Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Recent Posts

Browse by Tags

2014 conference abuse book review bullying christmas commuter bus contest fate flash fiction freedom ghost giveaway horror improvement inspiration lesson letterman jacket never stop learning online writing class Pennwriters redemption snow summer reading supernatural suspense TJ Jones tracking whale talk winter writing

Book Review: The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

October 20, 2014 No comments

This review contains minor spoilers.

I heard much praise about this book before I decided to read it, and I think all the praise I heard built it up in my mind, which left me slightly disappointed. The book follows a (sort of) magical circus that travels the world and opens only at night. The circus, and the story behind it, is shrouded in mystery. We later learn that two of the main people involved in the circus, Celia and Marco, are bound to keep it running as part of a sick competition initiated by Celia’s father and Marco’s mentor.

First, the wonderful: Morgenstern uses amazing imagery and figurative language. The first few chapters had me hooked, and the imagery brought me into the world of the circus. The main conflict—Celia and Marco being placed in a competition by their mentors (and against their will) was compelling at the start. Writing teachers could find lots of effective passages to teach descriptive writing.

The problem was, the tension loosened considerably after the first few chapters, and although the descriptions were still nice to read, I felt that the book dragged in the middle. The book picked up in the last fifty pages, but by that time, I was irritated at the dragging middle, feeling that I was wasting my time. Don’t get me wrong—I did enjoy the ending and the way all the characters came together. In fact, I can see the rich imagery working well if the book were turned into a high-budget film. But the fact that it took me so long to get through the middle made me feel relieved to reach the end, which I think dampened the effect the otherwise magical ending would have had on me.

I have mentioned before in my reviews that I do not prefer books written in present tense. This story is told in present tense—but this is merely a personal preference. The tense seemed to bother me more when the book slowed, as I diverted my attention to tense rather than plot. If I were stuck on a desert island and had no other pressing business to attend to, I would enjoy the slower pace of The Night Circus. I feel, however, that I could have skipped large chunks of the middle and still understood the story without missing much (or anything). Cinematic quality–yes. Plot–not as much.

Criticism aside, Morgenstern is definitely a talented author, and I look forward to seeing what else she has up her sleeve.

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: The MGA

October 16, 2014 No comments

Welcome to Spot Writers! This month’s prompt was to write a story about a car.

 

The MGA

by Kathy L. Price

 

The midnight blue MGA had been selected as “Car of the Week” and, as such, sat in the premier location at the front of the showroom. The turntable in the floor slowly rotated the MG so passersby could view the little sports car from all angles. Since the dealership was located on the corner of Orange Grove and Colorado Boulevards in the middle of downtown Pasadena, California, it was attracting a lot of attention. The top was down to show off her black leather interior and wooded dash which boasted a plethora of gages. Professionally detailed and highly waxed, she sparkled in the sunlight that streamed through the windows.

“Now, that’s the kind of car you should be driving,” said Ray.

“Yeah, right, Dad,” Ron had replied. “There’s no way I could ever afford anything like that. Even if I had enough money to buy the car, I’d never be able to pay for the insurance.”

Running his hand over the fender, Ron allowed himself to daydream just a little about what it would be like to drive it, to own it. Imagine the jealous looks he would get when he pulled into the parking lot at school. The only way he’d be able to transport his surfboard would be to leave the top down and stand it up in the front seat. He wouldn’t be able to take anyone else with him, but what a way to get to the beach.

For the past several months, Ron had been in the market for a new car. His old ’52 Plymouth, given to him by his grandmother, was on its last legs. It was requiring more and more maintenance to keep it on the road so he knew he had to get something soon.

Ron and his friend, Chester, like to go on road rallys, a popular past-time in the car culture of Southern California, and Ron had found a Simca Arondi for sale in the paper for $725. He thought it’d be perfect. It was rear engine, rear wheel drive and was a popular car on the rally circuit in Europe. Ron had gone over to take a look at it, decided he’d buy it, and had given the owner a deposit check. Then his dad had come home from a business trip.

The two of them rarely had much personal interaction. Ray had been brought up in a very strict, conservative Welsh family where affection was not part of the dynamic. His attitude was that raising children was the responsibility of the mother. It was the man’s role to provide for the family, to “bring home the bacon.” As a business owner and the principle salesman, Ray was away so often, Ron had grown up and learned to get by without him. Now, at seventeen, Ron was extremely independent. On the rare occasions when Ray was at home, there was a lot of friction in the house. That particular afternoon, when Ray showed an interest in what was going on in Ron’s life, when he seemed interested in what kind of car Ron was driving, it was something of a mystery.

“Come on,” Ray had said, when he heard about the Simca. “You’re throwing your money away on a car like that. We’ll get your deposit back and go look at a real car.”

Ron didn’t want to lose the Simca but his dad was insistent.

“Just go with him,” his mother, Betty, had pleaded. “He isn’t home that often so it’s not like you do a lot of father/son things together. Letting him help you find a car would be a nice thing for the two of you to do.”

To keep the peace, Ron reluctantly agreed. Before they left the house, though, Ray asked Betty to go with them. She tried to get out of it by saying she had too much to do. She wasn’t all that interested in looking at cars and she didn’t wanted to interfere, but Ray insisted. They all piled into the family car and headed out. When Ray pulled into Peter Santori’s Imported Motorcars in Pasadena, Ron couldn’t understand why.

Santori’s specialized in top-of-the-line British cars. They sold Bentleys and Land Rovers, Jaguars and cars by Rolls-Royce. Everything on the lot was well beyond what Ron could even dream of owning.

As it turned out, the blue 1960 MGA featured in the showroom had been taken in on trade. It was in mint condition and while they were checking it out, Ray said, “I think you should get this one. Let’s take it for a test drive.”

“Dad, I told you I can’t afford it,” Ron replied, a little angry his dad would even suggest such a thing. Ron was going to college and only worked part-time for minimum wage. He barely made enough to pay for his books and gas. Still, what would it hurt to take her for a spin around the block?

It was fantastic. She handled like a dream and zipped around the corners. Still, Ron couldn’t get too excited, knowing it was well beyond his means.

When they got back to the dealership, Ray continued to talk up the MGA. Finally, he said, “I’ll make up the difference in the payments and cover your insurance.”

Unbelievable. This was so out-of-character for his dad. What was going on? Ron was suspicious but didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hey, if his dad was willing to pick up part of the tab, he’d love to have the MGA. The Simca had more room and got far better fuel mileage but come on, there was no contest. The deal was made, the papers signed, and Ron couldn’t believe his good fortune. The car was his.

The salesman handed Ron the keys and as he stood there admiring his new ride, a gleaming white MGA pulled up behind the blue one. What was this? He looked around for his parents and saw Ray and Betty having a rather intense discussion at the other end of the showroom. Finally, Ray walked over, said “I’ll race you home,” got into the white MGA and took off.

Betty ended up driving their ratty old family stationwagon back to the house with steam coming out her ears.

 

 

Our group of contributors:

 

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

flash fiction none

The Danger of Being an Individual

October 14, 2014 No comments

…or “Why I Wrote The Scarred Letter”

Background

A high school English teacher, I taught The Scarlet Letter year after year. For some students (too few), it became a favorite book that they remembered even years after graduating. For others, Hawthorne’s sentence length, ornate language, and complicated concepts made the reading too difficult to complete or appreciate. Early in my teaching career, I decided to write a modernization of the text. Each year as I re-read the book with my students, I kept track of major character arcs and conflicts, themes, and the rich symbolism used by Hawthorne.

I periodically did Internet searches to make sure no one else was writing a modernization. Several years ago, when I learned that a movie “modernization” was being made, I put this project on the back-burner. When Easy A was released in theatres, I was relieved to see that it was not similar to the plot I had in mind, and I continued my project. (In fact, I was disappointed to see that Easy A wasn’t even school appropriate for most districts. Why make a modernized version of Hawthorne’s original if it can’t be shared with high school students?)

When I wrote the modernized version of the tale, I integrated as much of that original essence as possible while still allowing the story to stand independently of Hawthorne’s original. My hope in writing the modernized version was that teachers could use the text as a bridge to help students understand the rich themes and symbols of the original, instilling an appreciation for Hawthorne, one of my favorite authors–but that if it was not possible or practical to teach the original, my story could at least emphasize what I love so much about Hawthorne’s.

What I Love About Hawthorne’s Original

I love the way Hawthorne was obsessed with the Puritans. Having an ancestor involved in the Salem Witch Trials (as a member of the court) scarred him in a permanent way. His obsession makes his writing almost paranoid in its intensity, especially as he examines the internal workings of individuals living within society. The passion comes through in his rich imagery and dense symbolism, which was meant to be quite obvious to readers of his time. But it’s a little much for a modern high school reader: the language is sometimes so dense that Hawthorne’s passion gets lost.

What I wanted to share with modern readers is the strength of Hawthorne’s main character. Hester Prynne’s family in England was forced to marry her to Roger Prynne (who later chooses the name Roger Chillingworth to hide his identity). Hester enjoyed life in England and had no desire to move to the cold, stark Puritan community in the New World. But she is forced to obey her husband, and she is sent ahead of him.

Although she has an affair with Dimmesdale, she does this only after enough time has passed (and evidence presented) to believe that her husband died in a shipwreck. From a social standpoint, she is a sinner. From an unbiased moral standpoint, she has done nothing wrong; in fact, she is a victim of her expected role in society. But she is too strong to be a victim.

Hester chooses to remain in the small Puritan settlement despite her poor treatment by the townspeople. She earns her own living and raises her daughter as she sees fit. She volunteers, and she never snaps back when others treat her poorly. In many ways, she is more “Puritan” than the Puritans. And all this amidst the terrible hypocrisy prevalent in the town. Even when Chillingworth and Dimmesdale become weak and co-dependent, Hester keeps her strength and her identity.

The Danger of Being an Individual

I wanted to capture that strength. In today’s world, few people are brave enough to truly be themselves. Indeed, I often question whether I am being myself at any given time, or if I am simply behaving the way society expects me to behave. Do you ever feel that you are “acting” a part rather than being yourself? In The Scarred Letter, I asked the question: what if someone were uninhibited in being herself… all the time?

Scarred Leter FinalHeather’s father, who during the book is estranged from Heather and her mother, has chosen the more difficult path in life. He is openly honest and insists on the truth. He will not live a lie even in order to bring a family back together. This is something we are not taught to value–as early as kindergarten, I remember being taught the concept of a “white lie.” Heather is truly his daughter, and to the frustration of her mother, she chooses to follow her father’s teachings.

When she finds out about steroid use at her school, she sees Adam acting as her foil. He finds it easier to complain privately and “suck it up” publicly in order to stay under the radar, remaining an accepted part of the team. In The Scarlet Letter, Dimmesdale (sometimes appeared that he) wanted to do the right thing, but he was terrified to stand up against an entire society, even with Hester’s support. Adam is the same way.

Though his experience has created a true crucible for him, Adam’s situation is in many ways what all of us encounter every day. How many of us have silently complained about something, only to give in rather than standing up? I think of examples in history in which people have collectively accepted what they are told, or have feared standing up so that they appear to have accepted an unpleasant truth.

It’s why characters like Huck Finn and Holden Caulfield resonate with me. Though not perfect, they constantly question what they are told and what society values. It’s why I admire characters like Hank Rearden and Howard Roark: they act as individuals without allowing their identities to be influenced by others. It’s why we all adore Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games and Tris Prior from Divergent: they stand up against a system that’s meant to squash individuals, doing what most are terrified to do. These two young women see a system designed to make the individual lose, and they decide not to choose the “lesser of two evils,” but to change the system itself. (How many of us have quietly left the polls on election day, feeling disgusted that, once again, we voted for the lesser of two evils even with the knowledge that the system lends itself to corruption and limited choices?)

Emerson and Thoreau wrote often about the importance of remaining an individual and acting upon one’s own individual values and beliefs. But it seems an inherent trait of humanity that standing out as an individual is less preferred than giving in to the path of least resistance. But what if we lived the way the Transcendentalists advocated? What if we all became Huck Finns or Katniss Everdeens? What if we did not allow ourselves to be so influenced by what everyone else claims to believe? What kind of world would we create?

These are questions I sought to answer in The Scarred Letter. I admire protagonist Heather Primm greatly for her individuality and her strength. If there were more of her in society, I think the world would be a better place.

 

You can read the first four chapters of The Scarred Letter for free here. There’s also a code for a 35% off coupon when ordered directly from the publisher. The Scarred Letter is available in paperback and ebook.

cheating, inspiration, musings, The Scarred Letter, writing none

Book Review: The Ring of McAllister: An SAT Score-Raising Mystery by Robert Marantz

October 13, 2014 No comments

Advertised as “featuring 1,046 must-know vocabulary words,” this supernatural mystery is published by Kaplan and marketed to students wanting to build vocabulary for the SAT. That said, the primary goal of this story is learning words rather than the plot itself. The story follows a high-school junior, Will Lassiter, who lives next door to a creepy old mansion that was once the home of McAllister, the town’s supposedly philanthropic founder. But there are parts of the town’s history that don’t add up, and Will has always been bothered by the creepy mansion after a disturbing childhood incident there.

The story started off slowly, but it built speed at a steady pace. The pages are short because there are footers on each page defining all of the SAT vocabulary used. Most pages contain at least five SAT words. At some points, the words seemed well-integrated into the story. At other times, they were a bit of a stretch. From a narrative perspective, the use of so many SAT words hurt the voice at the beginning of the story, but once the story hooked me (around page 100, probably), the voice and the heavy use of SAT words stopped sticking out.

It was an intriguing mystery, and I was glad that the ghosts in the story are actually real ghosts—rather than the typical Scooby Doo mystery in which someone is dressed up as a ghost. Ghost stories by their nature are compelling to me. I read the book in fifteen-minute increments, during our sustained silent reading period at school, and since the story was easy to access, it fit those reading blocks well.

I would definitely recommend it to anyone wanting to build vocabulary without being tied down to memorizing tedious lists. I knew most of the words in the book, but there were a few I had never encountered before.

book reviews none

Flash Fiction: Shadow Dance

October 9, 2014 No comments

This month’s prompt is to write about a car. The story this week comes from Cathy MacKenzie, who has chosen a story from one of her two recently published compilations of short stories titled Paper Patches (short fiction for women). Paper Patches is available from Smashwords for $2.99. Cathy’s second book, Broken Cornstalks, is also available from Smashwords.

 

Shadow Dance

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

At the restaurant, in between mouthfuls of Thai chicken bites and Caesar salad, I take stock of Dan, my husband. I’m startled to notice how much thicker—and darker—his hair seems. Has he dyed his white hair a tawny brown? His face, once etched with deep furrows and spattered with red blotches, is smoother than I remembered. His now-burnished skin glows as if he’s spent too much time outdoors.

When we arrive home, I glimpse my own face in the hall mirror, a face I almost don’t recognize. I stare at the drawn reflection bordered with wispy whitish hair. Crows’ feet fan from the outer corners of my sunken eyes, and fleshy bags perch beneath dwindling lower lashes. My jowls sag like soggy dishrags pinned to the clothesline on a breezeless day.

I sense Dan’s presence and move away from the mirror. He stares at me as if he hasn’t seen me before, just as I seemingly viewed him for the first time earlier at the restaurant. I want to hide my face in shame. Does he see tell-tale age on me? Will he search out someone younger? Or has he already?

Without a word, he turns and sprints to the garage to work on his vehicles, specifically his ’65 Mustang. He cherishes that car, caring for it as a mother would her newborn. I’ve spied on him in the past while he caressed its smooth, firm body. I’ve seen him tenderly slide a soapy cloth across the surface and, after carefully spraying off the suds, lovingly rub on the oil paste as if applying sunscreen over a svelte young woman. I’ve watched while he polished the frame to a radiant sheen.

I often wonder what goes through his mind while he continually kneads an ever-immaculate chassis into gloss shimmering like a new black patent shoe. Does he think of me? Someone else? Or is he too immersed to think of anything?

While I watch his backside vanish down the hall, I debate whether to follow. Instead, I remain in the kitchen and gaze around the recently redecorated room—the stark black granite, the matching stainless steel appliances, the resurfaced cupboard doors—and wonder where life begins and ends. Similar to puffs of smoke on a windy day, my years disappeared too fast. What good are material possessions? What happens to us and to those in our past when we’re gone?

Where will that car go? Who will treasure that vehicle as my husband does?

More importantly, who will cherish me when he’s gone? He’ll depart first. If not, I’m certain I’ll live longer than a dratted car that gobbles up his time and money.

A force of courage propels me to again peer into the mirror. The features are displayed before me, etched for all-time in that rectangle of recently cleaned glass. Mirrors don’t lie—they never did; they never will. My eyes can lower to hide what they don’t want to acknowledge; I can’t be scarred by what I can’t see, but unfortunately, I’ve already seen it. I already know. Tearing out my eyes won’t make the years disappear. Time has taken its rightful place. Obvious age has attached itself, and there’s nothing left once those deadly talons have latched.

Maybe luck would have been on my side had Dan succeeded in blinding me that day many years ago. The searing liquid hit me square in the face but didn’t penetrate into my eyes when, instinctively, they closed tight. No one can touch that car of his—except him, of course; I learned that the hard way.

Perhaps not being blinded was my downfall. Had I been blinded that day, I wouldn’t be able to see today how horribly I’ve morphed over the years. I’d forever remember me when I was twenty-five, when I was still desirable.

What happened a few minutes ago when Dan saw me by the mirror? Did he suddenly encounter an old woman instead of his once-young, pretty wife? Or had he even seen my beauty those many years previously? Perhaps he’s only ever had eyes for his Mustang, for he’s owned that vehicle longer than me. That car’s family, after all. Not to mention the car has retained its beauty and grace throughout the years; its appearance has never changed, thanks to his meticulousness.

I sneak down the hallway and open the door to the off-limits garage. The Mustang leers at me—the headlights glare and the grill sneers like fangs. The body shines as one titanic twinkling star, revealing reflections of youth and lust. At the far end of the triple-car garage, Dan holds a blow torch, hard at work on an old Chevy. He doesn’t hear the door’s creak nor does he see me enter the forbidden room.

When I stumble over a pile of car parts, I lunge to the Mustang rather than tumble to the concrete, where I would chance a bone fracture.

The racket jars Dan from his intense labours. “What you doin’!” he shrieks. “Get off my car!”

I jump back. But it’s too late. My body and greasy fingerprints have marred the gloss of his favourite friend. Within mere seconds, before I realize he’s leaped in front of me, I feel the heat—hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced previously.

“Take that, you.…” The rest of his words are garbled. Someone else might have been able to decipher them, but not me.

 

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

flash fiction none

When the World Lives a Lie: Is Cheating in School the Status Quo?

October 7, 2014 No comments

When I was in school, I had a bizarre experience involving cheating. As a preface: most of my classes were useful, and most of my teachers were dedicated. However, in a class which I shall not name, I remember an answer sheet being passed around during a ten-question quiz. The answer sheet literally went around the whole room. I had my eye on the teacher, and he seemed oblivious at his desk—either grading or reading. When the answer sheet got to me, I shook my head, indicating that I didn’t want it. “Pass it, then,” the person behind me whispered, irritated.

I shook my head again.

“Just pass it!”

By that time, the whispering got so loud that the person in front of me simply reached behind me to retrieve the answer sheet. It continued its way around the room as the teacher continued to be distracted by whatever at his desk was so captivating.

Our teacher graded the quizzes while we worked on the next activity, and then, at the end of the class, we reviewed the answers from the quiz. When the bell rang, I was asked to stay after class. I assumed my teacher was going to ask me who was in charge of passing around the answer sheet—he had to have known! But he didn’t. He asked me why I, one of his best students, had earned a 70% on the quiz when every other student earned a 100%.

At first I thought he was testing me. I couldn’t believe he was so oblivious as to not have seen the cheat sheet. But it was true—he honestly thought that the entire class had so absorbed his teachings that every student earned a 100%—except for me. It dawned on me that he was admonishing me for not studying. But in actuality, what he was admonishing me for was… not cheating.

In the past, I’d never seen much valiancy in my refusal to cheat—though I didn’t believe in cheating in school and had refused cheating many times, it was just a choice I made. But the conundrum I found myself in perplexed me. Here I was, being called a bad student when in reality I should have been praised for my honesty. I felt that my character was being assaulted, but what were my options? Did I really want to be the snitch? In the grand scheme of life, what was a ten-question quiz, or my score on it, for that matter? For a moment, the answer flashed in my mind: the rest of the class had cheated.

But my voice refused to obey.

“I was distracted,” I mumbled. This was true. “I’m also bad at multiple-choice questions.” This was also true. I could second-guess my way out of a 100% on a multiple-choice quiz any day. I finished up with an excuse involving a late-night project for AP French. All half-truths.

The story ended with me quickly re-taking the quiz (the one we had just reviewed), scoring a 90%, and receiving a pass to my next class.

But I was disturbed enough by the incident to remember it over a decade later. In a single class period, I had managed to annoy my fellow classmates and perplex my teacher—all by being honest. There was some unwritten law I was sinning against. It was surreal and disturbing.

Is cheating in schools the status quo? This particular teacher had been teaching for over 30 years. Had he subconsciously convinced himself that cheating was okay? Or was he that far removed from reality that cheating wasn’t even a possibility?

When I originally set out to write The Scarred Letter, I wanted Heather’s struggle to be set against an academic cheating ring that funneled well-connected students to college; but I was told by numerous people that no one would care enough about academic cheating to pick up the book. Thus, I decided on cheating in sports instead. Sports are something everyone can be involved in—something everyone can see. Cheating in academics is sneakier and less obtrusive. But the damage is still the same.

By cheating in school, students are making the decision that learning is not important—that the particular facts or concepts being tested do not matter. That only the grade is important. That life is a system to be gained, a game to be played.

But for me, it’s not a matter of morals in the sense that one should do what one has been taught is “right.” For me, it’s about having personal integrity—that one draws empowerment from using one’s inner strength to accomplish things in life.

In The Scarred Letter, one of the football players has been working very hard to get better at the game, but he is distressed that some of the players have taken steroids. Protagonist Heather Primm tries to convince him to come forward about the cheaters, but he feels that same social pressure that I felt—the stigma against being “the snitch.” But for Heather, it’s not about snitching. It’s about people working with and being rewarded for their inner strength. It’s about the truth. And, like me, Heather is left to wonder about the adults in charge at the school. Do the coaches really have no idea that cheating is taking place on their team, or are they turning a blind eye in favor of success?

Heather is stronger than I was in high school, but she faces consequences I avoided. Still, it strikes me that cheating—in all forms—is dependent on a societal acceptance of it When a potential cheater asks to copy homework, the student being asked can either give in to social norms (allow the cheating) or be stigmatized as a stuck-up, goody-goody snitch. In high school, when I was asked if someone could copy my homework, others sometimes answered for me: she doesn’t allow it. The way they said it made it seem like I had a horrible disease, like there was something wrong with me. I was the one doing wrong, not the cheater. In our society, and in high school especially, we make it harder to do the “right” thing than the wrong. One who stands up for the truth is subjected to gossip, ridicule, and bullying.

And that is something Heather Primm finds unacceptable. Her struggles at Orchard Valley High School attest to it.

You can read the first four chapters of The Scarred Letter for free here. While there, you can also request a preview and 35% discount coupon.

cheating, inspiration, The Scarred Letter, writing none

Spot Writers: Kamikaze Bambi

October 2, 2014 No comments

The prompt this week was to write about a car. I was going to write about my beloved 1989 Camry… until this happened. This story comes to us from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter, Faulkner’s Apprentice, and the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series.

Bambi Kamikaze

By Val Muller

It’s late September, and Autumn is just starting to color the trees

Like the first startling traces of gray in the mirror.

The trees bend across Dry Spring Road,

Enclosing cars in a woodland embrace

That blocks away highway traffic to the north.

It is a commute that sees horses and fields and sometimes cows,

A commute that sees thick mist evaporate in the low morning sun,

That smells of manure and pollen and fireplaces,

A commute that forgets the city is only an hour away.

But the city is close enough to make cars forget

That the woods once owned the road

And may yet again.

And then, a blur of tan,

A spotted white, determined muzzle—

It’s Kamikaze Bambi

Racing my car.

The hanging trees do not care

Whether I swerve over the yellow lines

Into oncoming traffic.

So I continue on the fast, dangerous asphalt

And the tan streak continues toward my car.

Two thundering hoofprints echo against my heart and my door

As I speed onward, leaving a gyrating tan sphere in the rear view mirror,

Recovering from the dangerous high five

Exchanged with my car.

 

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

 

flash fiction, poetry none

The Prickling Time of Year

October 1, 2014 No comments

Happy October!

For those of you loving sweaters and pumpkin spice everything, happy October! For those of you dreading the snow and plummeting temperatures—enjoy October while you can. And for those of you (like me) who miss summer already, just be glad it’s not winter quite yet—and “we are closer to spring than we were in September.”

Despite the sorrow of packing away flip-flops and swimsuits, I do enjoy the chills of October, especially the metaphorical ones. To me, October has a “twilight” personality—the purple feeling at the end of the day with just a prick of dread that darkness is coming. Something about the chill in the air warns us to prepare. But for what? Is it something baked into our biology? Something about stocking up for the winter?

Since we’re fortunate enough to live in a world that manages to function even in the deep of winter, there’s not a whole lot of preparing to be done—check on that old snow blower, buy salt or sand or ice melt before everyone else does, air out those blankets from the attic…

But our biology still pricks us at this time of year, tries to scare us a little bit. Thus, the propensity for scaring ourselves. We love seeing jack-o-lanterns and ghosts, spider webs hanging from trees, glowing purple and orange candles in the window. We love the sweet scent of leafy decay, the crunch of leaves and the plunk of acorns, the chill in the air that makes it feel so good to wrap in a comforter and sip mulled apple cider.

largeillustrationWhen I wrote Corgi Capers: Deceit on Dorset Drive, I channeled my childhood experiences with Halloween and autumn. Adam’s imagination wanders much as mine did. The spooky time of year tickles the suspicious parts of his brain. He wonders, as I did, if his neighbor was secretly a witch. And on Halloween, he endures a terrifying ordeal when a white van attempts to kidnap him—or at least pretend to. This is incredibly frightening—as I know from experience. That Halloween when I was growing up is seared in my mind… the way the white van pulled up at the edge of the driveway. The way the side door seemed to open on its own. The way a creepy voice called out to us in the damp mist of the dark: get in.

Luckily, things turned out okay for me (and my fellow trick-or-treaters), though the evening ended up with some very concerned parents and police officers meeting with us in the living room of a friend.

Writing Faulkner’s Apprentice, I had a darker fear in mind: the fear written about by Sophocles in Oedipus Rex and anyone who has ever written a tragedy since then—the fear that we may unwittingly bring about our own downfall. To me, this is the scariest possibility of all—that despite the fact that we (like Oedipus) try to be good and do the right thing, we may be forging the path to our own demise. I wrote about this dark fascination through Lorelei, the main character in Faulkner’s Apprentice, a tale that questions the cost of over-ambition.

This October, you can read either the kidlit mystery Corgi Capers: Deceit on Dorset Drive or the grown-up supernatural chiller Faulkner’s Apprentice for just $2.99.

Corgi Capers for Kindle

Faulkner’s Apprentice for Kindle | for Nook

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the chill in the air!

Halloween, holiday, musings none

Spot Writers: 1949 Mercury

September 25, 2014 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about a car…

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

 

1949 Mercury

by RC Bonitz

Today’s theme is to write something about a car. Well, I think modern cars are boring. Reliable for the first hundred thousand miles, too complicated for the average home mechanic to repair, they actually get you where you’re going. Not so much when I was young.

My first car was a 1949 Mercury bought for $300 when it was nine years old. It had all of 54,000 miles on it, which made it a relic at that time. Its front bumper was bent outwards on one end where someone else had caught it with their car. Bumpers then were made of heavy steel, so straightening it wasn’t easy.

That car was a survivor. The day my first child was due home from the hospital I polished it up so it would look its best in honor of the occasion. No sooner had I picked up my rags and wax and stepped up on the curb than a guy came round the corner and smashed into the driver’s door. And the center post. And the rear door. Lovely. After a fight with his insurance company I got enough money to buy two doors at a junk yard and repair the car myself. Did a good job if I do say so myself.

Shortly thereafter the car began to stall at random times. I was working part time as a gas jockey, so began expensive (for me) attempts to fix the problem with the help of my boss. A new fuel pump and a few other repairs I no longer recall did not solve the problem. Then one day the car wouldn’t start. I turned off the ignition switch, turned it on again, and behold, the engine roared to life. Aha, said I, perhaps? Sure enough, a $1.19 ignition switch (things were cheaper then) solved the problem.

There were more adventures to come. The time it overheated in traffic on a NYC bridge. The temperature gauge (yes, cars had gauges back then) went right to the top and stayed there, but the engine kept running. When I finally reached a gas station and poured water into the radiator all sorts of rust and other gunk erupted from the fill pipe. Though it seemed nothing could be left of the engine, regular use of a radiator sealer (a common product at the time) kept it purring like a kitten. Except when the fuel pump failed. And the transmission burned out. Back to the junk yard I went and fixed them both.

Don’t let me mislead you. Old Betsy wasn’t always broken down. I just didn’t have any money. In college at the time, married with two kids, I was borrowing to live. Even normal maintenance on the car was a problem. When the heater failed I didn’t have the three bucks it cost for a new thermostat. So, I rigged a wooden board to block the radiator to make the car run hotter. Of course, the defroster never quite got warm enough to clear the windshield of winter snow and frost, but who had to see to drive?

After three years I sold the car for $75, then saw it in a parking lost a couple of years later. The new owner had destroyed the interior, which had been immaculate when I sold it to him. It broke my heart to see that, but the car was still running which was some consolation.

Ah, I loved that car. Never felt that way about another. There’s nothing like the magic of your first car. Especially when you had to put so much of your heart and soul into keeping it alive.

 

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

 

flash fiction none

Flash Fiction: Silver Flash

September 18, 2014 No comments

Welcome to Spot Writers! The September 2014 prompt is to use the following five words: bubbles, airplane, attention, facts, solved.  This week’s contribution comes from Kathy L. Price. Initially being lazy, Kathy used all five words in one sentence:  I solved the problem of having bubbles develop in the model airplane fuselage by paying close attention to the application directions and reading the facts listed in the epoxy brochure. Here’s her short story:

Silver Flash

by Kathy L. Price

 

Silver Flash, an old Cherokee 140 airplane, sat on the tarmac at a small airfield in New Brunswick, Georgia, patiently waiting.  He was up for sale and knew his owner was expecting a potential buyer to show up later in the evening. In preparation, Flash had been washed and fueled, vacuumed and polished. He hoped the person coming to see him tonight would be a good pilot. Everyone who had come to look at him so far had very little experience and were looking to buy their very first airplane. He was tired of their lack of confidence. Flash had done his share of teaching but he was older now and just wanted to be able to relax with someone at the controls who knew what their were doing. He hoped the person coming to look at him tonight would be someone who really knew how to fly and liked to go places. Flash’s current owner was competent but had gotten busy with other things and did not seem to have a lot of time to take him flying. That meant Flash spent at lot of time on the ground and he had become very bored.

Flash began plotting how he could get rid of this buyer if it turned out he, or she, wasn’t very good. He thought about how he might put bubbles into the fuel and cause the engine to quit. If he did it when they were up in the air, it would let him know right away if this potential buyer really knew how to fly or not. He wouldn’t let them crash, though. He’d make sure they all came through safely. Maybe it was selfish and mean, but he was getting too cranky to patiently put up with all the mistakes new pilots typically made.

Finally, a car pulled into the parking lot. A man and woman got out, made their way onto the airfield, and eventually wandered over to where Flash was tied down. These people had to be the potential buyers. Flash listened intently as they looked him over and it sounded as if the man knew a lot about airplanes. He pointed out to the woman all the good things he saw and even showed her, to Flash’s embarrassment, some of his warts.

After a few minutes, Flash’s owner showed up and talked briefly with the buyers. They discussed Flash’s history and exchanged the pertinent facts about engine time, the airframe, and all the equipment on board. Finally, his owner said, “Let’s go flying!”

Flash’s owner was a little on the heavy side. The potential buyer was no light-weight, either, and his wife wasn’t slim. Flash’s tanks were full of fuel, which weighed 6.5 pounds a gallon, and with all three of the people on board, Flash knew he’d be over his manufacturer’s rated weight limit. He was strong, though, and was confident he could handle it.

As Flash raced down the runway, he quickly reached airspeed and, despite the heavy load, leaped easily into the sky. He loved to fly and wanted it to show. He belonged in the air. He didn’t want to stay tied up on the ground.

The timing and the weather this evening were perfect, too. Flash couldn’t have asked for better and he climbed out just as the sun was setting in the west. It painted the sky with pink and orange, lavender and gold. As they banked out to the east, over the Atlantic Ocean and the barrier islands just off the coast, the sky darkened to a deep, deep blue. The big, full moon reflected beams of silver which danced like diamonds on the water below. It was all very romantic. He hoped he was making a good impression.

The potential buyer’s hand were steady, sure, and confident on the controls. Flash had been able to tell, right away, the man had a lot of experience, a lot hours in the air. He asked Flash to do some Dutch rolls to demonstrate his coordination and a stall to see if Flash was rigged efficiently. Flash easily passed all the tests with flying colors and he decided he wouldn’t have to put bubbles in the fuel after all. This man knew how to fly!  After an hour or so cruising along the coast, they turned and headed back to the airfield. By now, it was dark and they used the radio to click on the lights for the runway. The man landed him perfectly.

The buyers agreed to meet his owner again in the morning and took Flash’s log books back to their hotel. Flash knew there had been some manufacturing recalls which had been fixed and a few minor mechanical problems had also been solved over the years. All of the information should have been entered in his log books, though, and he hoped they were in order.

Early the next day, Flash saw the man and woman meet his owner in the parking lot. He hoped so much they would buy him. They didn’t come out to see him again and Flash wondered what was happening. All night long Flash had been on pins and needles, thinking up all sorts of exciting new adventures he might have if they did. Where did they live? How often would they fly? Where would they go? To interesting places? Or would they just stay in a small area, landing at the same old airfields over and over again?  That would be boring. Had they decided not to buy him after all?

Days went by and Flash was left to wait and wonder. He didn’t see his owner again or the new people and his hopes began to fade. He began to feel like he was going to sit in the same old spot on this same, boring little airfield forever.

Finally, early the next Saturday morning, he saw them in the parking lot: his owner and the new people. They talked for awhile then came over to Flash.

Hurray! Hurray! They’d bought him after all. The new owner, Ron, climbed into the cockpit. He took Flash up into the air and they flew off together to a new life full of travel and adventure.

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: Kathylprice.com(Website in development)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uncategorized none
Powered by WordPress Web Design by SRS Solutions © 2026 Val Muller Design by SRS Solutions