Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

I apologize if I’ve shied away from social media lately. I have been working on a few editing projects lately—ones I am quite proud of. The first I’ve mentioned here. It’s an anthology that’s been over a year in the making—Freedom Forge Press’s Forging Freedom Anthology. You can read all about it here.

In short, it’s an anthology featuring thirty-five stories from around the globe—fiction and nonfiction featuring freedoms lost, sought, found, and won. I’m proud that the press even earned a review from Michelle Malkin, who urges readers to “share these stories.”

And she’s right. Freedom is what makes humans, human.

It got me thinking. You may have noticed that most writers have a “thing.” A theme or a type of character, something common running through all or most of their work. Once you “crack” their style, you sort of know what to expect from their future works. I’ve been thinking about branding myself as an author—as of now I’ve dabbled in middle-grade corgi fiction, adult horror, light sci-fi and time travel, young adult, and more. I enjoy writing all of it, and I haven’t been too serious about finding an agent yet. But the more I write, the more I realize something.  The stories I’m most passionate about contain my “thing.” It’s the “thing” I’ve been trying to capture since I first started writing (my stories were horrible, but the themes were there). My “thing”—the element of my stories that makes my characters tick—is the struggle to regain freedom that is lost or dwindling.

In For Whom My Heart Beats Eternal, my time-travel collection, humans are contradicting the rules of time to find true freedom to be with someone a generation away. In Faulkner’s Apprentice, protagonist Lorelei is fighting a situation that has locked her to a predetermined fate—and her undying spirit to fight that is what drives her through the story. Many of my short stories feature protagonists up against oppressive bad guys or oppressive societies. Even in Corgi Capers, Adam Hollinger refuses to accept the things adults tell him without investigating them on his own—often proving the adults wrong. My upcoming young adult novel features a protagonist who refuses to give in to social pressures despite an impossible situation, staying true to what makes her unique and valiant.

So as I continue to consider branding myself as an author and begin seeking an agent, I’ll continue contemplating that theme—freedom, my “thing”—and consider the proper genre and age range to communicate my ideas to the world.

In the meantime, I’m working on another editing project, a novel by new author David Bagwell, which is soon-to-be-released by Freedom Forge Press. More on that in a future post.

Until then, stay free!

Spot Writers: Free

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Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for the writers this month is to use three of the following words: tub, motorcycle, papers, or hard. This week’s posting—a poem—comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Her newest book, “Between These Pages,” a compilation of 18 short stories, is available on Smashwords and Amazon for $2.99:

 

Free

 

He dons a helmet for the fun

On a glorious day of spring,

Peering through the sun

He heeds nature’s eager ring.

 

Across the long stretch he goes,

Over the hills, up and down,

The wind fans his clothes

Like a ghostly flowing gown.

 

Wheels roar off the ground,

Handlebars high and strong,

Motor revs its mighty sound

Not unlike a hearty song.

 

Motorcycle zooms into air,

A mighty machine hard and free,

Sitting upon a monster-like chair

He sails toward a heavenly spree.

 

Breath swallowed, then lost,

Fragile like papers burnt to ash,

His strong lithe body tossed

High and away in the crash.

 

Light beams from a daytime star

And scatters shadows in the mist,

Angels caress earth’s new scar,

God watches while he’s kissed.

 

Strong and stately by the tree

Colourful wildflowers grow,

A slumbrous soul roams free

Within gentle breezes that blow.

(RIP –TAD)

 

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/

Deborah Dera
http://www.deborahdera.com

This book is the second in the Monster Moon series written by BBH McChiller, which is the pen name of a team of three authors (Lynn Kelley, Kathryn Sant, and Maria Toth). The book follows the adventures of a twelve-year-old named AJ. He and his friends, Freddy and Emily, travel to Chinatown with his aunt. While she is at her acupuncture appointment, the three get into trouble when they wander into a bog. Turns out, the bog is haunted as well as harboring a mysterious girl named Mei, whose face has been plastered around town on “missing persons” posters. There are also mysterious noises and creatures in the bog, including two-headed frogs and something that appears to be a giant monster. While in the bog, the three also break out in a mysterious rash.

The book is a mystery, so I won’t reveal too much. On the way back from acupuncture, AJ’s aunt hurts her ankle, so she must spend the night in the hospital. As a result, the kids are able to sneak around in the bog for a while. The book is perfect for kids who like creepy reads. There’s enough “boyishness” to attract male readers, but there are also two strong female characters as well, appealing to female readers. It’s reminiscent of the types of stories one might read in the Goosebumps series. I especially enjoyed the use of kid-friendly imagery—very effective. I would have loved this series when I was a kid, as I’ve always been partial to slightly creepy stories.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompts are any three of the following words- tub, motorcycle, papers, hard.

This week’s post comes from Val Muller, who you can stalk at valm16.sg-host.com.

Back to School Night

Barbara sat staring at a stack of papers. Period Four Literary Analysis. They leaned unevenly atop the ungraded journals from Intro to Comp. She thought about grading another set, but instead she doodled on the daily attendance memo—a dove emerging from a window. Then she slouched at her desk, kicking out her knees. Her foot hit the edge of the desk, and the stack of grading shifted.

It reminded her of the leaning Tower of Pisa and its awkward beauty—only this one was ready to collapse onto her at any moment. Just like the job threatened to collapse onto her life. She glanced up at the chalkboard. Ms. Levine, she had written, followed by the date and Welcome Parents with a cartoony smiley face. She was told to be as optimistic as possible during her first year of teaching.

The busses pulled away, and she rose to glance at the window. The early autumn leaves billowed in the busses’ wake. A gust of art school blew through her mind, followed by her mother’s worried voice after the graduation festivities had ended. “So what are you going to do now?”

Double-majoring in English had made teaching a quick degree to earn, and she’d gotten certified and hired before the dust of her decision had even settled. And now here she was, stuck at school until 7 p.m., killing time before her first back-to-school night. She dreaded meeting the parents—people almost old enough to be her own parents. What did she have to say to them about English composition and the district’s new grading policy?

If only she could talk about art.

It was going to be a long night.

It was going to be a long year.

She sighed and considered grading again. Her feet ached from walking around all day, squeezing through the cramped desks of the tiny classroom. If only she could have a bath—a nice soak in a tub filled with lots of bubbles. There would be no such thing as grading or parents or students. Only mellow music and relaxation. She listened in the hallways, but all was quiet. The students were gone, and most of the teachers had run home to eat before the parents arrived.

Barbara lived too far to go home and make it back by seven, so she was stuck here for three more hours. She wondered whether any of the other teachers felt this way. They all seemed to enjoy their jobs—at least, at times. Was she the only one who dreamed of drawing and painting instead of waiting in line of the copier and marking up grammar exercises?

Before she knew it, she was doodling again, a fantasy sketch this time with a damsel in distress surrounded by a monster-filled moat, and prince charming of on the other side of a dark forest. She could practically hear the water of the moat rushing under the monsters’ webbed appendages, and she swore she could hear them growl.

She looked up.

It wasn’t a growl. It was Mr. Watson clearing his throat.

“Oh—” she stammered. “I didn’t see you.”

“It’s okay,” he said. He nodded to her drawing. “I was watching you sketch during our last staff meeting.”

She felt her face heat, and she pushed her hair in front of her face. Mr. Watson shook his head.

“I meant that in a good way,” he said. “Watching you sketch was the only thing keeping me sane during the meeting. I thought it would never end.”

She smiled. “You mean I wasn’t the only one bored out of my mind, Mr. Watson?”

Mr. Watson smiled.  “Call me Greg. And of course you weren’t the only one bored. We just all know how to hide it real well. You’ll learn with time.” He cleared his throat. “Are you stuck here, too?”

She nodded. “No sense in going home. I’d just have to turn right back again.”

“Me, too.” He paused. Looked down at his feet. “I was wondering… do you maybe want to grab a bite to eat? We’ve got plenty of time to kill before the parents arrive.”

Was he asking her out? All of his features seemed to jump out at her at once. His cheekbones. His determined eyes. His broad chest. What was she thinking?

“Okay,” was all she could manage. She stood to leave.

“You’d better drive,” he said. “Unless you’d like to ride on the back of a motorcycle.”

She slammed her hand onto her desk and watched the stack of papers tumble into a messy pile. She didn’t’ give it a second thought. “As a matter of fact, I would like to give the motorcycle a try. I’ve never ridden on one, but I can’t imagine there’s much more freeing. And I’m feeling like I need a little freedom right about now.”

He nodded. “It’s freeing, alright. I’ll make a rider of you in no time.”

They walked down to the parking lot, where the last of the busses had left a trail of early autumn leaves. As they sped away on his bike, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, she noticed the beauty in the angle of the sun and the wind in the trees. And the ungraded papers were the furthest things from her mind.

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

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

 RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

This book follows the life of Tom Black (aka Thomas Black Bull). He is the Ute son of two parents who had to live in the woods (in the “old way”) after his father got in trouble with the law for killing a man (one could argue the murder was well-deserved!). After his parents die, young Thomas is found by Black Elk, a slimy old Indian who will sell even his own family out for money. He convinces Thomas to leave the forest, where Thomas had been living with only the animals as friends yet in perfect harmony with the land, and enter civilization, where Thomas was forced to learn the “new ways” and adapt. Thomas hates it and becomes angry, especially when he is separated from the bear cub he befriended.

The entire middle of the book follows Thomas as an adult. He has become a rodeo master, riding wild horses in order to “punish” them, metaphorically killing those who have betrayed him. In the end, he returns to the wild and comes to terms with what his whole life has meant.

The back of the book was a bit misleading. I picked this book up because I am interested in Native American culture, and the back promised a connection to Jack London’s works. The beginning and end lived up to that promise. The middle disappointed: The book focused heavily on the horse riding segment of Thomas’s life, which was interesting but a bit drawn out. I really enjoyed the first and last part of the book, which focused on Native American traditions and the “old way” of living. It’s a good book, definitely worth the read, but watch out of the middle section. It will make you angry (at this point, Tom is going through an angry part of his life) and may upset you (the way he treats the horses).

What I really enjoyed were the metaphors in the book, often comparing people to animals. I also enjoyed the use of Black Elk, who Tom met as a boy, as a foil and/or comparison to the older version of Tom. It’s a great book about identity; and from a freedom angle, it is an excellent study in what happens to someone when society forces him to live and act a certain way—beyond his control. What happens to the fighting part of our spirit? Do we stifle it? Do we try to kill it? Do we fight to get it back? It’s definitely a book that could be taught in the classroom and discussed extensively in a book club.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompts are any three of the following words- tub, motorcycle, papers, hard

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.

A hard working woman my Aunt Kathryn is. Had some bad luck too, not long ago. Pete, her husband went and got himself killed in a motorcycle accident four months ago. Aunt Kathy got herself a job waiting tables at the HiWay Diner, but it don’t pay much.

Off from work the other day, doing chores, she was outside with the laundry tub, hanging clothes and stuff on the line. The second hand dryer Pete bought a while back cost hard earned cash for the electric, so there she was, outside on a bright sunny Friday afternoon.

A big wump-crunch out front on the road grabbed her attention. She spun around in time to see Marcus Tigsby’s old gray pickup slam into a tree with another loud wump.

Now, she don’t care much for old Marcus. He killed Pete, see. Drunk out of his mind most times, he was waiting trial for manslaughter and right back to his old ways in the meantime.

If Marcus smashed his truck, that was fine by her. That first wump though, that likely meant the lush had hit somebody too. A clothespin in her mouth, she dashed right out to the road. Yup, there it was, a nice looking car up against the stone wall, its driver’s side all bashed in. She ran to the window and stuck her head inside.

“You an angel?”

A man was sprawled across that center counter thing between the seats with blood running from a cut on his head. He smiled at her.

Aunt Kathy spit the clothespin into her hand. “No, you’re still alive.”

His smile widened. “An angel of mercy then. How do you do, Angel?”

She stuffed the clothespin in her pocket. “Are you all right?”

“Yup. Nope. I don’t rightly know.”

“Don’t move. You might have something broken.”

He groaned. “Actually, I’m lost, I think. Did you call the law?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

He tried to sit up straight. “Cell phone here somewhere.”

“Stay put. I’ll find it,” Kathy said and by gosh she did. She reached in, pushed the button to open the rear window, shinnied through, and crawled all round that car until she found the man’s phone. Sitting next to him in the front seat she was by then. She called the sheriff.

“You’re sitting on my papers,” the man mumbled.

“What? Oh, sorry,” she said and realized his papers were scattered all over the place. She picked up one, then two and suddenly noticed her name at the top of one. “Why do you have my name on these?”

He blinked. “You’re Kathryn Crandall? Good, then I’m not lost. I’m Mike Hurst, from Hurst Insurance. I have a check for you and papers to sign.”

“From Pete’s accident?”

“Yup.” He propped one hand beneath his chin. “My head hurts.”

“Just take it slow and easy. Help is coming.”

He frowned. “I don’t think I can give you the money today. I’m a little groggy.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll come back another time.”

“Okay. When you’re feeling better.”

Twinkled his eyes did then. “I like that. When I’m all better.”

 

The Spot Writers- our members.

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

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

 RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 Val Muller

https://valmuller.com/blog/

 

The Color of Evil begins with a boy named Tad, who is able to see people’s auras. At a young age, he is terrified by a birthday party clown. Following the party, he has terrible nightmares that turn out to be true—they are all the murders the clown has committed. Tad’s parents institutionalize him briefly, and then they all decide not to talk about his ability to see auras, even though it continues. When Tad becomes a teenager, he falls in love with a girl who is dating the wrong guy, and things turn ugly.

This book is really only for fans of horror. Not only was there some gore in the book, but few people in the book seem to have any redeeming qualities. It seems everyone is either perverted, violent, unfaithful, or dishonest. While I’m plenty cynical about the worthiness of color of evilhumanity, it was a pessimistic outlook even for me. I found a few places where dates didn’t seem to line up, and there were more than a few passages that seemed to repeat the same information—much “telling” rather than “showing.” While I appreciated the premise, the pace of the book was a bit slow for my liking, with the author stopping to dwell on certain facts or repeat others. There also seemed to be too many points of view that switched too often. I much rather would have stayed in one primary point of view with a few others to show the necessary information. Though the book seems sometimes geared toward a young adult audience, I didn’t feel it was appropriate for the under-17 crowd.

This is the first in a trilogy, and while the style sometimes dragged, I did appreciate the plot, so I’ll give book two a try since I received a free review copy. Book three is scheduled to be released soon.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt is based on the following opening sentence, which every member of the Spot Writers used to begin their piece:   “Every day of the week I…, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I…”

This week’s story comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Her newest book, “Between These Pages,” a compilation of 18 short stories, is available on Smashwords and Amazon for $2.99:

 Sundays

 

Every day of the week I listen to myself—but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I listen to Momma, despite her death many years previous.

Momma had been very religious and believed Sundays were a day of rest. Rest, in her mind, hadn’t meant “take it easy” or nap. She meant we should let things be. Let things rest; don’t disturb what’s there.

So, that one day out of seven, I obeyed my momma. And I let things be. I let things rest.

I still do.

Back then, I had never thought Momma really understood Sundays, though, as much as she had preached about it. Not everything needs or wants to rest that one day a week. Insects and bugs don’t know Sundays from Wednesdays. Heck, do they even know what a day or a week is? Sure, those little critters must sense night from day, but I’m sure they don’t clue in there are seven nights and seven days within one week.

And trees and their falling leaves? On Sundays, we had to let the leaves lay where they’d fallen, according to Momma’s rules. We couldn’t pick up a leaf to admire its silky softness or crush a dried one between our fingertips. Those leaves had to rest where they landed.

“Wait until Monday, Rebecca,” Momma used to admonish me. “You can pick every last one of them then, if you so desire.”

But I don’t want to on Monday, I had wanted to tell her. I want to now, while the leaf is fresh and lovely, while the dewy teardrop lingers on the veined skin. But I never did. Cause it had been Sunday, the day of rest. On that day, we weren’t supposed to raise our voices or argue either. And I respected my momma on God’s day. A day Momma had stolen for herself.

“You mustn’t disturb what God has given us,” she had continued. “God meant for that leaf to land in precisely that spot. There’s an order to things, and if you disturb one small thing in the universe, you’ll disturb something that follows. It’s the law of consequences. There’s always a consequence for every action.”

“But Momma, that leaf wasn’t meant to fall. Leaves fall in October, when the chills come, not now in July.”

“That’s precisely my point, Rebecca. That leaf fell for a reason. Perhaps it landed there to shade a tired insect. That insect will live because of that fallen leaf. If you remove that leaf, the insect might die. Perhaps it’s a pregnant insect, and then the leaf’s removal would kill more than the mother. Those insects are necessary for some other insect to live. It’s God’s will, Rebecca. We must let things rest on Sundays.”

I had never fully understood. I had been eight when we had that conversation, but it kind of made sense. After all, Momma had been older and wiser than me and surely she knew what she talked about.

“Bugs are annoying,” I remember having said once, after that conversation about the leaf perhaps saving the bug’s life had flashed through my mind. “That’s why they bug us. That’s why they’re called bugs.” I had laughed. It hadn’t been Sunday, so I was safe. I could inquire and laugh and argue. Momma still had us under her protective wing those other six days, but those days had been more lenient.

I had learned about actions and consequences from Momma. And I still continue those respectful actions today, never disturbing anything on Sundays—not the peace, the quiet, the sole leaf resting on the soil.

Momma’s long gone now—dead at thirty-four. Killed by Poppa’s rifle.

Momma had never liked guns, but hunting had been Poppa’s favourite pastime so she put up with it. Her only request had been that he not touch his guns on Sundays. “The Lord God would not take kindly to that,” Momma had said. And she had said it only once. Because Poppa listened—or he had, up to a certain point.

Consequences. My family suffers from them now. That one bullet changed all our lives. One tiny object that had soared through the air and pierced Momma’s heart. Had Momma not picked that precise moment to walk unexpectedly into the room or had Poppa been cleaning his gun any other day but Sunday, Momma would still be alive. She worked Mondays to Saturdays, and that’s when Poppa cleaned his guns—except for that one fateful Sunday.

Poppa had always respected Momma’s wishes enough not to handle his guns on Sunday. But that day, for some unknown reason, he had disregarded her wishes, and when Momma appeared unannounced, the gun had accidently fired.

Of course, looking back now, I realize guns don’t kill. Guns kill when in the hands of humans. Against the grain of everything I’d ever believed, I sometimes wonder whether the shooting had been intentional. But, no, Pops loved Momma. He’d never kill her.

And accidents happen all the time; that’s why they’re called accidents. But never on Sundays. Sundays are supposed to be our day of rest. We should be good and kind on that day. We shouldn’t allow accidents to happen—not on Sundays.

 

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/

 

This is one thick book that I just couldn’t put down! An upper-young-adult fantasy novel, this story follows Yelena, a young woman with a rough past. Without giving too much away, I’ll say that she killed a man who abused and raped her. Since he was the son of a ruler, she was sentenced to death. On the date of her execution, however, she was offered the chance to be the king’s food taster instead, tasting each meal to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. Of course she accepts the offer and lives under the supervision of Valek, a man slightly older than her who is close to the king. He is shrewd, and at first it’s not clear whether he’s out to help her or hurt her.

Throughout the novel, she reveals bits of her past slowly. We learn about her adoption, her talents, and the reason she became a murderer. We also learn that several factions are out to kill her. Wanting to protect the new food taster, Valek gives her a room in his suite. It’s clear, through a subtle romance, that the two of them are falling for each other, but the romance never takes over the storyline and never becomes cheesy. There’s also the problem that in the northern kingdom where Yelena lives, magic is outlawed—anyone caught using it will be executed–no exceptions. Unfortunately, Yelena learns that she is from the south—a place where magic is much more common—and her magic seems to manifest itself when she is concentrating on a fight.

The story is told through first-person point of view. Yelena has a likeable voice, and her story and tone make her a sympathetic character. The romance with Valek is never over-done, but it adds a compelling element to the story. There is also a great deal of political intrigue woven in. Factions against factions, undercover dealings, spies, poisons, and mind control—a reader must always be alert for the next deception, and just when a reader begins to trust a character–well, I won’t give any more away.

This is the first of a trilogy, which I plan on finishing. It was a long book but a quick read—I read it in two days! I recommend it for anyone liking fantasy without being overwhelmed with description or explanation of magic elements (all the things that frustrate me about fantasy were missing from this book!), enjoy political intrigue with romance, or like a strong female protagonist.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week the prompt based on the following opening sentence, which every member of the Spot Writers used to begin their piece:   Every day of the week I toe the mark, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I throw the book away and do my thing.

 This week’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series for kids, For Whom My Heart Beats Eternal, a sci-fi romance, and Faulkner’s Apprentice, a supernatural chiller for grown-ups. Find out more at valm16.sg-host.com

Magic

Every day of the week I toe the mark, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I throw the book away and do my thing. A magician’s blood always flowed through my veins, after all; it took but several decades of frustration for me to admit that.

When I first started working for the government, I told myself it was just a temporary setback—something to keep my bank account afloat until the economy picked up and I could go into business for myself. Besides, my parents would have killed me—going to college, racking up four years of debt, all to become a magician? It wasn’t steady income. It wasn’t steady work. It involved travel and auditions, constant mental focus and worrying about the next gig, and did I want to live in my parents’ basement forever? Didn’t I ever want to get married? Have children of my own?

That’s what my parents asked me, anyway. Threatened, more like it. They just never understood the thrill of it—standing in front of an audience, heart pounding in anticipation, eyes remaining calm lest they reveal the foil. The look of wonder on the audience’s faces, the applause, the accolades, all for me. Mom and Dad never understood what it was like to float on top of the world.

My parents had always been bean counters. The office each day equals nice, steady pay, Dad used to sing as he went out the door. I never could imagine how he would enjoy himself sitting in an office all day, doing paperwork. As a kid, I asked him what he did, and he never could articulate it quite. I’d come to understand he shuffled paper. I’d come to understand he was replaceable.

But a magician is hard to replace. A magician is unique.

Life happens, though, and to avoid living in my parents’ basement, I became a paper pusher, too. Each day spent within the cubicle, each day a bean counter. The paperwork. The reports. I could go a whole day without having to use my brain. I was just a warm body. The dull conversations. The fundraisers in the breakroom for the co-workers’ kids. Talk of weekend gardening or vacationing at the shore. So mundane. Talk of the way the new markers bled all over the file folders, or why the copy machine jammed on rainy days. Nothing like standing in front of the spotlight with every eye scrutinizing your every being, trying to figure out secrets they would never see.

I never did find a wife. I couldn’t settle for someone so content with the mundane as my parents were. I promised myself never to settle for anyone who didn’t share my sense of adventure, even if only on the inside. Mom and Dad died without grandchildren, and I grew old without a child.

It was after Dad’s funeral that I started spending Sundays in the park. At first it was just a deck of cards I used, sitting at the chess table there under the oak. I attracted spectator after spectator. Then I started with the tricks. The guessing games, the magic balls, the rabbit-from-the hat. From dawn ‘til dusk I spent Sundays entertaining spectators, most of them children. I watched their eyes, imagining what my own children might have looked like. Imagining where I might have met the love of my life had I followed my dreams instead of taking my parent’s path to safety. Would it have been on a tour? Perhaps in Europe? Maybe on a Vegas stage?

Last Sunday I saw her.

There was a little girl, but I swear in her eyes I could have been looking at myself as a six-year-old. She could have been my daughter, or my granddaughter. I plucked a pink rose from behind her ear and presented it to her. I looked up, then, and made eye contact with a woman around the same age as me. She smiled at me, a hand on the little girl’s shoulder protectively and proudly.

“My granddaughter loves pink,” she said. She smirked—almost as if to hide a blush. “I always did love magicians,” she said. “I had a dream when I was young to join the circus.” She giggled. “But we all have those silly dreams, don’t we. Still…” Her eyes glazed over for a moment. She was far away. Then she came back to reality. “I’m sorry, Mister…”

“Kramer,” I said, using my middle name, the stage name I made up for myself when I was seven. “Kramer the Bold,” I said.

“Kramer,” she said, offering a hand. “Thank you for the flower. Maybe we’ll see you around. Are you here often?”

I smiled and pulled a purple rose from behind her. “Sundays,” I said, presenting her the flower. “I do my thing on Sundays.”

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/