Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s post comes to us from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter, a young adult reboot of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic. The prompt is to write a story using the words “marble,” “TV,” “evil,” “couch,” and “butcher.”

The Butcher

By Val Muller

Mel Buccarelli sipped her tea and eyed the stack of papers. The little bastards. Waiting til the last minute to turn in their term papers just because Professor McDougall insisted on a liberal late policy in his course syllabus.

Of course he did. Papers must be turned in at least twenty-four hours prior to the course’s final exam. Even though those papers were assigned well before Thanksgiving. It sounded great for him, for his students, for the various helicopter parents that seemed to follow their kids to college. Wouldn’t want the little cupcakes to feel too stressed out about coursework or deadlines or anything like that.

No one gave a thought to the poor teaching assistant who actually had to deal with the papers. The poor teaching assistant who now had twenty-two term papers to grade in twenty-four hours. Not to mention that she had her own final exam starting in just eight. Who scheduled 10 p.m. exams, anyway? She needed several hours to study.

It wasn’t humanly possible, was it?

If each paper took an average of forty minutes to grade—say she cut them down to thirty. Maybe if she just—no, no. She needed to study for her exam. Would Professor McDougall give her an extension? Likely not, as she had to grade the exams as well. He was always a stickler for deadlines with her—ironically.

But she couldn’t afford to piss him off. There was such a waiting list for professors in search of TAs. If she got canned, he’d have a dozen students knocking on his door seeking interviews. He’s replace her without blinking, and there would go her fellowship, her tuition payments, her stipend.

No, she had to grade these papers. Ugh. They were terrible, too. So dry. So devoid of passion. The handful of students who turned them in last month were the ones going places in life. These twenty-two slackers? Good luck to them. Why couldn’t she be like the other graduate students? Lounging on the couch, enjoying a show or two on TV, and sipping wine while reviewing notes for exams?

She tapped her red pen against her marble composition book, the one that held the exam notes she was supposed to studying. The sound of pen against cardboard invited a memory.

Her mother had been sitting at the kitchen table, grading a stack of papers with a bright red pen. The way the ink flowed as her mother wrote fascinated Mel’s fourth-grade self. The thick cursive loops looked like something a wizard might write in a spell book. It was like they held their own power. Maybe it was right, what they said about her mom. But if she did have some kind of weird talent, did she use it for good or for evil?

“Mom, someone in my class has a brother in ninth grade. I heard they call you Mrs. Butcher up at the high school.”

Her mom’s face melted into a smile, but she didn’t look up from her grading.

“Do they call you that?”

“Yes. Not to my face, but yes.”

“Why?”

Her mom scribbled on another paper before answering. “They call me that because I’m very strict with my grading.”

“Strict?”

“It’s for their own good. When you get to high school, you’ll understand. There are just some teachers you’ll have who just want you to achieve your best. So they’ll be really tough on you to make sure you do the best you can do. They won’t settle for half-effort. Understand?”

Young Mel nodded. “Like how Dad makes me go back and vacuum the car if I miss too many spots?”

Mom nodded. “Exactly like that. So that you do it better the next time. I do that with students’ papers. They call me Mrs. Butcher because they say I “butcher” their papers, leaving a bloody mess.”

Mel looked at the red ink staining the papers. It did look a little like blood, like her mom had hacked the paper to bits with her words. Mel’s little lips cracked into a smile. She hoped one day she would grow up to become a teacher.

Mel’s cheeks tingled with the smile brought on by memory. But the smile faded, revealing the grim reality of the ungraded stack of essays. These kids really did deserve to have their term papers ripped to shreds. They were terrible. Barely cited, horribly researched, and written without the semblance of passion. How would they learn if she just sent them through the ranks? She uncapped her red pen. It was the expensive kind, the kind filled with real liquid ink that you could see sloshing around through the little window.

The kind that looked like a vial of blood.

Mel smiled as she flipped open the next term paper. “Okay, cupcake. I hope you’re ready for a little intellectual surgery. Maybe I’ll earn my own nickname before the semester’s up.” She smiled as the ink bled across the page in wide, sweeping loops.

Just like the ones Mrs. Butcher used to make.

* * *

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: valm16.sg-host.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. The prompt for this month is to write a story based on these two pictures, shoes found one day by our own Cathy MacKenzie. In our stories, our character must encounter these two “sightings”—integrated into the story as we see fit!

Today’s post comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out the scary youth anthology, OUT OF THE CAVE, recently published under Cathy’s imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. Available on Amazon and Smashwords. JUST IN TIME FOR HALLOWEEN!

***

The Shoes

by Cathy MacKenzie

A pair of men’s dress shoes suddenly appeared out of nowhere in the faint early morning light, almost knocking Carmen to the pavement. Why were shoes laying on the road? She inspected them without bending over, afraid to get too close, noticing the polished sheen and their just-so placement as if someone had stood in them before mysteriously having been spirited away. She glanced to the awakening sky and immediately chuckled at the idiocy of her movement as if a man—or even a woman—could be lifted out of footwear without a struggle. But who would have purposely left them by the road? And why?

She shook her head, the mystery too difficult for her to solve and, perhaps, better left as a curiosity. She scurried past the shoes and continued her jog until she halted like a galloping horse suddenly reaching a cliff’s edge.

Another pair?

More mesmerized than scared, she stared at the grungy brown lace-up shoes until shock turned to fright. She’d seen the occasional pair of sneakers dangling by laces from overhead wires but had never stumbled upon one shoe let alone two pairs within minutes.

The second pair lay haphazardly in the middle of the road as if someone had thrown them, like those sneakers tossed across overhead wires. If she believed the owner of the first pair had met a pleasant fate, the owner of these had suffered, for it was clear, at least in her mind, that a struggle had ensued. The shoes were old and haggard like elderly individuals given up on life, with dirt-encrusted soles, frayed laces, and worn insoles.

Had this pair been purposely discarded? Or had the owner been involved in a motor vehicle incident? She examined the pavement, looking for blood or other signs of an accident but saw nothing unusual.

Despite the sweat she had worked up while running and the warmth of the July morning, she shivered and rubbed her upper arms. Despite her dry throat, she swallowed. She forced herself to avert her eyes from the discovery: only a discarded pair of shoes; nothing untoward.

Shrugging, she turned and headed for home. Should she take a different route so she wouldn’t encounter the first pair again? No, she’d simply cross the road and run on the opposite side. She glanced one last time at the dress shoes before sprinting across the road. She jogged in place. Should she view the dress shoes one last time?

And then she had a thought: the impeccable shoes would be perfect for her husband, whose birthday neared. She could scrounge for a shoe box. He’d never know they weren’t new. Besides, rain was forecasted for later that day. At the very least, even if she changed her mind about gifting them, she should save them from the elements. Who knew, too, whether the owner, if still alive, might post a lost notice on the community bulletin board at Lakeside Grocery.

Her mind made up, she flew down the deserted street. Workers didn’t make their trek through her subdivision until around 6:45 a.m., precisely why she rose before the sun. She enjoyed the peace and quiet before the bustle of the day.

But where were the shoes? Had she missed them? No, there they were! She jogged toward them and stopped.

What! Socks?

She scanned the street. Dead. She hadn’t passed anyone, and no cars had driven by. Where were the shoes? How had socks taken their place?

The socks were a perfect match for the missing shoes: men’s dress socks. And they stood stiffly as if the wearer were invisible; she swore she discerned toes beneath the socks. Or had he just been magically spirited out of them and the socks hadn’t yet collapsed?

And did one big toe just wiggle?

Certain her eyes played tricks on her, she closed them, conjuring various scenarios. Reacting before thinking, she raced back to the older shoes, stopping when she reached them.

Except the shoes weren’t there; in their stead lay a crumpled pair of socks. And the slight breeze wafted their odour to her nostrils.

Where were these shoes? She questioned and answered at the same time: gone the way of the dress shoes.

Vanished!

But how? And why?

Obviously the discoveries had meaning. But what? Shoes hanging on wires meant something, she had heard, but wasn’t certain what. Good luck? Bad luck? She didn’t want to know, believing mysteries were just that: mysteries. And once solved, they weren’t mysteries any longer, and what fun would that be?

She raced toward home, picturing the dress socks at attention on the side of the road. She giggled. How silly they appeared; extremely silly.

But heck. They were new—at least they’d looked new. If Hubby couldn’t have a pair of shoes for his birthday, he could have a pair of socks. She returned to the area, not sure what to expect. Would something else have taken their place?

Still there. She picked up the right sock, which immediately went limp and soft. Warm, too, between her thumb and forefinger, as if the foot had just vacated. The other remained upright without its twin, and at her touch, it too collapsed. She rolled them into a ball, flipping the ribbed edge over the bulk like her mother had taught her.

She snickered. “How foolish.” Unlike the shoes, Hubby would know the socks weren’t new.

***

The Spot Writers–our members:

RC Bonitz: rcbonitz.com

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

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

Tom Robson: https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com/

 

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story based on two pictures, found one day by our own Cathy MacKenzie. In the story, a character must encounter these two “sightings”—integrate into the story as you see fit!

Today’s post comes to you from Val Muller, author of the supernatural chiller Faulkner’s Apprentice, just $2.99 in time for Halloween.

Gone

By Val Muller

John sat on the seawall overlooking the ocean. The moon was nearly full and reflected on the rippling water. How could the sea always be so peaceful? It seemed strange, somehow, that the ocean went on and on, the tide came and went, when the country was falling apart.

He tightened his grasp on his bottle of beer. “Did you decide?” he asked.

George shook his head. “Does it matter?” He sighed. “Do you remember elections when we were younger? I’d stay up late watching the news and rooting for my pick. And now, what is there to stay up for? Either way…”

“Either way, the people lose.” John took a long pull. “Used to be a time we didn’t fear what would happen to the country if one candidate won versus the other.”

George scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. Neither one is good news. It’s like—you’re going to Hell. How do you want to get there?”

John clinked his bottle against the stone wall. A toast. “I guess I’ll go third party. For what it’s worth.”

George shook his head. “I guess. For what difference it will make.”

“Which isn’t any.” The public was given no choice. The next president would either be Biff Tannen from Back to the Future 2 or else turn America into a secret dictatorship, one in which enemies of the White House disappeared in mysterious and never-spoken-of ways. Either way…

But what could they do? The system was rigged. Each party seemed to choose someone more despicable than the next, and everyone’s arguments centered on “lesser-of-two-evils” logic. But John’s was just one vote. What could he even do? “Unless…”

George turned to him. “Unless what?”

“Unless I just don’t play.”

“You mean you aren’t gonna vote?”

John shook his head. “Not only that.”

“What do you mean?”

John finished his beer and placed the bottle neatly on the seawall. “I’m just gonna leave.” He brought his foot close to him and unlaced his boot and pulled it off his foot. Then he took off the other. “You got a camera?”

George reached for his phone. “Yeah. Why?”

John set his two boots on the wall next to the bottle. “I’m leaving the system. I’m deregistering.”

“So? What good will that do?”

John bit his lip. “Okay, I’ll work for cash only. Not only that. I’ll work for trades. I’ll move out to the middle of nowhere. I’ll move off the grid. I’ll deny them my tax dollars. I’ll—”

George reached for the beer bottle. “Dude, what’s in this stuff? You on something? What you’re saying is nonsense.” John didn’t respond. George laughed. “Okay, what are you, a new revolutionary?” He thought for a minute. “Okay, a sound bite to Tweet out: this election, the people lose.”

“Every election the people lose,” John said. He looked out at the sea. Then he smiled. “Take a picture of my shoes.”

George turned on his flash and snapped the shot. “Okay, and?”

“Send it out. Put it on Facebook, on Twitter. Send it to your representative. Send it to the national committees and let them know what we think of their candidates. Let them know that John Adler is not playing the game.”

“Dude, you’re just gonna leave your shoes there?”

John stood up on the wall. “Yes. And maybe the first person to find my shoes will be confused. Maybe the second, too. But you post it on social media, and eventually, someone, somewhere, is gonna pick up on it. And pretty soon there will be another pair of shoes somewhere. Shoes from someone who’s tired of playing the game. Shoes from someone who refuses to cast a vote for one of two evils, someone who refuses to play in a system in which third parties are ridiculed and money talks and the people have no voice. And maybe by Election Day, there’ll be five pairs of shoes or ten. And maybe next time there are twenty, and then two hundred, and then two-hundred thousand. And eventually there will be so many shoes that the system has no one to stand on, and it does what it should have done decades and decades ago—and collapses.”

George took another picture. “Better make it a good shot, then.” George turned to his phone. John could see his was busy writing a narrative on Facebook. The post was going to be a long one. George, an adamant blogger, would have fun with it. “Dude, this is inspired, John. Truly inspired.”

The tide disguised John’s departure as George became more and more absorbed in his post. John went to bed, resisting the urge to read his friend’s postings.

* * *

John headed out on Election Day, walking toward the 7-Eleven where the immigrants went to find day work. He hadn’t been kidding. He was moving off the grid, and he’d find cash work until he could figure something more permanent. The elementary school where he used to vote was full of red, white, and blue signs boasting of one candidate or another. People handed out flyers to voters as if their chosen candidate had the power to rid the country of all ills. Did any of them actually believe they held any power?

John shook his head. Sheep, all of them.

Turning the corner toward the 7-Eleven, he stopped. If he still had a cell phone, he would have snapped a picture and texted George. There, on the sidewalk, a pair of expensive-looking brown loafers. Office worker shoes belonging to someone who certainly made more money than John ever would.

John didn’t allow his heart to beat too quickly, though. Probably just coincidence. Maybe someone just pulled over to change out of the uncomfortable shoes after some meeting—and then forgot and left them on the side of the road.

Don’t get your hopes up, John.

He took a few more steps. He could already see the convenience store, a gathering of workers waiting for the day’s work. Some of them brought their own shovels and pick axes, looking for a random day job. John hurried to join them until he was stopped again in his tracks.

Another pair of shoes. This time a bit more casual. Brown loafers kicked off right there in the street. One pair, maybe, but two? This had to be intentional. John squinted across the street, and he knew. Three’s a charm. A pair of athletic flip-flops, the expensive kind.

He headed toward the 7-Eleven with renewed enthusiasm. His revolution had started.

* * *

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Tom Robson: https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com

***

Want something almost as scary as this year’s election? Check out Faulkner’s Apprentice, just $2.99. 

Lorelei Cecelia Franklin broke a twenty-year streak of bad luck when she won the L. Cameron Faulkner fiction contest. Apprenticed to the reclusive and famous author, Lorei will spend three weeks with the master of horror himself in the secluded mountains of Virginia. On her way to Faulkner’s mansion, Lorei meets a leathery man who snares souls that desire too much, and everything in the mansion screams warnings against him. But with her lust for Faulkner, her appetite for fame, and her wish to protect her ailing mother, Lorei’s chances for escape are slim.

Welcome to the Spot Writers’ weekly flash fiction post. This month’s prompt is “trolley car,” and today’s post comes from Tom Robson. Check out his book, Written While I Still Remember, available on Amazon  and   Smashwords

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No Trolleys, Just Tramcars

by Tom Robson

I spent my early years in the English industrial city where I was born. Once I was too large for the pram and after I responded to encouragements to walk rather than be pushed up Leeds hills in the pushchair, the tram became one means of getting around the city. The others of my first nine years were walking or riding my trike, firmly connected to my mother’s grip with an old trouser belt of my absent father. The family car was a war and many years away.

The city trams, like the later trolleys, were powered from overhead lines connected high above the main streets. Unlike trolleys, tram car routes were defined by steel tracks set in parallel rows on the main streets they shared with the sparse traffic of the thirties and early forties. The trams might well have been the smoothest vehicles in the city. The tramlines were often set in cobblestone streets

I have four childhood memories of trams. The first and worst was the return trip from the free dental clinic where I had a number of ‘first’ teeth extracted with the help of chloroform. On the return trip the side effect of chloroform and the trauma of tooth pulling, for which I was inadequately forewarned, caused me to project blood-flecked vomit on the tramseat, floor and crowded passengers.

We got off the tram two stops early and my mother carried her evil-smelling seven year old, up the steep Harehills Lane to grandma’s.

Prior to this, accompanied again by my mother, I took tram rides to St Jame’s Infirmary where I was subjected to exercise intended to stretch my neck. I was recovering from surgery to forestall torticollis, which if untreated led to the abominably descriptive condition of ‘Wryneck’. I hated the physiotherapy. Getting on the tram to the hospital turned me in to a whiner, impossible to placate for the trip there and the therapy. At home, my mother had to lift me by the head to repeat the unnatural exercises every day for over a year. And you think ‘tough love’ is a recent phenomenon?

By the time I was eight I was allowed to go with my friends,on Sundays, to Roundhay Park. It was at least a mile walk away, across the Soldier’s Field, to the back entrance at the top of Hill Sixty. At the park we could climb trees (if the wardens weren’t around), roll down the hill and paddle in either of two lakes, one of which fed water to the outdoor swimming baths to which we were occasionally treated. It was a full day of childhood freedom, enjoyment and exploration.

Occasionally, grandma would give me the penny fare to take the tram to the park. My friend Tim, one of seven kids in the family across the back ginnel, also got tram fare from my gran. Grown ups thought we would walk there and, in an exhausted state, take the tram home. Eight and ten year old boys did not get tired, given the opportunity of let’s-pretend games and freedom in a seven hundred acre park for a day. We wanted to get there so we took the quick way – by tram.

One bright and promising Sunday, as soon as I completed my choirboy duties at St. Wilfred’ and Tim had attended mass, we pocketed grandma’s penny and ran down the hill to Roundhay Road to take the tram to the park.

The park tram-stop was about 100 yards past the main gate.This was 1944 and there were very few cars on the roads in that era. It was safe to jump off the rapidely decelerating tramcar opposite the park gates. Tim had been taught the safe way to do this by his older brothers. He faced the way the tram was going and stepped off, running. I followed his advice to look behind and make sure no cars were there. None were there, so I stepped off in the logical-to-me-way, facing back to the gates we were headed for.

The bloody scraped knees and elbows added to the forlorn figure sat crying in the middle of the wide street. Damage was superficial and was quickly evaluated by the park gate warden and tram conductor, who admonished me with “ Tha daft bugger! Divn tha know that tha faces t’way ‘trams going if tha wants to jump off?” Once sat on the kerb, some lady gave me a cone from Granelli’s ice cream truck. I shared it with Tim.

Tim and the warden took me to the first aid station in the park. Ten year old Tim was given the responsibility of getting me home. We walked. Nobody asked if we had tram fare. That final steep climb up Harehills Lane, aggravated every bruise and scrape I’d got in my tumble from the tram. I told mum and gran I’d fallen off a swing in the park. Tim backed up the lie.

My father had lost his job shortly after his successful apprenticeship finished and just as the great depression climaxed. He worked where he could and eventually got a steady job as a Leeds City Tramcar driver, not too long after I was born.

If we were lucky, mum and I might catch his tram on the way into the city centre or to one of innumerable hospital appointments. It was all a matter of chance.

I must have been almost three when I had to have surgery and spend the accustomed week of recovery in hospital. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Why did my mother spend so little time with me? I had no understanding of the severe restrictions on visiting hours . They were both short and infrequent. I was in my cot surrounded by about twenty other beds in a men’s surgical ward. The hurses had to remain formal, though I wondered how they could resist my crying and histrionics as my mother and, sometimes, my father left after afternoon and evening visits.

My mother carried me to the tram stop when I was sent home.We didn’t take the first tram that came. The conductor told us, “Vera! Fred’s on the one reet behind. He’ll want to see t’ bairn.”

As the next tram slid to a stop, the driver, My father pulled repeatedly on the cord that rang the alert bell. Clang! Clang! Clang! His conductor explained to the other passengers, as his driver got off to hug his son and wife. My mother was given the seat closest to the driver while I sat up, proud and once again interested in life after recovery.

Soon after my father changed uniform from Leeds City Transport employee to soldier as the war loomed. I was almost as proud of this new uniform.

But my feelings never exceeded those on that day when my father, the tram driver, took me home from the dreaded hospital.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Tom Robson: https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com

 

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Happy October! Like to be scared? Check out Faulkner’s Apprentice, a supernatural chiller available for only $2.99. 

Lorelei Cecelia Franklin broke a twenty-year streak of bad luck when she won the L. Cameron Faulkner fiction contest. Apprenticed to the reclusive and famous author, Lorei will spend three weeks with the master of horror himself in the secluded mountains of Virginia. On her way to Faulkner’s mansion, Lorei meets a leathery man who snares souls that desire too much, and everything in the mansion screams warnings against him. But with her lust for Faulkner, her appetite for fame, and her wish to protect her ailing mother, Lorei’s chances for escape are slim.