Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is based on “he threw open the door…” Today’s story comes from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter, the young adult reboot being featured in next week’s Battle of the Books competition in Loudoun County, Virginia.

Getting Down to Business

By Val Muller

He threw open the front door. The scent of home hit him in a wave of nausea. Not nostalgia. More like returning to the scene of torture endured too many years, a place repressed but not forgotten. And he was here to confront his oppressors.

It was the familiar musk of pot—his parents’ perpetual weekend recreation. The beaded door to the kitchen swung in the draft from the open door, click-clacking in a slow, lazy way. From the open kitchen window, mellow guitar riffs wafted inside, revealing his parents’ location. It was May, after all, warm enough that they’d spend much of the next five months outdoors.

Nature was their time machine.

A glance at the seventies-green chair and ottoman brought memories of stained-black feet, skin covered in layers of dirt and grime from going barefoot. Memories of ironic pleading to be allowed a bath. Memories of dismissive laughter. Stop being so establishment.

Hippies apparently were immune to germs.

A splattering of small, round mirrors hung on the wall above the piano, and Ron glanced at his reflections. That’s right—he was Ron, not Phobos, the name they’d forced upon him. Ron: a respectable, normal, American name. Ron was not the name of a hippie.

It was the name of a businessman.

The man reflected in the scattered circles was a businessman, too. He was clean-shaven with hair sculpted and short. His polo and khakis were what his parents would call “a uniform,” and maybe they were right. It was the uniform of a businessman, at least on the weekends. The hair—he could almost hear his mother already. A buzz cut? Have you enlisted? She’d ask this while looking at him over—literally—rose-colored glasses, her hair long and gray and bound in a colored headband of paisleys or flowers or psychedelic splotches. He could already hear her deep laughter—as if ready for Ron to reveal the punchline, that he was just kidding after all.

He could see his father, too, a gray, thinner Jerry Garcia, strumming the guitar and glancing up at Ron with mellow eyes. Would those eyes flash in disappointment, a sudden jolt of adrenaline disrupting the cosmic balance they’d been working so hard to achieve in this house since the Sixties ended?

Ron cleared his throat, glancing at himself once again, rehearsing his announcement. “Mom, Dad—” he refused to call them Sapphire and Unity anymore; they were his parents, dammit!— “You wanted me to go to college to find myself.” His voice wavered. “And I have. I’ve decided on my major. I’m going into business.” He flashed a smile at himself in the mirrors, steeling himself against their inevitable reactions. Then he glanced toward the kitchen’s back door.

The patio, the warm breeze, the doped-out parents awaited. He could delay reality no more. If they freaked, he’d go back to school and spend the summer in Brent’s apartment. But they needed to know. They’d spent their lives in search of the truth, and this was his.

He inhaled once more, straightened his posture, and stepped to the back of the kitchen.

Then he threw open the door.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

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

Kathy Price: http://www.kathylprice.com

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story including the line “He threw open the door…..

Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART. His latest book, DANGEROUS DECISIONS, has just been accepted for publication by REBEL INK PRESS.

            A STRANGER AT THE DOOR

by RC Bonitz

Ring, ring.

The doorbell? Who in the world could be out in this weather? And at his door. His driveway hadn’t been plowed; the sidewalk was knee deep in snow.

Jim struggled up out of his TV chair, stuck the crutch underneath his arm, and hobbled to the front door, dragging the cast on his left foot across the floor… Damn nuisance, whoever it was.

He threw open the front door and stared at the Eskimo in front of him. Well, the guy looked like an Eskimo with his fur-lined hood pulled up around his head, his parka snugged up tight…

Up to his knees in snow, the guy gave him a beaming smile. “Shovel your walk, Sir?”

Jim stared. That voice. It sounded like… It couldn’t be, could it? “Are you a woman?”

She frowned. “Does that make a difference?”

“Well, no, of course not. I’m just surprised.”

“I need the money, so here I am. Looks like you could use the help, what with that cast and all.

“My plow guy hasn’t shown up. His equipment broke down.”

“Well then, I’m just the woman for you.”

Jim shifted his weight, stalling for time. Hire a woman to shovel for him? He’d never live it down. What would his buddies say? He shifted again and fell hard against the doorframe.

“Are you al—” the woman said, but a sliding, roaring sound cut her off as a pile of snow cascaded off the roof, down in front of the front door. All over her.

Jim stared, horrified. “Are you okay? I’m sorry.”

Up to her waist now, snow clinging to the fur around her face, she grinned at him.

“I was going to tell you. I clear roofs, too.”

The Spot Writers—our members:

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

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

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

Kathy Price: http://www.kathylprice.com

Welcome to the Spot Writers weekly flash fiction! This month’s prompt is to use the moon as a major theme.

The Amberwood Wyvern

by Kathy L. Price

“Oh, most Gracious Goddess,” Kandyll prayed as he sprinted down the forest track. “Guide my steps along the path. May your silvered light show the way and help me fulfill my task.” The trees were not thick in this section of wood and enough light from the full moon filtered through the canopy for Kandyll to see well enough to run. In twenty minutes he had almost reached the clearing. Now, the question was, should he risk taking the main path straight through the field or spend an extra ten minutes circling around? Time was of the essence but it wouldn’t do if he were caught or killed.

Kandyll decided to duck off the main trail and take the smaller, secondary path to the right. He slowed to a walk and found a break in the undergrowth where he could observe the field beyond. The moon flooded it with light, making it nearly as bright as day, and he could see shadows cast by the small herd of cows. They seemed to be nervous, glancing up from time to time to look around. He heard nothing but normal night sounds but continued to make his way through the brush as quietly as he could. When he neared the crest of a small hill, he ducked low and kept away from the top of the ridge. If there was someone down in the clearing, he didn’t want to be silhouetted against the sky if they happened to look up.

When he reached Observation Rock, he had an excellent view of the entire field below and the road which ran through the countryside beyond the wood. Kandyll paused to catch his breath and survey the area. He glanced up at the silver disk of moon in the sky and prayed again for help. As if in answer, the moonlight glinted off numerous spear points and the armor of half a dozen knights on their chargers.

“Oh, most merciful Goddess, thank you, thank you, thank you,” Kandyll whispered. He could just discern a couple of advanced scouts making their way up the swale half-way across the field. If he had run straight along the main path to save time, as he had originally intended, he would have run right into them. The Goddess was truly smiling on him with favor.

From his vantage point, Kandyll could see the remaining army strung out along the road to the north. Without wasting any more time, he turned and dashed down the hill to the south, driven faster by his new knowledge and the urgency of the situation. He shuddered to think what would happen if he did not reach Cimerthyl Tyne Castle with the warning and appeal for help.

Half an hour later he emerged from the back trail in the woods and stepped onto the main road. It had seemed quiet and another prayer to the Goddess reassured him it’d be safe. He broke into a run, knowing he had another two miles to go. It had taken him far longer than he had wanted to make it this far but he was glad he’d been careful. He hoped the other messengers, mounted on horseback, had gotten through faster and the alert had already been sounded.

At the village, all was quiet as he made his way through the warren of alleyways and when he reached the castle, there was little activity. It was as if no alarm had been raised. Had the mounted messengers been captured? Had Cimerthyl Castle already been taken?

Kandyll slipped into the shadows and took a moment to watch the guards patrolling along the tops of the walls. Everything looked normal. Maybe he was being too cautious. Besides, he couldn’t hide forever. Gathering his courage, he stepped out into the road and approached the guard at the gate.

Half-dozing in the pre-dawn stillness, the solitary guard startled at Kandyll’s seemingly sudden appearance. After listening to Kandyll’s hurried explanation, and glancing at the “Send help now” token in his hand, the guard quickly passed the information along and Kandyll was admitted through the outer wall. The change happened faster than anything Kandyll could have imagined. From a sleepy, the-day-hasn’t-started-yet quiet to a full-on call to arms took less than five minutes. The previously placid courtyard vibrated with men rushing in all directions. What had appeared to Kandyll as total chaos soon became organized into orderly groups of knights being lifted onto their chargers. Squires rapidly fastened the last of the armor while the enthusiastic squires-in-training continued to gather gear and race to do their masters’ biddings.

The biggest shock of all came when the king himself strode across the courtyard and addressed Kandyll. “What’s the report? Who are they and what are their numbers?”

Speechless, Kandyll stood there with his mouth open. “Ah,” was all he was able to utter.

The king put a kindly hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, boy. I won’t bite, but I do need to know what’s out there. The Amberwood Wyvern is never sent without good cause. What did you see?”

Kandyll closed his eyes and asked the Goddess again for help. He then recounted everything he saw by her light – the number of knights; more importantly, their banners and coat of arms; an estimate of the archers and foot soldiers; how many wagons to the rear. His recall was nearly perfect and when he finished, the king clapped him on the back and said, “Well, done, boy. Now, go to the kitchens for a bite to eat then get some rest. You’ve done well.”

Kandyll watched as the assembled army rode out the gates. He would go to the kitchens for some food, but fully intended to follow the king into battle.

The Spot Writers–Our Members:

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

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

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

Kathy Price: http://www.kathylprice.com