Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “New Year’s” and this week’s post comes to us from Kathy Price.

A Clean Slate

by Kathy Price

 

The snowflakes continued to drift down through the still night. She couldn’t decide if the silence enveloping the woods was a comforting stillness in which she could find refuge or simply a brief pause before the next onslaught, a pause which would allow the storm to gather strength. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she sagged against the pillar on the porch. Were they tears of loss or tears of joy? God knew there had not been enough of the latter in her relationship with Mark. Her shaking hands caused the ice in her glass to rattle as she brought it to her lips. Smooth and cold, she used it to sooth the cut on her mouth, hoping the cold would keep it from swelling too badly. Throwing the drink back in one swift motion, the alcohol burned her throat but did little for her courage. How could she face the chaos in the living room? In the kitchen? She was going to have to do it sooner or later, so, taking a deep, ragged breath, she turned and headed back into the house.

A cozy fire flickered with the promise of warmth and welcome, but then crackled, and spit an ember out onto the hearth. How very well it symbolized her husband, Mark: a promise of comfort but a very real potential for destruction if not controlled or contained. She stepped over his body to brush the ember back into the fireplace and looked at herself in the mirror above the mantle. Already the skin around her eye was turning a deep purple and the eye had almost swollen shut. Her lip was bloody but what made her tremble was the amount of blood splattered on her face, clotted in her hair, drenching her clothing. This was not how she had planned for the evening to go.

“Bong, bong, bong . . .” The grandfather clock in the hallway started to strike twelve, but instead of a passionate lover’s kiss for luck and a sip of champagne to toast in the New Year, Gwen found herself alone, but free. She decided to take a shower and wash it all away: the blood, the pain, the fear. She wanted to start 2015 with a clean slate. Mark was gone and could no longer hurt her. She would face the music of his death with a lighter heart, knowing he would never beat her again.

 

 

The Spot Writers:

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

 

The prompt for this writing is “new year’s”. Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out her books on Smashwords.

 

Smouldering Alive

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Alice wasn’t sure of her plans for New Year’s Eve—or for the rest of the new year, for that matter. Her life hadn’t unfolded as she had hoped. While growing up, she had dreamt of the small, tidy bungalow with the white picket fence and two children (a boy and a girl, of course). But none of her dreams had materialized.

Over a decade previously, she had moved into her late mother’s single-wide mobile home located in Woodside Flats, located alongside railroad tracks with trains that never ceased lumbering by at every ungodly hour. Sometimes she overnighted with either a one-night stand or a horny old man thrust upon her by her pimp, though she wished she could sleep alone, forever in peace and quiet.

She sighed. New Year’s Eve, which was the following night, had arrived faster than she had expected. She had told Lyle, her pimp, she was unavailable that night, and she had no intention of seeking out a strange male. She wanted to do something special, just for herself.

While driving home, she made up her mind. She’d splurge for a luxury room at the Wiltshire Inn. She’d purchase an expensive bottle of wine, perhaps a rich Merlot, and fancy cheese and crisp crackers. And maybe a box of Renoir chocolates for when the clock struck twelve. She might even figure out the rest of her life while she relaxed.

A block before the turn into the mobile home park, she saw smoke wafting into the sky. A sickening feeling washed over her, and she lifted her foot from the gas. Fire trucks roared in the distance and reached her home seconds before she did—not that there was any home left. It wouldn’t take long for an ancient single-wide trailer to collapse into bent metal and burning embers.

Alice watched the flames from the safety of her car, picturing the fire devouring her second-hand sofa and pressboard furniture as if a ravenous brute had satisfied its urges. She could almost hear the Melamine plates and bowls and mugs crackling in the extreme heat and the dime store ornaments toppling into the inferno when the shelves gave way. Clothing would have been licked up instantaneously without a lingering trace. Shampoo and other liquids would have seeped from their plastic wombs when the containers melted in the heat. Or had it not happened that way at all? Would the tangible items, resigned to their fate, simply have given up and allowed themselves to be gobbled in one insane gulp?

She watched while men scurried from the red truck, which was almost as large as her former home, and doused the raging flames.

Stop, she thought. It’s too late.

But the firemen did their job—and did it well—though they couldn’t prevent incensed anger from accomplishing its goal.

She laughed. What a way to end the year: without a home. She wondered where her tears hid. Shouldn’t she be sobbing hysterically at the loss?

But no, she felt oddly elevated, satiated even. Relieved. She could finally move on. The trashy single-wide located in the even trashier trailer park had been holding her back, preventing her from following her dreams. The insurance money would be enough to start a new life.

She giggled. The timer had gone off as she’d been assured it would. Thank goodness for the sleezeballs she bedded. There’d be no trace of mischief, not in that mass of rubble.

While Alice waited for the police to arrive, for surely they would want to interview her, she tried to drum up tears. She’d then splurge on that luxury hotel one night sooner. She had no choice; what else could she do?

 

***

The Spot Writers:

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

http://www.kathylprice.com

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “new years.” This week’s post comes to us from Val Muller, who wrote the following poem—on the theme of time—in memory of her father-in-law, who passed unexpectedly earlier this month.

 

The Horologist

By Val Muller

 

He was a warden of time,

Counting seconds, days, minutes, hours

With meticulous care.

His favorite color, green, is the hue of life and growth—

Like the internal ticking, the motion of movements and springs,

The eternal return of summers and springs

Even after the darkest winter—the color of forever.

 

A custodian of time, he measured days, minutes, hours,

Shepherding every ticking second

The way he protected his wife, his son, his loved ones.

He wound movements and restored clock faces,

Made memories and left smiles etched on cheeks.

He fixed hour hands and held frightened ones,

Restoring resonating chimes in the silence.

 

A steward of timepieces, he counted minutes, hours, and years.

He fixed broken clasps

And applied bandages to wounded knees.

He replaced scratched crystals and drained batteries,

Nursed his wife to health and helped his son allay fears.

He kept the right pace, luminous paint glowing on watch faces

And his luminous smile glowing through the years.

 

A warden of time, he counted days, hours, years,

Mechanical wonders keeping pace through the silence,

Making sense of Time, too great for our understanding.

He knows eternity now, but the gears he built remain,

His ticking wonders, luminous hands pointing our way

And the incandescence of his memory shining in every sunset

And the chimes of his clocks sounding a bit like forever.

 

Update: For anyone interested, here is an editorial my husband wrote to honor his father and to thank members of the community who supported his father two decades ago.

 

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 “new years.” Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.

 

   Something New This Way Came

by RC Bonitz

 

Every breath produced a puff of frost before her as she shuffled through the crowd. Fingers and toes tingled already, that’s what she got for choosing fashion over comfort. New Year’s Eve in Times Square, she’d never done it before. So far it was a dud, despite the crowd, she was alone. Her holidays had been like that the last seven years, ever since her mother died. And this year she faced the big four-oh, a milestone she didn’t relish.

She sighed. Her family gone, every guy she’d ever met a Needy Ned, the coming year did not look any better. Well, she might be alone in this great crowd but damn it, she was going to have fun. Even if she had to get drunk all by herself.

Suddenly, there was an arm around her waist and she was practically dragged off her feet. Not to mention the rancid smell of alcohol breath in her face.

“Hey babe, how’s about a kiss?”

The guy was crushing her against his body and she had to throw her head back to get a good look at him. Bloated purple nose, a sure sign of an alcoholic, short gray crew cut, who knew how old he was, a leering grin, he thought he was so smart.

“Let go of me. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Aw c’mon. Just one teensy-weensy little kiss.”

She shoved against him but he was too strong. “Go away. Let go.”

“Hey, it’s New Year’s, time for fun.”

She freed her hand and slapped him in the face.

He snorted. “You’re a tiger. Way to go.”

“If you don’t let me go I’ll scream.” She glanced around. People stood there watching, standing back, some looking concerned, nobody helping. She was alone even in this. She caught the eye if a strapping young man. He turned away… Her heart sank. Maybe if she begged? But she shouldn’t have to; anyone could see she needed help.

Then she saw him, a figure in the crowd, coming toward her. A guy about her age, a grim look on his face. He shoved himself between the last of the bystanders and was there beside the bum.

“Let her go.”

The bum stared at him and laughed. “Go find your own kisses. She’s mine.”

“Let her go. I won’t say it again.”

“Buzz off, big shot.”

The newcomer said not a word. His fist connected with the drunk’s jaw and the man staggered back, still trying to hang on to her. Her new friend caught her, and set her on her feet.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “I am now, thank you.”

He stuck out his right hand. “Jason Trilby, at your service.”

“I’m Mary Anne Westcot.”

“Would you like some company for the evening?”

 

 

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 Spot Writers! This month’s prompt is “statue” and this week’s story is contributed by Kathy L. Price.

 

The Statue

 

Little did they know, the mundane, dreary people who passed by him every day, but he knew. He knew he was there, trapped forever in this coat of bronze. He could see them, sense them, hear them. If any of them happened to notice him at all, he could feel their touch if they placed a hand upon his leg or grabbed his arm. What had it been now, four hundred fifty seven years? Or was it eight? It really didn’t matter. He no longer felt the need to keep track of time. In fact, he tried not to give it much thought at all. In the early days, of course, it nearly drove him mad but he had long ago resigned himself to his fate. He would remain there forever until the statue was either melted down or some other grand catastrophe destroyed the world.

“Look, Mommy,” said the little girl, pulling at her mother’s hand. “Look at the statue. He’s alive.”

His frozen features could not change but her words sent a jolt of electricity directly to his soul. When the little girl reached out to touch him, her caress was like fire. If she could tell he was alive, did that mean the spell was weakening?

“Don’t be silly, Cassandra,” the mother said sternly as she pulled the little girl away. “Of course it’s not alive. It’s just a statue.”

“I know you’re in there,” whispered Cassy. “I’ll try to get you out.”

How cruel it was, the hope. Had Merkenla sent the little girl to taunt him? Did she think he had become too complacent in his prison, that it had ceased to be a punishment? His mind raged against the injustice. How could he endure? Yet, he had to. There was no other option. He practiced the control he’d perfected centuries ago, to become calm and still, without thought. Time moved on.

Seventeen years later, he had almost forgotten the incident when he saw a beautiful young woman enter the park. Her long blond hair was a cascade of waves spun from gold. She was tall and graceful, perhaps a dancer or a gymnast, he thought. It was something he did from time to time to keep himself amused, to try to guess what people did with their lives. She looked, somehow, familiar. Not just her physical appearance but her soul seemed to speak to his.

“The moon will be at the dark tonight,” she said to him. “Be ready,” and she lightly put her hand on his arm.

Again, the electric jolt of her touch awakened his desire to be free. Who was this girl? He felt he knew her and yet, that couldn’t be possible. Be ready for what? Did he dare hope?

The afternoon dragged on. The sun finally set and evening cast the park in deepening shadows. The lamps that lit the numerous paths of the park blinked on causing shadows that danced in the wind.

He tried hard not to think about the possibilities, of what might lie ahead. What did the girl have planned? What day was it? he wondered. Try as he might, he could remember nothing of significance to mark this day, nothing that made it any different from any of the others. If it meant his freedom, though, he would remember it forever. Would something happen tonight? Again, there was the cruel hope of release.

A hateful, familiar chuckle sounded in his head. “Don’t even think about it, my friend. You will be encased for all time. But then again, perhaps inflicting little bit of hope once in awhile adds a special touch to your meaningless existence. I’ll have to think about doing it again sometime. Ha! Your little witch thinks she has the power to undo my spell. She will find out soon enough there is no way she can match me.”

Suddenly, the lights scattered along the numerous paths in the park went out, wrapping everything in the darkness of the night. What was that coming down the path? Because he couldn’t even move his eyes, his view was very limited. It was so frustrating. He could hear them coming though, a slight rustling of footsteps on the path and a low volume chant.

“Perhaps I should let you see this,” Merkenla mused. “See how I destroy her. See how hopeless your situation really is. While you have languished here in bronze, my powers have grown well beyond what you could have ever hoped to achieve. Watch, and tremble.”

Suddenly, he could move his head. He could blink his eyes and open his mouth. Oh, to be able to speak again. He quickly realized Merkenla had made a major mistake and instantly shielded his thoughts from her. Perhaps his little witch and her companions did not have the power by themselves to undo Merkenla’s spell, but if he could speak the words and add his voice to theirs, maybe, just maybe there was a chance.

 

 

 

Members of the Spot Writers:

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy L. Price