Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s theme is “a death in the family.” Today’s tale comes to you from Val Muller, author of the young adult novel The Scarred Letter, a novel about confronting the truth in a world that lives a lie.

The Quantum Life of Mr. Bubbles

By Val Muller

Her large eyes popped open as she examined the fish. “Daddy, Mr. Bubbles looks thinner today.” She scrunched her nose and eyed me askance.

I tried not to miss a beat. “You think he went on a diet?”

“Not that kind of thinner. A different-fish-thinner.”

“Hmmmm.” I pretended to read the nutrition information on the cereal box, but she wouldn’t drop it.

“And his tail is darker.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Daddy, what happened to the real Mr. Bubbles?”

Nothing escapes a five-year-old. She pulled herself into the seat next to mine. What could I tell her? That Mr. Bubbles was floating his way toward the city’s sewage treatment plant? That her daddy had driven across the county to find the only aquarium open at 6 a.m.? That he’d been waiting when the store opened to purchase the fish that looked the closest to Mr. Bubbles?

When I looked up from my cereal box, she was standing up on her chair, eyes cross and hands on her hips. “Tell me the truth. What happened to the real Mr. Bubbles?”

So I took a deep breath and said what any father would say. “Mr. Bubbles was a very curious fish, and he went exploring in the furthest corners of his fish tank until one day, he saw a strange glow. You know what it was?” I looked up, stalling for time.

“The lamp?” She raised a little eyebrow.

“No,” I said, channeling high school physicals and sci-fi and late-night philosophical discussions from college. “It was a wormhole. A gateway to another universe.”

“What?” She looked again at the fish. Then she slid down in her chair.

“You know: quantum physics.”

“Won ton physics?”

I shrugged. “Sure. It’s the idea that there are all kinds of different worlds out there, each one just a tiny it different from the last. So in this universe, I look like me. But in another one, I might have a beard.”

She smiled at the idea.

“And so Mr. Bubbles went through the wormhole and found himself in a very similar universe. He found himself in a very similar house occupied by a very similar goldfish.”

“And is there a ‘me’ in this other universe?” she asked.

I nodded, glad she was buying in. “Only, the other you has curly hair and likes artichokes.”

She scrunched her nose. “Ewww!”

I smiled. “And Mr. Bubbles met the fish that looks almost like him. And they had a fishy conversation and decided to send the new fish here to live with you. And Mr. Bubbles is going to stay in the new universe. You know, to check things out.”

Her eyes moved from me to the tank and back again.

“Honey, do you understand?”

She studied my eyes, then nodded. “I do, daddy. But it’s okay. It doesn’t take won-ton physics to know that Mr. Bubbles went to Heaven. You don’t have to be sad about it or make up stories for me. It’ll happen to all fish someday. Then she gave me a hug, grabbed the box of cereal, and made her way to the couch.

A moment later, the chirping of cartoons filled the room, and I watched Mr. Bubble’s doppelganger swim from one side of the tank to the next, oblivious to the fate of his predecessor or the complexities of won-ton physics.

---

 

The Spot Writers—our members:

RC Bonitz: rcbonitz.com

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

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

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

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of DANGEROUS DECISIONS and the soon to be released ONLY EMMA. The topic for this month is “death in the family”.

A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

By RC Bonitz

You really could call it that, a death in the family, though in the household might be the more accurate term. I mean, who would call a cockroach a member of their family? Even if she were highly literate and a prolific writer. You think I’m wacko? Well, think what you like, Eloise not only could write rings around most humans; she was a direct descendant of Archie of “Archie and Mehitabel” fame.  Probably twenty-five generations removed, but who’s counting?

I found her this morning, sprawled out on the G key of my computer. It was probably one too many concussions that did her in. I don’t know how Archie died all those years ago, but he used to jump headfirst onto the keys of Don Marquis’ (sp?) old fashioned typewriter which I’m sure delivered a heavy duty bump compared to the softer touch of a modern keyboard.

Eloise didn’t have a cat to hang out with the way her ancestor did, though I’m not sure anymore just what role Mehitabel played in Archie’s life. Eloise had a partner of her own kind, Sam his name was, until he missed his footing boarding an Amtrak train one day with Eloise. She wrote an eloquent obituary for him that night instead of her usual scathing review of the reality TV show they had attended the recording of that day in New York.

She didn’t think much of our reality TV. Broadway shows, yes; she loved most of the ones she saw. Once or twice though she was spotted by a human as she perched on the back of a seat in the balcony and that just ruined the mood for her. Luckily the women who noticed her just screamed and she was able to slip down into crevices and hide.

Unfortunately, she never figured out how to print her essays and stories, and I never thought to do so either, so from now on I’ll have only memories of her writing. Who knows, though; perhaps one of her children will follow in her footsteps as she followed Archie’s example and I’ll get a second chance to preserve some unique writing. For now though it’s farewell Eloise.

---

 

The Spot Writers—our members:

RC Bonitz: rcbonitz.com

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “People Watching,” and today’s tale comes to you from Cathy MacKenzie.

If you need editing or formatting for print and/or e-books, check out Cathy’s website: www.mackenziepublishing.wordpress.com

***

The People Watcher

by Cathy MacKenzie

She sits across the room from me, her eyes dark and filled with tears. I’ve never seen her before, don’t know her name. Perhaps her eyes are always dark. She entered the room late, after everyone was comfortably situated.

She stands, obviously ill at ease because she sways a bit and her eyes dart around the room several times, her eyes stopping on individuals, examining their faces as if she can delve deep into their souls. But she can’t, of course; no one can. She falls back to the chair alongside the wall. If she were a teenager, she could have been a wallflower, one of those pitied girls ignored by guys at school dances. I sympathize, for I’m one of those wallflowers, but I’m not bothered by it. I quite like it, actually.

She glances around the room again, and her gaze lingers on a male. She stares at him for a long while until he senses someone’s eyes on him, for he looks up from his conversation with a female and immediately catches the watchful eyes. Their eyes lock, both glare unwavering as though a game in which the winner is the one who averts his or her eyes the last.

She wins.

It’s as if he can’t stand the look of her, for he drops his eyes, pretends he’s never noticed her, and jumps back into his conversation.

She remains seated, now viewing the wall where I am as if it’s a work of art, a masterpiece one can’t ignore. But she’s embarrassed. A splotch of red splatters each cheek. Her eyes well up. More than embarrassed. Sad, upset. Dejected? Unloved?

Suddenly, Loser grabs the arm of the woman he’s with and steers her toward the exit. Winner watches them leave.

I look back at her. A slight smile graces her face as if the sun suddenly transformed a gloomy day. A healthy flush spreads over her face, her eyes morph into a light blue, and her lips curl to reveal even, white teeth.

She stands and smooths her skin-tight skirt. She unbuttons the top button of her blouse, picks up her purse from the chair beside her, and heads to the exit. Loser has to be long gone by now. I don’t think he’d linger, waiting for Winner to appear. I don’t think she wants to see him either.

But what do I know? I’m just a people watcher. I enjoy being a fly on the wall, but I have to be on guard at all times. Who knows when one of those people I don’t watch grabs a fly swatter or another similar instrument?

***

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. This month’s prompt is “People Watching,” and today’s tale comes to you from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter. In this young adult reboot of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s original, Heather Primm is adept at people watching—so adept that her entire existence is threatened.

One Hundred and Two

By Val Muller

“The fever’s back,” she said, nudging her husband in bed.

His mouth hung open, a snore escaping. How could he sleep at a time like this? Why didn’t he have a sensor, too, one that set alarms off each time the baby tossed or turned? The kid’s fever had woken her out of a deep sleep, even though the child was breathing peacefully.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

His eyes popped open. “Wha—?”

“Her fever. It’s 101.8.”

“Okay.” He started to turn back over, but something in her face must have stopped him. He sat more upright instead. “So the fever is 101.8…”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never had a baby before.”

She rolled her eyes and hoped he could see it in the darkness. “I haven’t, either.”

“So why would I know what to do when you wouldn’t?”

She sighed, allowing her huff to disturb the night. The baby stirred in her arms.

“Give her Tylenol,” he said.

“I did.”

“Good, then. That’s what the doctor said to do if she ever has a fever…” He slid down into the bed and pulled the cover over himself. Before long, he was snoring again. Had he even awoken fully? Would he remember the conversation in the morning? What was it about guys—hard-wired to sleep through emergencies?

She propped herself up against the pillow, cradling the baby in her lap. She pressed the button on the forehead thermometer. 101.5. Maybe it was coming down. The doctor had said 102 was the temperature of concern. But was 101.5 close enough? Should she go to the hospital? What if she went, and they sent her home? And then her new baby would be exposed to a whole host of germs from the ER. And then what?

Then again, what if she didn’t go? And the fever got worse and worse. And got to 105, even. Could a baby even live at 105? What if she fell asleep and woke up, and the baby’s fever had risen, even with the Tylenol? What kind of a mother would allow that to happen?

She broke out in a sweat. It was 2 a.m. Emergency walk-in hours at the pediatrician started at 7:30. It would be an eternity.

* * *

She stood in line in the hallway, waiting for the pediatrician’s door to open. In front of her sat a mother with twin boys, each dancing around in the hallway. They didn’t look too sick. The mother was scrolling through her phone.

Behind the first woman stood another, a mother of a toddler boy. He was seated at her feet, playing Plants versus Zombies on her ipad. Really? Video games? The boy coughed, and the crinkling and crackling in his lungs sent the blood racing through her veins. How could his mother let him play a video game when his lungs sounded like an earthquake?

Behind her, a tired looking girl and her mother shuffled up. The mother sat down, cross-legged. The girl rested her head in mom’s lap.

“First timer?” the mother asked.

She nodded.

The mother glanced at the baby in the carrier. “Your baby looks fine.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been through it once.”

She allowed herself a deep breath, and she turned to the other mothers, whose blood pressures all seemed half of hers.

“But her fever is—”

“It’s not about the number. You’ll know. Trust your gut, and you’ll know if something’s wrong. If something were truly wrong, you wouldn’t be here. You’d have gone to the ER hours ago.”

She turned a moment longer to people watch. These mothers were not concerned. They were patiently waiting for the office door to open.

And now, so was she.

---

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitz: rcbonitz.com

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

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

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

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of DANGEROUS DECISIONS and A BLANKET FOR HER HEART. The topic for this month is people watching.

DANGEROUS DECISIONS is available now. I hope you enjoy it. -RC Bonitz

 

People Watching?

by RC Bonitz

The park bustled with activity, children loud and boisterous, old folks walking slowly on the paved paths, soccer games in the fields. Mark loved to spend his lunch times in the midst of all that pleasant, happy energy. The sky was almost clear of clouds, blue as blue could be, and he turned his face to the sun, relishing the warmth that soaked into his skin.

An elderly man with a walker shuffled toward him and he greeted the fellow with his usual friendly “hello.” The man ignored him and continued on his way. The rebuff bothered Mark not on bit. Some people were simply made that way, grouchy, shy, or uncomfortable speaking to a stranger. Untroubled by such encounters, Mark never ceased to greet strangers, always hoping for a more positive response.

A woman sat on a bench, listlessly tossing bites of bread to very active pigeons scrabbling for the treats. She looked to be his age or thereabouts, no more than thirty-five or forty, but there seemed to be no energy in her movements.

“Hi. Those pigeons look hungry,” Mark said.

She looked up at him, a defeated expression on her face. “They like to eat.”

He nodded and smiled. “Do you come here a lot? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

She shook her head. “Who are you?”

“Mark Thomson. And you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered.

He frowned. He liked to chat up people that he met, but this woman didn’t look promising. He tried another track. “Do you come here to people watch?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Do you?”

He grinned. “I’m a people greeter. A simple “hi” can brighten up a person’s day.”

She gave him a half smile. “You like doing that then.”

“You’d be surprised at how many friends I’ve made that way.”

She let the smile blossom and crossed her hands in her lap, nervously twisting and untwisting the fingers. “That’s nice.”

“How about you? Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Color rose in her cheeks. “You’re hitting on me?”

“Not at all. You just seem like you could use a friend right now.”

She stared at him, her expression softening as she did. “Just coffee?”

“Just coffee.”

“Meg, that’s my name. And thank you.”

He offered her his arm as she rose from the bench. “My pleasure.”

---

The Spot Writers- our members

RC Bonitz: rcbonitz.com

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

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

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