he asked. “This is it.”

She turned around. This time, she looked the other way through the glass at the warm orange glow surrounding her sleeping family—her daughter and son-in-law, her grandson and granddaughter, her grandson-in-law and their child, all sleeping. And there in the corner, finally seeming at peace in the wheelchair, was someone who looked the way she looked once, her skin sagging with the years, her hair wispy and white. That couldn’t be her, could it? Not her her.

No, best leave her be. That Elenore lived a thousand eternities ago. That Elenore wasn’t her, not truly. Best leave her be, then. She was sleeping now.

As for Elenore, the real Elenore, she grasped J.T.’s hand and turned toward the beautiful moonlight, and they started out together.

Another adventure awaited.

*

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: My Spirit Animal

December 2, 2016 No comments

A few years ago, I went on a trip to Sedona, Arizona. We went for the hiking, but the location attracts many people in search of spiritual guidance and is a beacon of “New Age” trends. As a result, we encountered many brochures about spiritual journeys. One of those was a promise to help one find one’s spirit animal.

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A view of Sedona, Arizona.

I didn’t take advantage of the offer, but I wondered: what is my spirit animal? Everything I’d read (assuming we have a spirit animal, of course) suggested that this was something we would “just know.” When we encountered it, we would know it. I ruminated, and I concluded that my spirit animal must be a dragonfly. After all, I constantly wear a dragonfly necklace—or at least I did until my baby broke it—and my husband and I have a cool story about a blue dragonfly that anchors our relationship.

But I didn’t feel an epiphany about it. I shrugged off the matter and forgot about it in the grand scheme of life.

Until a dream a couple of weeks back.

In my dream, I was in the house I grew up in as a child, though I remained the full-grown adult that I am now. I looked out the window to see that it was snowing. “Just as I feared,” I muttered.

(Anyone who knows me or knows the story of my daughter’s blizzard arrival knows just how passionately I dislike snow.)

For some reason, I went outside in the snow. I wasn’t dressed for it, and even as I was walking outside I feared I would be cold, especially when I touched the snow with my hands, as I knew I would. I walked to a tree—one of my favorite trees from childhood, one I used to climb and examine for caterpillars and the like. Under the tree was a snow drift, and I bent down to put my hand in it.

It was then that I saw—it wasn’t snow at all, but flower petals, the kind that fall in the cherry blossom festival. But these were snow-white in color, like pear tree flowers. I assumed they were falling from the trees, but like so many of my dreams, I was not allowed to see the whole portion of the landscape. In so many dreams I have, most of the scene is hidden from me like a darkened studio, and the things I’m “supposed” to see are highlighted almost by spotlight. So the sky and the tops of the trees were dark. I could see only the snow—rather, flower petals—and the tree trunks.

My joy at the discovery of anti-snow was stifled by the fact that it wasn’t actually a snow drift I was putting my hand into. It was a snow leopard hiding underneath the flower petals. In my dream, I pulled my hand back.

A voice—or several, the same voices that always talk to me in dreams—told me to keep petting the leopard.

Illustration courtesy of Shelly (https://www.sketchport.com/drawing/4940029541482496/snow-leopard) via Creative Commons license.

Illustration courtesy of Shelly (https://www.sketchport.com/drawing/4940029541482496/snow-leopard) via Creative Commons license.

“It’s going to kill me,” I said.

The voices responded. “It won’t. It’s your spirit animal.”

I took their word as truth and reached closer to the leopard, stroking its muzzle. It was comforted by my touch, and I kept at it. Then I looked down and saw that my footprints had ruined the soft blanket of petals on the ground. The leopard told me—not in words, but just through its glance—that I was to cover it back up in petals because it was hiding for now. I did so, and I replaced the petals so that it looked pristine, once again like freshly-fallen snow. I carefully backed my way through the yard, covering my tracks until I reached the porch to my family’s old house.

It was then that I giggled. I realized that I was hiding a secret—that the world would wake up and think that snow had fallen, but really, it was petals. Instead of the cold of winter, they would experience the warmth of spring.

I don’t know how the leopard figures in, or why it was hiding. But the feeling was comforting nonetheless.

A quick search on the Internet revealed several sites that claim the snow leopard as a spirit animal is a symbol of silence and intuition. This is interesting to me because I embrace both. I’ve always been silent, preferring to watch and observe, making calculated actions only after considering possibilities. But at the same time, I’ve relied on intuition in addition to that calculation to lead my decisions. “Gut feelings” for me have always been right. In fact, the research reminded me of the life-changing dream I had in which I was told (by those same voices in the dream) that I should trust my intuition to do my job and continue my career as a writer.

I’m not sure how to interpret the message of the threat of snow turning out to be a beautiful blessing of spring. “The Internets” tell me that in the spirit of a snow leopard, I should trust in what cannot be seen and have confidence that silence and patience will eventually reveal the eternal truth. In the dream, that truth was positive, if elusive, and I look forward to discovering what it is.

 

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Flash Fiction: A Terrifying Television

December 1, 2016 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to use the following five words in a writing: marble, TV, evil, butcher, couch. 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. CaraMarie is also hoping to share a new marketing project coming up with Kindle Worlds! *Knock on wood!*

A Terrifying Television

By CaraMarie Christy

It was the clearest thing in the world, in the mind of two-year-old Colleen Cuellar, that the TV was a horrendous, deadly trap worse than any timeout imaginable. People walked in and out of the box, summoned by a black wand that was often lost in the cushions of the Cuellar’s red couch, and then disappeared into nothing whenever the wand demanded. If she stood too close to the TV, Colleen was sure she would be sucked in, and never let back out. It had happened to Elmo. One day she had been playing with her red friend and the next he was inside the box, singing a song about “Elmo’s World”, and she could not find him anywhere, despite knowing she had left him next to the coffee table the day before.

That was what the TV was then. A monster, that could butcher people and then leave no trace of them behind. Their bodies were shrunk down for this reason, until they were almost smaller than Colleen. People were not supposed to be her size, she was sure. People were supposed to be large, loping creatures, with hands the size of her face. They were supposed to eat big foods at the grown-ups table and talk about cars. And something called an “I-95”. Colleen had a car, a very nice car with big, red wheels.

A crackling noise rang from the TV, the signal that her bubble-gum-chewing “babysitter”, as the people called her, had woken it up. Colleen chucked her car across the living room and screamed. In her fascination with her own car, she had forgotten all about the people eating box. For a moment, she watched it, glowing across the room, showing a small dog on its way to a summer camp. And then the dog was gone. It was replaced by two people holding hands and chewing gum. The dog would never come back.

Colleen had to act.

There were few places to run and even fewer places to hide, that weren’t covered in giant, white locks. Desperate, she crawled as hard as she could away from the babysitter, hoping to stay low to the marble in the kitchen long enough to avoid detection and get to the dog’s crate. He would help her, despite his own captivity whenever the babysitter was around. Slowly, she made her way toward the black wires where his snores were emitting. She could not run. The rustling of her diaper would alert her pink haired caretaker to her escape attempts.

But, even without a rustling diaper, the babysitter noticed before Colleen could reach safety. The big girl’s feet thumped against the living room carpet as she got up from the couch. Just as Colleen’s fist was around the lock to the dog’s crate, Katie wrapped her arms around her waist and hauled her up into the sky. They were back in the living room before Colleen could bite her captor. The evil babysitter didn’t understand the danger that they were in and Colleen didn’t like her enough to try and save her. Colleen’s struggle was only for herself and it went on for hours. She crawled, ran, and even rolled, but she could never make it far enough to open the dog’s cage.

A knock at the door signaled a break for Colleen. She was exhausted, so she curled into a ball at the far side of the living room, next to her play pen, and stared at the TV, daring it to try and eat her at such great a distance.

“She’s got a lot of energy today,” moaned the babysitter as she let in Mr. and Mrs. Cuellar. They dropped their coats over the couch. “She keeps trying to get to the kitchen and play with the dog. And she’s starting to get fast at it, too.”

The corners of Mrs. Cuellar’s eyes wrinkled. “Have you seen the video we got of Collie’s first steps? I don’t think she ever could walk. She just runs.” Mrs. Cuellar picked up Colleen and patted her head. “Here, I think the disc is in the DVD player already. We were showing it to the Beasleys. It’s pretty funny to watch.”

The crackling noise made Colleen clutch to her mother’s blouse. Every bit of her wanted to stay there, to never look at the monster in the living room, but the big people were all staring intently at the box. With one eye, she peeked, then shrank back into her mother at what she saw.

She was in the box, running toward the marble in the kitchen, just as she had been doing earlier. She could see herself running on the screen, her diaper swooshing, feet slapping the marble, but she couldn’t feel herself moving at all. The box had her. It would never let her out. Maybe it had always had her.

Colleen wailed.

 

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: Thankful (Part 2)

November 25, 2016 No comments

I forgot to post this on Friday, so please excuse the tardiness.

After a long weekend of visiting family, I wanted to highlight the simple joys of being together. As an introvert, I can’t help but admit my desire for solitude. But family—blood or adopted—provides a level of comfort that comforts even an introvert.

Whether it’s enjoying a family toast that has become a tradition many-generations long, or introducing a new member of the family to everyone else, there’s something comforting about the ritual of family and celebrations.

While growing up, there were several years during which I was assigned to put the lights on the tree. It’s one of those situations where one is “rewarded” for being good at something by being asked to do it more and more. My dad even jokingly called me Martha Stewart because of the way I string lights. Last year, my parents mentioned that they were going to replace the lights on their artificial tree with LED ones that don’t get hot. Last year, before knowing how exhausting a baby would be, I promised to put 015the lights up for them as an early present.

This year, I held myself to the task (even though they didn’t). It didn’t take that long, and it brought back memories of stringing lights as a teenager. In the meantime, my parents got to reminisce about the way I used to play with kitchen utensils and measuring cups as my daughter played with the same things I did right out of their kitchen drawers.

Now, the tree is lit—and hopefully will stay that way for years, overseeing many more memories. While an introvert is motivated by goals and hard work to attain them, sometimes the greatest motivator is to make sure to appear in the year’s “group toast” photo—or capture the perfect smile of a ten-month old discovering glowing LED lights or really cool orange measuring cups.

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crystal-ankh-200x300I’m also thankful for the release of my most recent novel, The Man with the Crystal Ankh. 

You can view my author page over at World Castle Publishing or check out the preorder link at Amazon.com.

I wrote it based on my love for the violin and my love of spooky things–especially the spooky atmosphere of New England in the fall.

Everyone’s heard the legend of the hollow oak—the four-hundred year curse of Sarah Willoughby and Preston Grymes. Few realize how true it is.

Sarah Durante awakens to find herself haunted by the spirit of her high school’s late custodian. After the death of his granddaughter, Custodian Carlton Gray is not at peace. He suspects a sanguisuga is involved—an ancient force that prolongs its own life by consuming the spirits of others. Now, the sanguisuga needs another life to feed its rotten existence, and Carlton wants to spare others from the suffering his granddaughter endured. That’s where Sarah comes in. Carlton helps her understand that she comes from a lineage of ancestors with the ability to communicate with the dead. As Sarah hones her skill through music, she discovers that the bloodlines of Hollow Oak run deep. The sanguisuga is someone close, and only she has the power to stop it.

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Flash Fiction: Reaching by Dorothy Colinco

November 24, 2016 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to use the following five words in a writing: marble, TV, evil, butcher, couch.

This week’s post comes from Dorothy Colinco, a new member of the Spot Writers. Visit her new blog for flash fiction, short stories, and book-related news. Stay tuned for a Holiday Gift Guide that will be shared in early December!

Reaching

By Dorothy Colinco

She recognized a backhanded compliment when she heard one. As hard as Ms. Wang tried to couch her criticism in her fake, cloying, positive, growth-mindset crap, Vivienne detected the undercurrent of disapproval in the written comments on her essay.

“Insightful comment – why do you think the author made this stylistic choice? I’d be interested in your interpretation.”

Which basically translated to: “You didn’t explain this enough, and it’s clear you know nothing about analysis; otherwise, you would’ve expressed it here. Nice try, genius.”

Vivienne looked up at Ms. Wang, who was standing in front of the room, leaning on her desk in a pose that was supposed to emit an air of ease and nonchalance but only made her muffin top more pronounced. Her eyes flitted down at Ms. Wang’s tights. Her outfits, on the surface, were well put together, but Vivienne knew to look for the short white dog hairs. When she saw those tiny flecks of imperfection sticking out of the “hip” teacher’s tights, a slight grin of satisfaction spread over her mouth. She glanced up and found Ms. Wang smiling at her with eager eyes, that stupid look that was supposed to be encouraging and warm. Vivienne returned the look with a smile that flashed her porcelain teeth, but her eyes remained as cold and hard as marble.

Wang. Fang. Bang. Hang. Dang, girl! Sang. Tang. Yin and Yang. Vivienne butchered her name a hundred times before the bell rang. RANG. The whole time, Ms. Wang walked around the room, spouting something about themes in the book they just read, but Vivienne didn’t hear a word, as if Ms. Wang was a muted TV, a mere backdrop to Vivienne’s thoughts.

As everyone stood to pack up and leave, Vivienne glanced at the essay, splotches of green in the margins, green instead of red to promote conversation rather than criticism, another one of Ms. Wang’s positivity gimmicks. Vivienne didn’t think green was any more positive than red. If anything, green symbolized evil.

She was about to cram the stapled pages into her backpack, but at the last moment, she decided to leave it on her desk – a silent protest. A “positive” protest against cold criticism in the form of rhetorical questions disguised as conversation starters.

She rushed past her brownnoser classmates who were all wishing Ms. Wang a great weekend. She hoped Ms. Wang would notice that she left without a word.

—-

After the students had all left, Ms. Wang took a deep sigh of contentment. What a great class. The lesson was a huge success. The pacing was perfect. The kids were so invested in the warmup writing assignment. She reflected on the day as she went around the room aligning chairs with the tiles on the floor. She would stop by the guidance office today to check in on a student who had been absent for two days now.

She came across an essay that was left on a desk. It was Vivienne’s. Ms. Wang smiled at the thought of the bright girl, a promising writer. Hers had been the most insightful essay in not just this class but the whole grade. She recalled Vivienne during class today. Deep in thought, nodding her head along with the discussion of themes in a literary work. That was a student who got it – who understood that literature was about more than just enjoying or not enjoying a book. She saw the lightbulb go off in Vivienne’s head when she told the class today, “Literature holds a mirror up to humanity and reflects back to us who we really are.”

Those were the moments she lived for. Vivienne would want this masterpiece back. Ms. Wang tucked the essay into a folder on her desk, but not before clutching it to chest. It was a physical manifestation of her hard work and dedication. Everyone knew that teachers weren’t paid well, at least not in dollars. But they were paid in moments like this, moments that reminded them of their meaningful work. The dreaded first year hadn’t been bad at all so far. She was doing it. She was reaching these kids.

 

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

Writer Wednesday: Appreciating Moments

November 23, 2016 No comments

Writing can be therapeutic, and I love when I can weave in my love for teaching writing with observations about life.

As a teacher, I can vouch for the fact that on the day before Thanksgiving (or any) break, “the struggle is real.” Students are filled with anticipation, eagerly awaiting their plans for break. As part of my creative writing class, I had students write a lai (http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/lai-poetic-forms) as a warmup. Since it’s difficult to manage both rhyme and syllables (while still making sense), I wrote a model for them. I wrote about the topic on everyone’s mind: the speed with which the school day was progressing:

What can teachers say

About the longest Tuesday

Of school?

Vacation just may

Show like the sun’s ray,

A pool

Of rest, sleep, and play.

But Time makes us pay:

Slow fool!

It’s not my best work, but it got the point across using the required structure. The students seem to agree with the sentiment: Time moves so slowly when we are eagerly awaiting something. But I always cringe at this outlook. So many people seem to live their lives in anticipation of something. We come into work on Monday groaning about how it’s five days until the weekend. We count off the days until the next holiday.

We don’t realize that we’re wishing our lives away.

Adjusting to life with a baby has not been easy. There is a never-ending line of chores to be done, looking something like this:

Clean kitchen table

Put baby at table to eat

Start load of laundry

Watch baby fling food at table

Clean table again

Wash bottles

Wipe down sink

Give baby a fresh bottle

Watch her spill it on clean shirt

Put dirty bottle in sink

Put dirty shirt in empty laundry basket

Dress baby (wrestle a crocodile)

Plan outing (probably to get groceries, gas, or supplies)

Get baby into car seat (wrestle a crocodile)

Smell dirty diaper

Take baby out of car seat

Wrestle crocodile, etc.

Let baby play in just diaper

Give up on outing

Put baby at seat near kitchen table

Repeat.

If I had to look forward to something, what would I be looking forward to? There are always going to be bottles (or sippy cups, or dishes) to clean, diapers to change (or laundry to wash, a few years down the line). There is always going to be a mess to clean up or a table that isn’t quite spotless. What perfect moment could I be possibly waiting for?

If I’m awaiting a quiet moment and a clean home, I might as well wish away the next 18 years and wish my daughter to college already.

This is obviously not the case.

But life with a baby has heightened my appreciation for living in the moment. We are never promised a tomorrow. If we live wishing for something, we are essentially wishing away all the time between now and then.

So I have started living like a writer. I live in moments, observing the little things that make life what it is. The smudge of avocado on baby’s pudgy cheeks as she smiles and sings. The way the dog sits under her high chair to scarf up whatever she drops. The way the neatly-stacked mail cascades gently down the couch as baby pulls it over. Ha! The way her eyes light up when she sees a bird dash from one tree to the next.

The way a fleece jacket feels when the heater isn’t quite working right: the weight of it, the warmth. A pair of new sneakers that make me feel like I’m walking on clouds.

And instead of focusing on the unending pile of laundry and wondering when it will be done, I marvel at how far we’ve come from grueling hand-washing by the river to a virtual pushing of a button. Instead of wondering when I’ll ever get to enjoy a quiet meal out, I instead marvel at the ease with which I can push “preheat” on my oven and enjoy a meal within the hour.

There are so many amazing moments in a day. Yes, Thanksgiving is coming, and so is Christmas. But there are countless moments between now and then, just waiting to be savored and captured on the blank page and in the open mind.

Icrystal-ankh-200x300‘m excited about an upcoming moment–the release of my latest young adult novel, The Man with the Crystal Ankh. 

You can view my author page over at World Castle Publishing or check out the preorder link at Amazon.com.

I wrote it based on my love for the violin and my love of spooky things–especially the spooky atmosphere of New England in the fall.

Everyone’s heard the legend of the hollow oak—the four-hundred year curse of Sarah Willoughby and Preston Grymes. Few realize how true it is.

Sarah Durante awakens to find herself haunted by the spirit of her high school’s late custodian. After the death of his granddaughter, Custodian Carlton Gray is not at peace. He suspects a sanguisuga is involved—an ancient force that prolongs its own life by consuming the spirits of others. Now, the sanguisuga needs another life to feed its rotten existence, and Carlton wants to spare others from the suffering his granddaughter endured. That’s where Sarah comes in. Carlton helps her understand that she comes from a lineage of ancestors with the ability to communicate with the dead. As Sarah hones her skill through music, she discovers that the bloodlines of Hollow Oak run deep. The sanguisuga is someone close, and only she has the power to stop it.

 

 

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Fantastic Friday: Thankful (part 1)

November 18, 2016 No comments

Despite the negativity floating around the Internet after the presidential election, I am glad to see so many people celebrating “Thirty Days of Thankful.” The point is to use the month of November to recognize thirty things we are thankful for. It’s so easy to take our lives for granted, and although negativity and positivity are both contagious, it seems that negativity is much more virulent.

Though the “Thirty Days of Thankful” is meant often for people to post on social media or blogs, it can easily be a solitary, contemplative activity to help individuals focus on and recognize all the good in their lives.

After being sick several times this month, I am jumping back into my Fantastic Friday posts with two ideas I wanted to share about spreading the love. While there are so many other things I am personally thankful for, I wanted to start with some broader topics that could apply to many—and both contain ideas about how to spread the love.

Veterans Day (belated)

I was overcoming a mini plague last Friday and neglected to post about Veterans Day. The fact that fellow human beings are willing to disrupt their lives and give up some of their autonomy—and recognize that they could be making the ultimate sacrifice for others—is enough to restore anyone’s faith in humanity.am-flag-thank-you

In one of the classes I teach, we were swapping stories about relatives we have and had who fought in WWII and Vietnam and the ways those experience changed them and brought about challenges in living their day-to-day lives after coming home. I have seen these effects in neighbors and friends much more recently than Vietnam. Those who served in the name of freedom have indeed paid a price, even if they returned physically intact. I do not think this country does nearly enough for our veterans.

With the holidays approaching, I have seen various posts circulating around the Internet encouraging people to send cards, postcards, and care packages to veterans and active servicepersons recovering from injury. Although I don’t want to endorse one organization over another (and any you choose to support should be researched thoroughly), a quick Google search will show you a plethora of organizations and locations to send your packages and cards. Though it’s not even close in magnitude to the thanks veterans are owed, it’s a small way we can acknowledge their contributions.

Countdown to Christmas

IMG_8040Every year I cringe in seeing the strange ways parents use Elf on the Shelf to encourage good behavior in their children. With a child of my own, I’m not sure I want to go down that psychological path. However, I did see an idea that I do want to start with my family: each day in December, collect one food item, and on Christmas Eve, donate the whole box to a local shelter. The season is all about giving and sharing love, and this is a fun way to “count down the days” while building up fellow man.

The same can be achieved with the “angel” trees some stores feature, in which children in need write wish lists, and individuals or families can “adopt” the wish list, purchase gifts, and help make that child’s holiday just a little better that year. It’s this type of thoughtfulness that has the power to spread love. And in a world that seems so eager to spread hatred, the words of Martin Luther King, Jr., seem to resonate best: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

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