Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

A middle grade mystery/adventure, The City of Ember follows Lina and Doon, two children who live in an underground city called Ember. Throughout the story, things in Ember are bleak—and getting bleaker. There are huge storerooms full of supplies like canned goods and lightbulbs, but those are depleting rapidly. Stores are only open on certain days of the week, and they often close early because they have nothing to sell. It’s clear that Ember is a dying city: there is nothing being produced.

Throughout the course of the story, Lina and Doon are assigned their jobs—messenger for the city and worker in the pipeworks. At the same time, Lina discovers a mysterious note hidden in her ailing grandmother’s supplies. Lina and Doon work to find allies and expose the mayor and others who are hoarding supplies. But more important than that, they have to solve a mystery that could lead the people of Ember out of the dying city.

The problem is that everything in the city seems designed to prohibit critical thinking skills and discourage curiosity. Jobs are assigned; workers take shortcuts to find time to play silly games or gossip; no books exist, only things written by residents of Ember who have no clue what they are really talking about. Moreover, everyone is more concerned about the frequent blackouts than finding out what the actual problem is. By the end of the story, many citizens are left cowering in their homes.

The book is meant for middle grade readers, so some of the clues are repeated, but this is just the sort of book I would have loved in elementary and early middle school. The tension in the book continues to be strong throughout, making it a page turner. It’s the first in a series, and I could definitely see young readers pestering their parents to acquire a copy of the next book in the series as soon as possible!

All in all, a fun read.

So, of course my “to be read” (TBR) pile is still high, but I couldn’t help asking for just a few books this holiday. For today’s Fantastic Friday, I want to share the new additions to my TBR pile (and explain what I’m excited about).

Pre-baby, my goal was to read one book per week. Now, I’ll be happy (for now) with two books per month. We’ll see if I can exceed that goal, since she seems to be sleeping better (knock on wood!).

Mechanica (Betsy Cornwell)

20161230_153936-1Blurb: Nicolette’s awful stepsisters call her “Mechanica” to demean her, but the nickname fits: she learned to be an inventor at her mother’s knee. Her mom is gone now, though, and the Steps have pushed her into a life of dreary servitude. When she discovers a secret workshop in the cellar on her sixteenth birthday—and befriends Jules, a tiny magical metal horse—Nicolette starts to imagine a new life for herself. And the timing may be perfect: There’s a technological exposition and a royal ball on the horizon. Determined to invent her own happily-ever-after, Mechanica seeks to wow the prince and eager entrepreneurs alike.

Why? I’ve been tossing ideas around in my head for a middle-grade novel involving a female inventor, and I’d like to see what’s already out there. I’m currently polishing up a YA sci-fi to the same effect, but less steampunkish. Can’t wait to get lost in this world.

Julie of the Wolves (Jean Craighead George)

20161230_153944-1Blurb: To her small Eskimo village, she is known as Miyax; to her friend in San Francisco, she is Julie. When her life in the village becomes dangerous, Miyax runs away, only to find herself lost in the Alaskan wilderness.

Miyax tries to survive by copying the ways of a pack of wolves and soon grows to love her new wolf family. Life in the wilderness is a struggle, but when she finds her way back to civilization, Miyax is torn between her old and new lives. Is she Miyax of the Eskimos—or Julie of the wolves?

Why? First of all, because I managed to make it through childhood without reading this one. Secondly, I like to weave into my stories elements of society versus wilderness and characters finding their places within these two realms.

20161230_153917-1An Ember in the Ashes (Sabaa Tahir)

Blurb: Under the Martial Empire, defiance is met with death. Those who do not vow their blood and bodies to the Emperor risk the execution of their loved ones and the destruction of all they hold dear.

It is in this brutal world, inspired by ancient Rome, that Laia lives with her grandparents and older brother. The family ekes out an existence in the Empire’s impoverished backstreets. They do not challenge the Empire. They’ve seen what happens to those who do.

But when Laia’s brother is arrested for treason, Laia is forced to make a decision. In exchange for help from rebels who promise to rescue her brother, she will risk her life to spy for them from within the Empire’s greatest military academy.

There, Laia meets Elias, the school’s finest soldier—and secretly, its most unwilling. Elias wants only to be free of the tyranny he’s being trained to enforce. He and Laia will soon realize that their destinies are intertwined—and that their choices will change the fate of the Empire itself.

Why? I’ve heard so many recommendations for this book that I used one of my gift cards on it. I was intrigued by the fact that it is inspired by ancient Rome. I must admit that my scifi YA work-in-progress is partly inspired by the gladiator games.

20161230_153953-1Shadows of the Dark Crystal (JM Lee)

Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal: Shadows of the Dark Crystal is set years before the events of the classic film and follows the journey of a young Gelfling woman who leaves her secluded home to uncover the truth surrounding the disappearance of her brother who has been accused of treason by the sinister Skeksis Lords.

Why? I was obsessed with The Dark Crystal when I was a kid. I seriously think I may have watched it every day of the summer–or at least every week–for several years of my life. How could I not put this on my wish list once I learned of its existence? My favorite story about The Dark Crystal? One of the characters, a gelfling, reveals that girl gelflings have wings. As a kid, I checked the mirror every day to see if I had sprouted mine yet.

20161230_154008-1Time Lord Fairy Tales (various)

Blurb: An ancient, illustrated collection of dark and captivating fairytales about heroes and monsters from across the Whouniverse, originally told to young Time Lords at bedtime.

Doctor Who is my favorite TV show. This is a book of fairy tales inspired by that universe. Why not?

 

 

 

The Bleak December (Kevin G Summers)

Blurb: The old timers knew it was going to be a bad winter, but no one could have predicted it would be this bad. A supernatural storm has fallen on New Hampshire and a cult leader is whipping the people of the Granite State into a frenzy. Now a handful of rugged folk from the North Country are all that stand between a tyrant and his plans for dominion. Snow is piling in the Great North Woods and the dead walk among the trees. Beware the winter wasteland.

Why? 1. Winter to me is basically death, so winter and horror naturally go together for me. 2. Kevin Summers was a mentor of mine early on in my adult writing career. I have not been disappointed by his writing. 3. I got a new Kindle Fire for Christmas and was excited to download a book for it!

20161230_153923-1And finally…

Yes, it’s a Doctor Who coloring book. For those times when my brain is too tired to function but my mind wants to engage in something subconscious. I like to keep my hands busy. And Doctor Who, of course. When I was pregnant, I had trouble focusing enough to write, but I felt a strong pull of art as I returned to my drawing days. I requested this book as a gift for those types of situations–to stave off writer’s block and free my mind for another bout of writing.

 

Happy New Year, and Happy Reading!

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to focus on ending and new beginnings. The story must also feature a fruitcake! This week’s story comes from CaraMarie Christy, marketing intern for Alex Westmore and author of Fairies Fly. Check out her blog for writing samples and great short stories by the Spot Writers!

The Perfect Christmas Present

“Yes, I’d like to get everybody a little something for Christmas, but I don’t know if I can get them exactly what they’ve always wanted, mom,” says the petite, attractive, mid-forties blonde, sipping on her Starbucks latte, while I ring up her items. It’s a bit of a pet peeve for cashiers, when the person they’re ringing isn’t paying attention to them. It often leads to an un-bagged loaf of bread or a double scanned can of corn, but I don’t mind. Saves me the trouble of having to make conversation and I’m not some run of the mill seasonal associate. I’m not going to mess up. Her items are all what I would figure from a woman in early December, a handful of gift baskets featuring cocoa, a Barbie for some niece she barely knows, a makeup set for an ugly aunt… But at the end of the conveyor belt of boring items, Ms. Typical has something that, the more I look at it, is beginning to pique my interest. The woman on the other end of her call snaps at my customer and she barks back, “I can’t get everyone exactly what they want. Because some people want a bit more than others.”

Photo downloaded via subscription from Bigstock.com. Not available for re-use.

Photo downloaded via subscription from Bigstock.com. Not available for re-use.

One of her items is strange. As one of the best, most enthusiastic Super Shopper Hopper employees, I’ve taken care of the Christmas section of our Super Shopper Hopper Store for five seasons straight. There are all sorts of sweets and candies that, unbeknownst to most buyers, go up on the racks every year. Corporate fails to send us enough Christmas stock to make the store look full, so we just stick the archaic candies behind the newer ones and hope that we never get any moldy returns. I mean, sugar never goes bad right? It’s probably fine. Personally, I’m fond of one item that has seen this process numerous times.

A five-year old fruitcake that is so old, by Super Shopper Hopper standards, that we might get a fine if anyone from corporate ever found it. And now that fruitcake, my Christmas treasure, is sitting at the end of this woman’s shopping list.

“If Cousin Brittney really wanted a Roomba for Christmas… She’d quit travelling to Germany every other month and get a job.” Ms. Typical doesn’t see the horror she’s ignited in me.

My fruitcake is the best fruitcake of them all. It’s been through so many seasons, that the spirit of retail Christmas has seeped into its sagging cardboard, the stench of pine air fresheners has killed any chance it ever had of smelling like a baked good, and it’s built a thick layer of dusted glitter from all the ornaments that have dangled above it. I’m determined that this fruitcake will never sell, that it’s a yearly tradition to stuff it behind all the fresh fruitcakes.

But there it is. I look Ms. Typical up and down while I scan a tiny, overpriced footwarmer for her. Is she going to see the fruitcake reach the counter and decide she doesn’t want it? Is she going to ask me to go find her a new one from the back?

“I don’t know what she would do with a Roomba.” Her tone is sour and she wrings her scarf while she taps a manicured nail to the back of the phone with the other. “I don’t know if there’s even room in her apartment for one.”

“Yes, I’m going to get her something nice instead,” says the woman, as her eyes sparkle and she sets her coffee cup down to fish a wallet from her purse. I’ve reached the last item. The fruitcake. We look at each other, then down to the fruitcake that I’m about to scan, and when I look up at her again, her smile has grown ten sizes. Ms. Typical whispers into her phone, as I bag the fruitcake that I thought I’d never part with, cutting off the woman howling on the other end, “Oh, don’t worry, mom. It’s fine, you’re right. I’m going to give Cousin Britt exactly what she needs for Christmas.”


The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Dorothy Colinco. www.dorothycolinco.com

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

I’m excited about my new book, The Man with the Crystal Ankh. It’s the first in the Hollow Oak trilogy.

When I sat down to think about what truly inspired my writing of this book, one of the answers surprised me. When I was a kid, I was obsessed with this Bearenstain Bears book called “The Bearenstain Bears and the Spooky Old Tree.” It was one of those books that came with a cassette tape (dating myself here), allowing kids to listen to it read by a voice actor with all kinds of cool sounds effects.

Turns out, some folks have posted the audio (along with the book images) on YouTube:

 

 The tree in the children’s book in many ways mirrors the hollow oak in The Man with the Crystal Ankh. Both trees have a major presence in the story, so much so that characters find themselves attracted to the trees despite their spooky natures. In the Bearenstain Bears book, the tree contains a literal assortment of rooms, trap doors, staircases, and dungeons all within its barky enclosure. (Like the TARDIS, it’s much bigger on the inside!)

In the fictional town of Hollow Oak, the oak itself is a centerpiece of the town, currently standing on the front lawn of the town’s oldest high school. Like a tree in the town where I currently reside, the fictional hollow oak is referenced in the oldest town land records and played a role in many historical events—in this case, directly tied to the storyline involving the characters’ ancestors.

When we “grow up,” we lose the ability (time? desire?) to see beyond the literal. To an adult, a spooky old tree is simply that. To a child, it holds all manner of wonders. Maybe that’s the reason I like Doctor Who so much. His tiny little TARDIS contains infinite possibilities.

In my Hollow Oak series, my main character, Sarah, finds herself going into a near trance while playing the violin. Doing so relaxes her mind enough that she becomes receptive to the things around her that normal “adults” tend to ignore. (At this time of year, I’m reminded of the bell that rings for children but not for adults in The Polar Express.) This ability opens her to experiences closed to everyone around her—sending her on a supernatural wild goose chase to find out the mystery of a late custodian and her relationship to the town’s sordid history.

Whenever someone asks me how I can be so creative all the time, I think it’s because I’ve never lost my sense of childhood. Although at times I have to shut my mind to the magical possibilities of this world, when the business calms, even for a few minutes, I can’t help but let my imagination run wild. After all, my head is much, much bigger on the inside.

Everyone’s heard the legend of the hollow oak—the four-hundred year curse of Sarah Willlougby 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.

Available in print and ebook from Amazon.com and other online retailers. Thanks to World Castle Publishing!


Did you receive an e-reader this holiday season? You can load your reader with $3.99 books from Barking Rain Press, now through January 15th, including The Scarred Letter. Check out the full collection of books for young adults to grown-ups at www.barkingrainpress.org!

1200x630-scarredletter

 

 

 

I received a new Kindle Fire for Christmas, and I “fired” it up, logging onto my Kindle account. Of course, there are shelves and shelves of “TBR” books. Now that the little one is sleeping a “bit” more predictably, I’ve had more time to read. So I clicked on the first book on my shelf, and it was this one. I think I downloaded it when it was free.

Anyway, I read it aloud to my daughter, even though she is too young to really understand stories. As the introduction explains, Waffles and Pancakes have already had two adventures. They are hamsters and friends. This time, their young owners react when Hurricane Sandy brings destruction to the local area and threatens Christmas. The book is for children, and it takes only a matter of minutes to read (the age range listed is 4-8; I downloaded it for my daughter, even though she isn’t quite there yet).

The illustrations are CGI-ish, reminding me of characters in The Simms. Nonetheless, my daughter loved them. The story follows Danny and Griffin as they decide to help their neighbors and community members who have been affected by the hurricane. Partway through the tale, they see a bright light and end up being chosen to visit Santa. They aren’t sure if they’re dreaming or not, and then in the spirit of The Polar Express, they wake up with proof that perhaps it wasn’t a dream. The boys were rewarded for their selflessness.

I loved the message of the story. It encourages readers to see beyond the commercialism of Christmas and determine what is truly important.

What I wished would be different is the pacing of the story. At times, it felt more like a summary than a story. There are vague statements about the boys being helpful or joining up with others to accomplish charitable things, but the most specific thing I remember was the boy volunteering to give up his allowance. I would have preferred less scope and a slower pace. I wanted to see exactly the effect the hurricane had on people. It’s mentioned that someone’s house (basement) was under four feet of water, and that the boys went to help with that, but there aren’t any specifics given. I want to know what it feels like to see such a sight. To see treasured possessions floating in the water. To see and smell what that water is like after sitting so long. Likewise, I wanted more details so I could truly experience the sacrifices the boys were making. It’s a great book to start discussions with children about volunteering and what is truly important, but it seems that parents will be left to fill in some of those details—or children will be left to discover them on their own. The Santa scene was nice, but for such a short book, I felt that a lot of the rest of the story was sacrificed to make room for it.

All in all, a fast and fun read that spreads a message of Christmas selflessness, and for the price I paid, I can’t complain.

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

A New Tradition

by Dorothy Colinco

Marie sat in her car and told herself she would go in as soon as the cold became unbearable. She blew on her hands, which did little to warm her fingers already encased in leather gloves. As the heat escaped her beaten up Honda Civic, so did her resolve and her confidence in her ability to put up with these people. Why DID she put up with them? Didn’t her ties to her in-laws die when Chuck did? It’s not like they had children who needed to be around their father’s side of the family.

But year after year, the invitations kept coming, and somehow Marie was unable to decline, probably for the same reasons they were unable to stop inviting her. Before she could decide to turn on the car and speed away, Marie heard the echo of her boots on the sidewalk, peppered with salt crystals. Then she was in front of a swinging door that opened into a brightly lit room garishly adorned with mismatched Christmas decorations, as if this were a university dorm rather than a $2 million house near the Capitol. You truly could not buy taste.

Picture purchased from BigStockPhoto.com. Not available for re-use.

Picture purchased from BigStockPhoto.com. Not available for re-use.

“It’s Marie, everyone!” Chuck’s Aunt Louise flashed her a grin that revealed more lipstick than teeth. Her sweater displayed three poodles – small, medium, and large – stacked one on top of the other to make a snowman. Her actual sweater.

“Look, she’s brought her famous fruitcake!” She turned to face Marie. “Good, I needed a doorstop.” She laughed, as this was very funny. “I’m only kidding, of course.” She took Marie’s elbow and led her into the kitchen where a middle-schooler was in charge of mixing 7 UP and rainbow sherbet into a red plastic punch bowl.

For two hours, Marie sat through it all. She listened to them discuss the election and managed not to say a single word, not a damn one, even as these ignoramuses played at being informed citizens by parroting what they’d pieced together from the titles of articles, not even the articles themselves, shared by their equally informed friends on Facebook. She feigned interest when four different people showed her pictures of babies and dogs. They, in turn, pretended to care about how her work was going or how her family back in Europe was. Chuck’s married uncle tried to make a pass at her, just like last year.

She finally managed to escape to the kitchen. She popped a turnover into her mouth, and as she rounded the kitchen island, she found a familiar piece of red cellophane peeking from the trash can. She moved a dirty plastic plate and a muffin wrapper to find her fruitcake, the one her mother had made during every year of Marie’s childhood, the one Marie had made and brought every year with Chuck as a tradition.

With her jaw set and her nostrils flared, Marie rescued the fruitcake from the bin and wiped off the debris. She marched toward the door, setting down the fruitcake only to retrieve her coat. Aunt Louise found her and was about to make a joke about Marie being the usual party pooper when her eyes slowly rested on the fruitcake in Marie’s arm. For a moment, the two women stood, saying nothing. Others in the room started to notice the odd energy and had begun to stare. With an even voice, Marie broke the silence.

“That is the ugliest sweater I have ever seen, and this isn’t even a tacky holiday sweater party.”

One of Aunt Louise’s hands flew to her gaping mouth while the other clutched her stacked poodles, or her chest, Marie didn’t care to know the difference. She was out the door before anyone could say another word. As she hopped into her car, she was already planning the next holiday season, now that she finally had a reason to start a new tradition.


 

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

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/

 

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.

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

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/