Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

We is a Russian novel first published in the 1920s in New York (Banned in its home country, it wasn’t published in Russia until 1988!). I wanted to read this book because it’s the prototype around which 1984 (admittedly) and Brave New World (allegedly) were modeled. In both cases, the similarities are clear, but each of the three novels has its own take on the dystopian theme of collective versus individual. This review contains some, but not all, spoilers.

In We, the protagonist is known as D-503 (all citizens are referred to as a number; in fact, all people are simply called “Numbers.” The novel takes place in the far future (there is a historical event referred to as the Two Hundred Years War, which allowed the “final revolution” to take place, resulting in the current society). D-503 is working on a spaceship called the Integral. One State hopes to send this probe into space to spread the perfect society that One State has become.

The civilization in One State is surrounded by glass. Most buildings are made of glass, allowing Numbers to see what other Numbers are doing. The civilization itself is surrounded by a glass wall that filters sun and blocks bad weather. The point is: everything is predicted and prescribed. Numbers have a “table” that tells them what they must do at each given hour of the day. During the prescribed time for walking, they walk side-by-side—like lock-step robots.

The Benefactor is the “Big Brother” character in this novel. It’s shown that he executes those who displease him by rebelling against the state (they’re executed by being placed in a dome until they suffocate). There are poets, but their role is to write poetry for state-sanctioned occasions. D-503’s friend, for example, is a poet who primarily writes poetry to be read at Executions.

The book is told through a journal D-503 is writing. It’s clear that Orwell took this as inspiration: Winston is writing in a journal in 1984, writing to a group of people who are freer than he. Similarly, D-503 is writing to a civilization that seems to be us, today—one who doesn’t understand the strange, regulated practices of One State. His journals make much use of mathematical metaphor, so if you are rusty on math (like I am), you should brush up. For instance, D-503 is bothered by the concept of imaginary numbers (I can sympathize with him on that one—math started making no sense to me at that point in my studies!). He is also bothered—but strangely fascinated, it seems—by anything beyond the norm. For instance, D-503 claims that he has hairy hands, and this bothers him immensely. He also notices a man named S, who is curved like an S, and a woman whose face has fish-like features. This becomes important later.

Though most things are made of glass, Numbers may request permission to engage in sex with other Numbers. This is to prevent jealousy–the whole point of this society is for everything to be ordered and controlled. Unknown variables are feared. Any Number may request any other Number, so Numbers may have multiple partners; D-503 does. O-90 is his lover and begs for him to impregnate her (illegally) so she can have a(n unsanctioned) child. He complies and later helps her try to retain custody of her baby, despite his “brain” telling him he should not be crossing One State.

He also meets a rebellious woman named I-330. I-330 introduces him to an ancient house (like the antique shop in 1984). This house is unique in that it has actual walls—not glass. It houses artifacts of the past and is watched over by an ancient Number. We come to learn that the ancient house contains a way to enter the area beyond the glass walls. D-503 eventually has an affair with (and becomes madly in love/obsessed with) I-330 and enters this area, finding a group of people who seem to be covered in fur. These are rebels—relatively “free” people who live life their own way. Once again, D-503 is strangely fascinated and horrified by them. He joins them for a time and plots ways to use the INTEGRAL to help them and their cause.

Still, D-503’s journal entries show that he is torn. He realizes he is contradicting One State. He keeps telling himself he is sick—he even visits a doctor who tells him he is afflicted with having a “soul.” D-503 continues to document his “madness” in hopes that his readers will fully understand what he is going through. Soon, One State clears out all the auditoriums to make room for operating tables. The State has discovered a way to essentially lobotomize part of the human brain (using X-rays) in order to kill the imagination.

Big spoiler. D-503 is eventually caught by the Benefactor. He confesses everything and undergoes the operation, thereby “healing” himself of his imagination and soul. I-330, however, will not confess or break down at all, despite the Benefactor’s attempts at torturing her. Once again, the pessimistic ending (the victory of the state over the individual) and the use of torture is echoed in 1984.

All hope is not lost, however. For instance, at one point birds re-enter the glass city, and it’s implied that the State will not be able to continue on forever. Once again, math is used as a metaphor. Though the people have been told that the Two Hundred Years War allowed for the final revolution, they realize that in math, there is no such thing as a final number: numbers are infinite, so there can be no final revolution. In other words, there is always hope. That was my favorite message in the otherwise grim book.

The other part of this book I found fascinating is how the Benefactor made a stark comparison between religion—Christianity specifically—and his own rule. I’m not anti-religion by any means, but I have always been fascinated with how “bad” people through history have tried to use religion to manipulate and control others. In this case, the Benefactor explains that in religion, people like the idea of a decisive, vengeful God. They like to know that there are definite rules and definite consequences. This is logical. He notes that it is human nature to want to give up control to such a higher power. He, like Big Brother, is simply taking the place of that higher power. It is his job to run One State with specific rules, and it is his job to execute people who fail to obey. This is similar to 1984. In the end, Winston is made to realize that he loves Big Brother, and that all his unhappiness prior to his “epiphany” was simply caused by the fact that he was wrong—and didn’t put blind faith in what Big Brother told him, that sometimes, black is white.

Although I am glad I read this novel, I didn’t enjoy it as much as I liked 1984. I do see where Orwell (admittedly) took his inspiration, but I thought 1984 was much easier to relate to, and character motives are just a bit easier to understand. 1984, I thought, was much more terrifying, taking the ideas of We to a more disturbing level. In We, I at least got the impression that there was a reason behind the Benefactor’s desire to impose strict rules on everyone. It seemed One State truly did want to impose order for the benefit of all (the consequences were still terrible). In 1984, it seems that those in the Inner Party simply want to have power because they can. The results are the same, though, regardless of the motive. This is only my first read-through of the We, so I plan to read it again in a few months to see what else I can pick up on.

I read this book as part of my dystopia kick, along with 1984, Atlas Shrugged, and Brave New World. I also plan on reading The Iron Heel. If you have any other classic dystopias to recommend, please leave me a comment or send me an email. I’m fascinated by people’s imaginings (and their real-life inspirations) about our future and the ways in which we might harm ourselves. I also like to see author’s opinions on whether—and how—we will be able to overcome our self-destructive tendencies and start over. In We, I was particularly fascinated with the beast-like tendencies of the people beyond the wall. Reason seemed to be an enemy in this book.

The theme of this week (“I’m so cold my bones have frozen”) is appropriate, as winter temperatures seem to be here forever, at least for author Cathy MacKenzie. Her most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords:

Frozen in Time

by Cathy MacKenzie

 Until Vivian heard her husband’s voice, she wondered if she had actually spoken.

“What?” John said.

Despite the cold, warm relief rushed through her body at his reply. She yearned to touch him, but her arms were bolted to her sides. Icy crisps filled her mouth when she attempted to speak, but she made another attempt.

“So cold. Freezing.”

“You’re always cold,” John said.

“No, it’s truly cold, John. It is. So cold I can barely breathe.” She swallowed more frosty crystals, which melted as they cruelly descended down her throat. John was a raging furnace, especially in bed, unlike Vivian who was continually chilled and craved his warmth on winter nights. A vision of the two of them snuggling in bed formed before her.

Panic set in when he didn’t reply. “Can you hear me? John?”

“I hear you.”

“Cold. Very cold. Where are you?” Vivian said. The arctic hardness weighting her down was colder and longer-lasting than any other she had experienced. She hated the cold, always had.

“Vivian?”

“I’m here. Can’t see.” Though it took great effort to open her mouth and Vivian felt she should conserve her energy, she had to talk to her husband. Had to know he was near despite the glacial dankness.

Vivian heard a muffled reply. At least she thought she did. Had he spoken? Why couldn’t she see him?

“Can you see me?” she said.

In the muted silence, time remained still. Frozen. Could they be? Or was it just her? Vivian remembered the day—or thought she had. Had she and John gone skiing, as they usually did on the weekends? It was still winter, right? To whom was she talking? Was John there?

“John?”

“I’m here.”

“What’s happening? Where are we?”

 “I…not sure,” he said, hesitation and uncertainty obvious in his voice.

 “Are we in a dream? Am I dreaming? I can usually wake myself out of a dream, when I want to. I want to now. But I can’t.”

“Vivian, that’s hogwash. If you can do that, then you’re not really asleep. I’ve told you that before.”

 “Just humour me. Try to wake yourself up, John.”

Vivian heard nothing in response but the cold. Could one hear cold? Certain she could, she shivered though tightly encased in her arctic prison. Pressure numbed her ears as liquid trudged down her eardrums.

John was trying to wake up, she knew it. Both of them must awake from the horrid dream they were immersed in. But when had they ever shared the same nightmare? When had they ever discussed dreaming within a dream?

“No, I’m still awake,” John said. “Or asleep. Whatever I am. Nothing’s changed.”

Vivian would have sighed in desperate resignation, had she been able to. But a swallow of another clump of ice crisps was all she could muster.

“Vivian…I…love…”

Silence ruled. Although it seemed a lifetime elapsed, Vivian knew it was merely minutes. How could a life pass by that fast?

“Vivian, you there?” John’s voice sounded weaker.

“Yes…here. But… I’m sinking, John. Sinking somewhere…not sure where… I…” She closed her mouth, then parted her lips. The life sucked from her. Although unable to utter her last words—“I’m so cold my bones have frozen”—she suspected John already knew.

***

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/

Melinda Elmore
http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

renee shearer

Today, I’m happy to feature guest author Renee Swann on my blog. After checking out her post, be sure to stop by her website to say hi:

 

My family says I’ve always had a way with words. And I suppose that’s true. They seem to flow fluently from my mind to paper (or computer). I’ve been writing little stories since I could write. It has always been a kind of release to me, a way to get any angst or troubles out.

 

I have a folder with a handful of (very roughly) finished or half-finished novels. Maybe I’ll go back and finish them one day, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. Those rough drafts got me through the hard times and they’ll be with me for ever. What does matter, is that I keep going (Who am I kidding? As if I could give it up!), because for every goal I smash through, I get a little bit closer to my dreams. Every piece of fiction I pen holds the possibility to change someone’s life for the better — which is what any writer can hope for.

 

And there’s one novel that changed mine.

 

Two years ago, on a caffeine and sugar high, a character popped into my head. She was twitching with her own sugar and caffeine overdose and I instantly loved her. As a cupcake baker, Veronica Hart’s main concerns were if she’d made enough cupcakes for the day and keeping up with the horde of customers. Until two people return from her past — one determined to shake things up, the other begging for forgiveness. Both are wanting to win back her heart. And her world is about to be turned upside down.

 

I wrote The Truth about Love (aforementioned book) in six weeks, while being mentored by a very talented author: Anne Harth. Her faith in me and enthusiasm for my writing kept me going. I have learnt so much since then and continue to do so.

 

My Never (My Never #1)In early 2013, I wrote a 5,000 word short story for a competition (Love on the Road). It didn’t win but I lengthened it to a novella and in August, it became my first published book, My Never. It’s about two high school sweethearts who reunite after twelve years, by pure chance. Or was it fate? Moni and Troy have spent years trying to get back together, to make it work, but it just wasn’t. Then on a vacation to Cairns, Queensland, while celebrating her thirtieth, Moni bumps into Troy. So much has changed in their lives, but they may finally be ready to recommit. Moni must make a decision — return to her home town and stale life or follow her heart and stay in Cairns?

 

Since My Never, I have been working on several other books, including the sequel The Worry List (which is out on March 25th), getting The Truth about Love polished (available October 2014) and The Hunted (which you can read for free here until June) and its sequel The Forsaken. You can read more about all of my forthcoming books and some excerpts on my website.

 

 

Renée lives in Sydney, Australia with a crazy pooch called Abbey and a boisterous, somersaulting rescue budgie named Kaleb. Her life was changed for ever when she was struck with an idea of an over-caffeinated ninja cupcake baker who falls in love with her rival. She immediately began writing and hasn’t stopped since. Besides writing, Renée is passionate about animal rights and cupcakes. In her spare time, she likes to read, paint, watch crime shows, and write articles for Squidoo. Renée is an author of adult fiction (writes as Renée Swann) and soon-to-be young adult author (as C.J Hart). Her books are available on Amazon, Kobo and Angus and Robertson.

 

The Worry List (My Never #2)Connect with Renée:

Twitter

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Goodreads

Pinterest

Website

 

Read an excerpt of My Never here.

 

**Celebrating the release of The Worry List, I’m happy to announce a 30% discount on the My Never paperback (if you purchase it from here)! Code: AX375HMP

Offer valid until the 31st of March 2014.

 

A couple of weeks ago, we had a late-winter snow storm that cancelled work and school for two days—a Monday and Tuesday—giving me a four-day weekend. I had written 10,000 words the previous week in my work-in-progress (Corgi Capers: Curtain Calls and Fire Halls), and I promised myself if we got the full four days off, I would finish the entire first draft, a novel for middle-grade readers with an estimated 50,000 word total. Up to that point, I had never written 40,000 words in four days before, and I wasn’t sure if it could be done. The undertaking would require me to change several writing habits:

Outline vs. Discovery

Normally, I work from an outline, but I create the outline only several chapters ahead of what I’m writing. Thus, I’ll work on, maybe, five chapters from the outline, and as I work, I discover things about characters and plot, and I integrate the new discoveries into the next several chapters of my outline. I prefer this method because it allows me to work on “what I feel like.” So if I’m in an outlining mood, I can work on a few chapters of outline. If I’m in a writing mood, I can work on writing. If I ever get stuck, I can go back and edit my last chapter or two.

This time, because of the condensed time frame, I decided to work 100% from an outline. Understandably, this outline was the most Spartan I’ve written. Normally, my outlines are several dozen pages, full of quotes and passages I jot down as I plan. This one was literally a bulleted list of plot events and character development points broken down by chapter. The outline definitely kept me on track—there wasn’t enough time to get writer’s block if I was to meet my goal—though I did end up changing some of the major points I’d written as well as adding many others.

I’m not sure that I liked working 100% from an outline. I sort of felt like I was cheating when I changed something, but it definitely kept me on track. It didn’t give me an excuse to stop writing to flit about the next few chapters in the outline, or take a break to edit, something that’s not entirely helpful when trying to knock out a draft. With the outline, I sacrificed capriciousness for discipline.

Handwritten vs. Typed

This was the biggest change for me. As my clicky wrist attests, I like to handwrite all my first drafts. The only exception to this is if I have such a flow of ideas that my hand cannot keep up. After I handwrite the draft, I type it up, editing slightly as I type, especially correcting things in earlier chapters that I have since changed in the later ones, or adding foreshadowing I didn’t know about in the early stages. But I knew my wrist would never survive if I tried to write 40,000 words in four days. Thus, I turned to my laptop.

It was awkward at first. I typed a few clumsy sentences, and I felt like I was writing. When I write by hand, I get lost in the ideas. I forget that I’m there writing. But I told myself this was only a first draft. Like NaNoWriMo, the goal was simply to finish.

Before long, I did fall into the story and temporarily forgot I was writing, although I was much more easily jarred out of the storyline. Perhaps it was the position: When I write by hand, I lie on the floor—my world consists of me, the paper, and the pen. At the laptop, I sat, giving me a view of everything in the room, out the window, down the street… Or perhaps it was the easy distraction of email or the Internet. Nonetheless, I proved that it could be done. Although my draft came out less poetic than previous first drafts, I realized a new level of productivity if I can just learn to type first drafts instead of write by hand.

Discovery

What I learned surprised me. The sheer pace of my draft meant that everything was compressed in my mind. I didn’t leave time to forget about a character arc or a plot point. Everything came out as fast as my brain could fathom it. Two things surprised me.

The first is the way the characters seemed to develop on their own. I won’t give away any plot points, but at several instances I found myself frowning in awe at what was coming out on the screen. It apparently lived in my subconscious, these symbols and layers of meaning developed simultaneously among numerous characters (some of whom I thought would simply be playing a cameo). When working from a slowly-developing outline, these changes and developments come through much more slowly, making them more difficult to notice. Working so quickly, I felt like I was watching one of those time-lapse videos of a flower poking out of the ground and blooming. The novel’s closing image seemed to come out of nowhere, but when I read it again and thought about it, I realized it was always there, cooking in my subconscious brain.

The second is the way my story refused to follow the rules of my outline. From the start, I knew who the culprit of this mystery was, but along the way, several characters swore the guilty party was not guilty. I didn’t believe them, thinking they were simply protesting in order to provide foils, confusing the reader and making it difficult to guess the real culprit. I mean—this is MY outline, and I TOLD THEM ALL who the bad guy would be from the start. The bad guy was supposed to accept his role and act accordingly, and everyone else was supposed to slowly realize his guilt. But when I got to the scene in which the culprit was revealed, my hands refused to obey my outline. My brain told them to do something else—reveal a different culprit. I paused as the guilty party’s name flashed on the screen. I pondered. And then I nodded. My brain had been right after all. It all fit into place. My subconscious had known all along.

From this experience, I’ve learned that I much enjoy writing novels—at least, first drafts—in the most compressed time period possible. I always thought I wrote novels over the summer simply because of the nature of my job as a teacher—that’s when I had time. But thinking on it now, it seems my brain likes the compressed time to keep characters and plot active in my subconscious brain. I’ll admit, it was mentally taxing. Once I was finished, I had the rare desire to simply stare at moving images on a television screen. And granted I’m giving myself a few weeks’ break (to finish another work in progress) before I actually get into editing.

But writing a novel in a week is something I want to try again.

And with the threat of another three or seven inches coming Sunday night for winter’s last hurrah, maybe I’ll get that chance after all.

The theme of this week (“I’m so cold my bones have frozen”) is appropriate, as winter temperatures seem to have temporarily snapped back for author Val Muller. She is the author of the Corgi Capers mystery series, the sci-fi romance For Whom My Heart Beats Eternal, and the supernatural chiller Faulkner’s Apprentice, and hopes that spring weather returns soon.

Starscape

By Val Muller

The place is so quiet, I can’t be sure it’s real. The landscape is cold and barren. Not just inhumane. Inhuman. This was always a risk. I knew it when I signed up. We were counseled, told to expect something like this. Told what it would be like to be the last one remaining. It was never a likelihood, but it was always a possibility. They gave me a tiny capsule to swallow, but I never intended to go out that way.

Of course, it had to be me, the unlucky survivor.

I know how much they invested in me—in us—so I followed training protocol to the very last command. After landing, I launched the probes, took the readings, the pictures, the samples, sent back the communications, and launched the craft that would take the samples back to Earth. And now, according to protocol, I wait. There’s supposed to be another cohort coming. But in the meantime I’m supposed to be here colonizing. Terraforming. I’m supposed to be building a community and reporting back on the possibility of procreation.

All of these objectives are impossible with a party of one.

I haven’t gone to the settlement for three days now. I’ve been sitting up here on my cliff. I call it “Loverlook.” It’s “lover” plus “overlook” combined. When we got here, I was supposed to mate-up with one of the other astronauts. We were matched genetically, though I don’t think we would have chosen each other on Earth. Anyway, since I erected the settlement, I’ve spent more time up here than down there. I would sit up here and imagine I was back on Earth in some kind of romanticized version of life based on every 1950’s movie I’ve ever seen. I’m the beautiful, rebellious teenager, and I’ve snuck up here to “Loverlook” to be with my lover, the one my parents don’t approve of. You know, we just got back from a burger and shake at the dairy barn, and now we’re watching the stars through his open-topped convertible. I used to talk to him, my imaginary mate, but now I just keep it all in my head.

The cities I saw sparkling below as the sun set over the Martian desert—those cities exist only in my mind. But my mind has been quieting lately. I’m having trouble seeing those cities. When I first arrived, I really saw them in my mind’s eye. I saw them as our future. Not 1950, and not 2050, but maybe 2150. Maybe there would be all manner of sparkly diners and open-topped convertibles and people on roller-skates living life like it was simple again.

But those pictures have faded in my mind’s eye. I have received no more communication from Earth. They must know I’m still alive, but no one on Earth likes upsetting news. I accepted long ago that they’re ignoring me until I go away. Now, from Loverlook, I see only the rocks. The landscape reminds me of the Wild West, only more barren, if that is possible.

I expected something when I came here. The mystery of life solved, maybe, or some deep insight into the human condition.

Not emptiness. Something.

Something like—I don’t know. When I was younger, I read The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury. I don’t remember a lot of details, but I remember the feeling of the book. There was such a striving among the characters, a desire to pick up the pieces of something lost. To continue a civilization despite past mistakes. There was one part where the main characters are looking for Martians, and they end up looking into a body of water to see them—looking into a body of water to see their own reflection. They were the things they sought.

And now I think I’ve come all the way to Mars to realize my own paradox. In this awful Martian silence, I’ve learned that the things I sought were always with me. The things I sought were always there on Earth, dispersed among me and the millions of souls with whom I used to share the human condition. It took unimaginable miles and uncountable resources to teach me that the thing I sought, I already had.

I’m enlightened now, and I think it’s time to go. I know I won’t have much time once I pull off the mask. The terraforming has hardly begun to work, and it certainly hasn’t done a thing for elevations like Loverlook. But I don’t need time—hardly any at all. I just want to see the stars shine one more time, the way they looked from Earth—through my bare eyes, the eyes of a dreamer, and not through the shield of a mask.

They twinkle. Little winks, like shared secrets they’re allowing me to hear just this one last time. They send a shiver through my body, and I feel the shiver fly faster than light to someone back on Earth, a girl not unlike me, who is lying in a grassy field looking up at the very same stars and wishing and dreaming and finding out what human means. With another shiver I fly back to Mars and return to myself, and my eyes feel strange and dry in the Martian atmosphere. Then I shudder with understanding and plaster a smile on my face before I can realize that I’m so cold, my bones are frozen with the rest of me, looking out at my eternal starscape from my lonely perch of Loverlook.

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/

Melinda Elmore
http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt is “I’m so cold my bones have frozen.” Today’s contribution comes from RC Bonitz, author of A LITTLE BIT OF BLACKMAIL, A LITTLE BIT OF BABY, and A BLANKET FOR HER HEART.  

 Next week’s story will be by Val Muller, author of FOR WHOM MY HEART BEATS ETERNAL, a sci-fi romance, and CORGI CAPERS: DECEIT ON DORSET DRIVE, a mystery novel for young readers.

 

 Winter Surprise

 He parked his truck and stepped out into the swirling snow. Trapping and releasing pesky beavers for the state was fun, normally. He loved the time he was able to spend in the woods, normally. But today the temperature was darn near zero and the wind bit right through his coat. Couldn’t leave the beaver trapped too long though, had to pick them up.

Starting down the trail he thought he heard someone shout for help. There, ahead, next to a tree. A woman, crying out. No hat, just a sweater and a vest, what was she thinking on a day like this.

“Help me, please, call 911,” she cried.

He stopped in front of her. She was tied to the tree? And the vest? It couldn’t be. A bomb? He shook his head. This was no dream.

“My phone doesn’t work here. That is a bomb, right?”

She sobbed. “He said it would go off at noon. What time is it?”

“About eleven thirty.”

“Oh God, help me please.”

He examined the vest. Bombs he knew nothing about, but electrical stuff he did. And he had wire in the truck. “who put you in that thing?”

“A wanna be boyfriend. A weirdo.”

“You turned him down?”

“Yes. Please hurry. I’m scared.”

“Cold too I’ll bet.”

“I’m so cold my bones are frozen, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Be right back,” he said and hurried back to his truck. He returned a moment later with some wire and a knife.

She was crying now.

“Hey, don’t cry. Your tears will freeze,”

She giggled. “They’re tears of relief.”

He nodded, hoping the tears were justified. He had an idea how to free her but who knew if it would work. He began to trace the wires that ran from place to place.

“Have you got a blanket?” she pleaded.

“No, and I can’t cover you up. I have to see all the wires on you.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked in a small voice.

“Try to get you out of the vest.”

“What about the bomb?”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “I don’t think it will go off.”

“You don’t know?” she whispered.

Nope,” he said and began to scrape a wire with his knife.

 

 

 

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/

Melinda Elmore
http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

 

 

This month’s challenge is to write something beginning with “My favorite colour tastes like…”

Today’s writing comes to us from Melinda Elmore. Her most recent publication, Blood on the Feather and Shall We Dance, is mixture of mystery and murder and a sweet Halloween tale. The books are available on Amazon and through my publisher, Dancing with Bear Publishing.

  * * *

“My favorite colour tastes like…”

 

My favorite colour tastes like….

The dew on a new morning leaf

The sparkling drops tingles the mouth

Leaving one to mesmerize the taste across their lips.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….a Hersey’s Kiss….

Chocolaty, divine….never-ending…..

Melts in the mouth from the warmth of the sensations

 

My favorite colour tastes like…an Arizona sunset

Full of color and breathtaking…..

 

My favorite colour tastes like…..

The sound of the flute…..

Soothing and musical.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….

My family….

Full of unconditional love.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….

Love….

Heart feeling and full of emotions.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….

Friendship…

Being there for everybody you can…

 

My favorite colour tastes like…..

Life….

Full of vibrant sensations for total enjoyment.

* * *

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/

Melinda Elmore
http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

 

No comments

This month’s challenge is to write something beginning with “My favorite colour tastes like…”

Today’s writing comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Her most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords.

 

 My Favourite Colour

.

My favourite colour tastes like death and demise,

the evil that lingers behind the light at night

.

It’s the dark in the day and shades of grey

of living and dying

.

It’s hard and firm, chokes one up

and leaves a film upon one’s tongue

that lashes out at all in sight

.

It’s the soiled, the wicked,

the disastrous, the disgraceful,

the dishonourable

.

It’s grim and hopeless, angry,

illegal and sinister,

the Devil in all of us

.

It’s the dank in the darkness,

the smell of skunk and

spiders, dead and alive

.

It’s a pelt marred by a steak of white

like lightning rushing through the night

to wake the dead

.

It’s six feet under in a rotten pine box

so cheaply made, disintegrating

and disappearing to dust

.

It’s the bits that fly in the air

when a body sleeps

and stirs to shake off the fallen unknown

.

It’s morning before the sun

when dusk still prevails

and eyes can’t adjust to the slew

of shadows swarming by

.

It’s when dawn tries to open its eyes

and yawns a morning sigh

and awakens those

who dream of nightmares

.

Its name is known and it’s the doom,

the evil that takes over the good—

Satan in the garden

who spews and stills the world

.

I’ll come for you when your time is due

and you can’t stop the pitch,

the coal, the burning coal,

or the enemy who seeks to destroy

.

You must wait for day to wake

to brush away the cold

.

My name is Black

and I may leave,

but I’ll be back.

* * *

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/

 

Melinda Elmore

http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

Valentine’s Day is one of those days. While there’s a nice “warm, fuzzy” about it, it also seems somewhat manic—either someone is ecstatic about the holiday, or else in the doldrums. I thought I’d match the manic nature with my Valentine’s Day post, musing on the pros and cons of the holiday.

The Cons

In high school, my friends and I handed out black plastic flowers on Valentine’s Day, taping up posters that said “Happy Corporate Holiday” and other such things—regardless of whether we had a boyfriend. We were teenagers; we were rebellious. Valentine’s Day is what started a years-long tradition of me making my own greeting cards that featured, on the back, my hand-drawn logo: a crown with the red circle-and-slash sign, along with the slogan “down with the crown.” It was directed specifically at Hallmark but generally at any institution that, I felt, made people feel like they had to feel a certain way at a certain time.

Case in point: Valentine’s Day.

On such a day, I felt like the world wanted us to feel happy and smiley. If we weren’t euphoric, there was something wrong. If we weren’t dressed in red and pink and handing out sugar and messages to everyone we met, we weren’t really part of humanity, were we?

Fitting in was never a big deal for me, so it didn’t bother me specifically. What bothered me more was watching other people not fit in. I always felt sorry for people who didn’t have a significant other. I imagined how someone might walk through the day, deeply affected when seeing others receive roses and teddy bears and chocolates. I imagined how someone might feel—as I’m sure we’ve all felt—at allowing herself to imagine what it might feel like to have someone who would send flowers, taunting herself with a possibility that seemed so impossibly far from reality. I felt most sorry for those people.

But I felt sorry for others, too. I felt sorry for people in stable relationships who felt pressure at Valentine’s Day to do something terribly nice for a significant other. I imagined them falling short of expectations, or just having an off-day on February 14 to the chagrin of their significant others. I felt sorry for people who had ordinary problems on Valentine’s Day, like those who had the flu or the stomach bug. Weren’t they supposed to be hugging and kissing and eating chocolates? How could a universe that imposed universal happiness on us on the 14th allow such a tragedy?

I felt sorry, also, for those in new relationships. What about people who started dating at the beginning of February? There was hardly ample time to see if the relationship would sink or float—and now the added pressure of doing “just the right amount” for Valentine’s Day.

All in all, more pressure than it would be worth.

I felt sorry, too, for children in elementary school. I remember well my teachers being very clear: if you bring valentines cards or treats, you must bring enough for everyone. We all had little envelopes taped to our desks, and we had to go around delivering one valentine per box. I felt sorry for the kids who nobody seemed to like, and who received valentines simply because the teacher said they had to. They always got the valentines no one wanted. The brown ones, or the green ones. Not the red or pink ones. I wondered if those kids knew they were only receiving valentines because the teacher said they had to. I never figured out which made me more sad: whether the kids knew, or whether they didn’t. Again, the holiday seemed always to bring joy to those who already had it, and emphasize sorrow for those who would rather forget it.

The only thing that never made me sad on Valentine’s Day was seeing children and their parents exchange valentines. There’s something about a hand-drawn Valentine for a parent that’s so genuine. And, of course, a daddy giving his daughter a box of chocolates… that comes from the heart as well. But with true love like that, a national (corporate?) holiday doesn’t seem necessary.

The Pros

While in general I don’t like conforming, there’s something to be said for setting aside a day, a time, a place for remembering those we love. Too often in our lives we take our loved ones for granted. It’s often said that time is our most precious gift. We never know when it will run out.

I remember well the first song that made me tear up. The middle-school chorus came to my elementary school to perform. They sang the song “The Living Years.” I can’t remember if it was the first time I heard the song or not, but I do remember it was the first time I actually listened to the lyrics. Yes, I was listening to the lyrics, but as always, I was the observer. I noticed the conductor, a teacher from the middle school, was crying. She was crying during a very specific verse:

“It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye

I wasn’t there that morning
When my Father passed away
I didn’t get to tell him
All the things I had to say

I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I’m sure I heard his echo
In my baby’s new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years”

It wasn’t until years later, when I heard the song on the radio again, that I truly understood what those lyrics meant. The song inspired a frantic sense of the delicacy of life. I thought back to what that middle school conductor must have been thinking, or who she might have been missing, or what she might have been regretting. To me, this song gets at the heart of what’s so important about Valentine’s Day–and other holidays.

I used to get so stressed out cleaning the house for Christmas, or preparing for family to come over. Both my parents told me that years and years from now, no one would remember how neat or messy my house was: when people get together, they want to see each other. People are what make memories. I don’t get stressed anymore.

For me, this is the positive side of Valentine’s Day. It’s a chance for us to pause and remember to do something special for those we love. And we need those reminders. It could be that before we know it, it may be too late.

So this Valentine’s Day, instead of blowing money at an over-crowded restaurant, do something nice and thoughtful for those you love, but more importantly, reach out to those you may have lost touch with, those who mean a lot to you, those you don’t speak to as often as you’d like. Reach out to those you see every day who might not have a Valentine of their own, or anyone in their life for that matter. Because sometimes whether the valentine is red, pink, green, or brown, it’s the thought that counts, and small thoughts to us often mean much more to their recipients.

Thinking back to those kids in elementary school, the ones who got the valentines no one else wanted, I’m thinking they probably appreciated them after all.

This week’s post comes from RC Bonitz, author of A Blanket for Her Heart. The theme is once again- “My favorite color is x and it tastes like…”

Too Late

 

I hate it when I wake up in the middle of the night like this. Something, a noise, whatever drags me out of sleep and then I can’t get back to dreamland for hours.

Light from the street steals around the edges of the blinds, casting phantom shapes and shadows in my bedroom. Freaks me out sometimes, especially when the house creaks too.

What was that? Something sliding, a window, the glass door in the family room? I’m awake now, yes I am. There’s silence again, did I imagine the noise? No!

Footsteps now, sneaky, moving through the house? This can’t be happening, must be my imagination, has to be a dream.

The floor creaks, the kitchen door squeaks, oh God, someone’s in my house! I grab the bedside phone. Too late, it’s dead!

I have to get away. I throw back the covers and jump from my bed. I’ll go out the window, quiet as I can. Or should I shout and try to scare him off? Too late, the bedroom door swings open and the light goes on. He’s there, a man, dressed in black, a very shiny knife in his hand.

He smiles, an evil, vicious smile it is. “Well, well, what have we here.”

“Go away. I called the police,” I shriek.

“Not on that phone you didn’t”

I’m trembling, shaking, scared to death. There’s something about this guy. “What do you want? Take anything, I don’t care.”

His smile becomes more sinister. “Don’t worry I will. What’s your favorite color?”

“What?”

He glances around the room. “Looks like you like blue I guess. Dull color if you ask me.”

I’m shaking now. What an insane question.

He takes a step closer, and then another. “Now me, my favorite color is red. Have you ever tasted red?”

I try to back away, but he matches me step for step. I’m up against the wall now. “What? No, I don’t know.”

“Sure you have. Wine, jelly, tomato. Now me, I like something stronger. Bet you can’t guess what.”

I can’t speak, can only shake my head.

He switches now and simply stares at me. I cringe, my heart stops at the evil in his eyes.

“Blood,” he says, so softly I can barely hear him.

He takes one more step closer and swishes the knife through the air, back and forth in front of me, coming closer all the time. “I’m not a vampire. I just like the taste of blood.”

This can’t be real, must be a dream, but he’s right there in front of me. The knife comes slashing at my throat. I throw up my hands to block it. Too late, oh God, too late.

.

 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/

Melinda Elmore
http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/