Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Flash Fiction: “Decisions, Decisions” by Cathy MacKenzie

June 10, 2021 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month “A character faces an important decision.”

Bonus points if it doesn’t mention COVID! (Cathy’s post does not mention Covid!)

This dark tale comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel or stand-alone (18+), are available on Amazon. MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series, is scheduled for release in 2022/2023.

***

“Decisions, Decisions” by Cathy MacKenzie

“I can’t do it alone,” I said, gripping my handbag to my chest as if it’d sprout wings and fly far, far away.

Sally’s face turned white. She glanced at me and looked away. Had I said too much? She wasn’t my closest friend. Didn’t know my husband that well, so I felt safe confiding in her, but in that split second, I wished I hadn’t.

Still, I plodded on. “You won’t help me?”

She turned and glared at me as if I were bonkers. Perhaps I was.

Can’t you speak? I wanted to scream my thoughts, but I didn’t. Would only hinder my request, and she was my only hope.

She sighed. “I think this is bigger than me. I…”

I what? I hated when people stopped sentences midstream.

“Dunno,” she said, as if I’d spoken out loud. Was she psychic? She picked up her purse from the picnic table. “I gotta go.”

What? “Yeah, okay.”

She sped off.

Obviously, I’d made a huge mistake, but not ready to give up, I raced after her. “Sally, wait.”

She stopped and faced me.

Breathless, I asked, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

She smiled—albeit a slight smile. “I won’t.”

“I’ll walk with you to Oak Street,” I said. I needed to get inside her head. Why wouldn’t she help me? Maybe I expected too much from her. After all, I’d propositioned murder. Not everyone’s cuppa tea—if you drink tea. I don’t; I prefer the hard stuff: Gin. Vodka. Whiskey. Wine, even. Whatever’s offered.

We walked in silence until we reached the intersection at Pecan and Chestnut, where she gripped my arm and examined my face as if it were full of pimples (it wasn’t). “Are you serious? Really serious?”

“Serious?”

“Yeah, what you want help with,” she said.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

She stared into my eyes as if trying to enter my soul. “Okay. Let’s do it. But on one condition.” She grinned.

The shape of her mouth and the baring of her teeth reminded me of Jack Nicholson in The Joker. I rubbed my arms, trying to quell my tremors. “What’s the condition?”

“That we kill my husband first.”

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

flash fiction, horror none

Flash Fiction: Spud by Val Muller

June 3, 2021 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “A character faces an important decision” with bonus points if it doesn’t mention COVID ?

This week’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, who is in the home stretch of the longest and weirdest year of her teaching career. She wrote this tale while driving (composed via speak-to-text) during a particularly stressful week. If you’d like lighter fare, you can check out her Corgi website at www.corgicapers.com.

Spud

By Val Muller

When I was ten, I had a dream—a nightmare, really. There was this creepy glowing clown. It happened the one time I watched a scary movie from the top of the stairs while my parents thought I was in bed. I swear, as I crouched at the top of the banister to peer at the television, I heard breathing behind me. I never turned to look, and the breathing left me too terrified to return to bed. I only sprang back to my room on an adrenaline rush when I heard my parents coming up for the night.

I’m sure it was the clown breathing behind me, toying with me. He certainly came to me in that dream, where he showed up, laughing maniacally, and told me I would always choose the potatoes.

I was terrified of that clown, let me tell you. I don’t think I can really put it in words. It’s not circus clowns and super-slow kid songs sung off-key. That’s the fun kind of scary. This clown wasn’t the fun kind. He’s sort of like zombies—the idea of being dead but not. Souless, maybe. A monster. The whole something-beyond-mortality… or maybe nothing. The way he said potatoes. I know it sounds comical when I say it out loud. Believe me, if I could erase that dream from my life, I would. And I only wish this were funny instead of pathetically terrifying. When he said potatoes, his voice was the grizzled rasp of death. His assertion—that I would always choose potatoes—was a threat I didn’t understand.

Starting that next morning, whenever I had an option to choose potatoes, I chose them. I mean ridiculously so. It earned me the nickname Tater in school because every day at the cafeteria I would choose tater tots. I mean, I would have potatoes covered in ketchup, tater tots on my salad, mashed potatoes with a side of French fries. If potatoes were offered—on a menu, in a conversation—I took them.

I never actually told anyone the reason for it. Everyone just thought it was my quirk. I can’t tell you how many potato gag gifts I’ve received over the years. Potato figures, t-shirts, plushies. To be honest, I don’t even like potatoes that much. They remind me of a grave—you know, how the dirt kind of piles up and is clumpy but moist. That’s what potatoes are like. A freshly-dug grave.

When I went away to college, I promised myself I would start fresh. But every line in the dining hall has potatoes of some sort. I could hardly disguise my strange choices, and though I managed to shed my “Tater” nickname, my freshman hall affectionately called me “Spud.” Now, after my second year of college, I feel like I’m at that point where something has to be done. Am I really going to let a dream from when I was ten dictate the rest of my life?

Dad came with the SUV to pack up my sophomore year dorm room. I would be living off-campus the next year, and I had fantasies of going grocery shopping and not buying any potatoes every again. But the back of my mind wondered: if I walked past the potatoes, or a box of potato flakes, or a frozen case of French fries, would I have to choose them? I imagined my future apartment’s freezer, packed full of frozen spuds.

Things were becoming ridiculous.

We loaded Dad’s SUV with all my stuff, and then I fell asleep on the way home. I woke when we took a sharp turn off an exit ramp. My dad kind of reached over and kept my whole body from sliding too far to the left on the leather passenger seat. He said “Good morning, sunshine” the same way he said it when I was a kid. And then he offered me the choice.

It was a split-second decision I had to make while still not fully awake. He said we were stopping for lunch. There was a food truck with lobster rolls advertised with hand-written signs along the highway. Then there was the typical fast-food corridor that I knew would be chock-full of potatoes. My dad smiled sadly at me.

“I know you have a thing for potatoes, and since you’re the guest of honor this summer, I’ll let you choose, but I sure could use a good old New England lobster roll.”

“Does the food truck have fries?” I asked.

Dad shrugged. “I need to know. This is our turn.”

We approached a traffic light. On the light post, a handwritten sign pointed left with “lobster rolls” written in permanent marker. Metal signs with all manner of fast-food logos pointed to the right. I looked left, down what seemed to be a country road. Dad hovered between two lanes, and the car behind us beeped: we had to choose a lane.

It was a split-second decision, and I said “Food truck.”

I imagined how the lobster roll would taste—the delicious sweet lobster meat, the friend butter-grilled roll with its subtle crunch. There would be no need for French fries. In fact, I hoped there would not be any.

Dad shifted to the left-turn lane, which had a red light. The right lane, where the impatient car behind us sped, had a green arrow. I watched him turn, and I watched as out of nowhere, a huge truck barreled through the intersection just as the car in the right-turn lane turned right on the green arrow.

I’ll never forget the crunch of that truck hitting the car. Hitting the car that would have been ours if I had chosen the potatoes.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

flash fiction none

Flash fiction: The Corgi Princess’s Streamers of Victory

May 6, 2021 No comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story using the words TV, flamenco, midget, toilet paper, dragon.

This week’s piece comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series. This piece is actually a scene coming from the in-progress Corgi Capers book 4 (slightly modified to fit the prompt). You can learn more about the series at www.corgicapers.com.

The Corgi Princess’s Streamers of Victory

By Val Muller

Sapphie lowered onto all fours, eyeing her people. That box was making noise again. What did they call it, a TV? It usually distracted everyone, but these kids seemed to be paying extra attention to her. She needed them distracted now, now, now! She could see it there through the open bathroom door, the object of her quest: toilet paper.

Glorious.

Chewy.

Pully.

Delicious.

It wasn’t Adam and Courtney. It was the midget, the little one, the one who wasn’t part of the family. What did they call him again? Cousin, that was it. Cousin didn’t have a Sapphie of his own. Cousin only had a Paxton Glen, and that pup was not nearly as cute or amazing as Sapphie. No one was! So of course Cousin couldn’t look away. But it was sure becoming annoying. Sapphie needed a distraction.

Courtney was pushing that thing that made different colors appear on the TV. First, bright, flashy ones. Then, dark, calming ones. Then—a doorbell!

Sapphie, Zeph, and Paxton all skittered on the cold floor toward the front door.

Paws.

Claws.

Howls.

Who, who, who? Sapphie wanted to know. Paxton howled too, his voice becoming more like a corgi’s.

“It’s just on TV,” Adam said over the noise. “Quiet.”

It’s just on TV. Those words were possibly the most disappointing words people ever said. All manner of things were “just on TV.” Cats, dogs, doorbells, beeps, horns.

Still, the command to be quiet was perhaps just what Sapphie needed to regroup for her mission. The people seems calmer now. Cousin was laughing at the commotion. Courtney and Adam had turned back to the TV.

“Oh, look,” Adam said. “A commercial for the new Logan Zephyr film. Let’s watch this one!”

Zeph, hearing his name, trotted over to Adam like the Goody Two Shoes he was. Paxton trotted to the couch, where her hopped up to cuddle with the delighted Cousin. Courtney pulled out her phone.

Sapphie tested the waters, skittering back and forth behind the couch. Like a flamenco dancer, she floated across tiles, eyeing Courtney for a reaction.

None.

She ran to the water dish and dipped her front paws in it, splashing.

No response.

The boys were lost in the TV. The world belonged to Sapphie. She danced her way toward the bathroom, leaving wet pawprints everywhere. And then, next to the toilet, the object of her quandary hung, swaying in the gentle rush of hot air from the heating system.

First, like a mischievous fairy steed of lore, deftly she tiptoed across the tile. Then, like a dragon, she leapt in the air and landed victorious, a soft white square gripped firmly between her teeth. The toilet paper pulled easily off the holder. With no one to stop her, she twisted it around her neck, her collar, her stubby little legs. It just kept coming, a streamer of victory, unending. Her tail wagged a million miles an hour as she ate several pieces of the white fluff.

Yum, yum, yum! she barked, dancing across the floor with her streamers of royalty celebrating her reign as they trailed behind her on the paw-printed floor, reflecting the colorful glow of the television.

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

 

corgis, flash fiction none

Writer Wednesday: More #napowrimo poetry

April 28, 2021 No comments

Last week was insane. I forgot to post my poems, but they were written! The business of work and the craziness of last quarter coupled with concurrent teaching (teaching to kids in school and online at the same time) led me to write poetry without punctuation, something I really disapprove of. But the lack of structure seemed fitting for several poems. Here are poems from two weeks ago. I’ll post the rest on the following 2 Wednesdays.

April 15, 2021 (virelai) “A Ride in the Car”

Posted a few days ago at https://corgicapers.com/2021/04/23/poem-virelai-a-ride-in-the-car/

We wake up and bark
In the early dark,
Waiting
To hear singing lark
Or squirrel’s snark
Playing
With canine ears: mark
Out teeth like a shark’s
Staying
Our owner’s command.
A hush takes the land:
A plop
Of sustenance canned.
Our dish in her hand,
The slop—
Food! We understand!
Our barks, as she planned,
Then stop
As we eat. Then out,
Bark over her shout:
New mark:
The car is about!
We sniff, snort, and scout
Then bark
Excitement and clout
And follow the route:
The park!

 

April 16

“Your Password is Due to Expire in 11 Days”

Teach from work
Teach from home
Teach to icons
Feel alone

Grades don’t count
Yes they do
Wait for the vaccine
But not for you

It’s safe to breathe
No it’s not
Here’s your second
COVID shot

Teach from work
To those in school
While teaching to
Those on screen too

Keep them engaged
Don’t assign too much
Teach with rigor
Stay in touch

Temperature check
Every day
Music’s not open
Sports are okay

State testing
Must happen physically
AP testing
Happens virtually

Masks required
But not for lunch
Is it science
Or just a hunch

“Teachers are lazy
They don’t want to teach
They want slippers and bon bons
And days at the beach

“My kid is lazy
Because teacher’s not there
To micromanage tasks
And keep him in his chair

“Schools need to open
So I can work from home
Without little junior
Interrupting my phone”

Cover this teacher
We don’t have a sub
You can’t say no
Simply because

Have you posted your work
The system is down
Record your lesson
The mask hides your frown

Bend over backward
Turn water to wine
We’re changing things up
Just one more time

Perform the impossible
Keep energy high
Who needs to sleep
You can sleep when you die

 

(April 17)

“Tooth”

In younger days, I dreamed

I lost my teeth.

They’d fall out.

I’d stick them back in gummy holes,

Hoping no one would notice—

Especially me.

 

In sleep-deprived newness of motherhood,

I dreamed I had 30 seconds to myself,

And I used those 30 seconds

To floss,

And when I did, a chunk of tooth came out.

It was no dream:

The dentist said I clench jaw in sleep.

My daughter woke six times a night

For 15 months:

I had to do something.

 

My son woke, too,

And so,

Another chunk.

A new dentist this time.

 

When I see white fuzz on the ground,

Or little ivory pebbles,

My heart leaps,

And I wonder if it’s one of my teeth

Secretly come out.

I tongue my toothline

Just to make sure.

 

The other day

I found a tooth

Perfectly placed on the kitchen floor.

It was no human tooth.

I looked at my aging dogs.

It must be one of theirs.

Do dogs truly lose teeth like that,

Clean, bloodless, painlessly?

Would I find more?

And how often?

I went to bed

Worried about mortality.

 

In the morning I remembered

Dog teeth don’t look like that.

This was a shark tooth

Given to my daughter—

Aquarium trip,

A time forgotten,

Until the tooth,

Timeless,

Joined me in memory.

 

April 18, 2021

“Ephemeral”

This poem has an imposed structure, but I do not know if it has a name.

Pink, fuchsia, purple: magic

Of Virginia’s red bud tree!

Word, camera both fall tragic

In conveying what I see.

 

Bird perches like an eagle.

Haze of rain and droplets cool

Make him look no less regal:

Pink behind the blue bird jewel.

 

Wind picks up—rain beats harder:

Camera can’t withstand this rain.

Rush inside—save the camera—

The bird won’t appear again.

 

Crystal clear, mind’s eyes sees it—

Kaleidoscope in the tree—

Transcends sight, pen, and paper—

Transcends our reality.

 

(April 19)

“The Pie Song”

He asks for the “Pie

Song.” My

Little guy,

When bedtime draws nigh.

It’s really about birds in the sky.

They fly

High;

Some die.

I lie:

Yes, it’s about pie.

Why?

Death makes us cry,

Makes us shy.

He should be saying hi

To life, not burdened by

The weight of goodbye.

Like Holden in the rye,

I try—

But fie!

The truth will pry,

Sear, and fry;

But until then, little guy:

A song about pie.

 

April 20, 2021

“Blue Screen of Death”

My brain is low on RAM

No memory to spare. Bam!

Pile another requirement

To my overloaded detriment

Tax the superpowered motherboard

CPU 90%, 100%, more

Overloaded process

NO way to stop this

You got this,

But have I?

I could die.

One more thing.

System spins

Never ends

Mouse froze

I suppose

It could be worse

System resources

Update needed

Restart completed

Error now

Blue screen

Bad dream

Hold button in

Begin again

System repair

In progress

Are you there?

poetry none

Book Review: A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Newton Peck

April 19, 2021 No comments

Note: It’s been SO LONG since I have posted a book review. This does not mean I have not been reading! This year has been a challenge and a struggle on many front. For me as a teacher, teaching concurrently (teaching students in person at the same time as online) has been the biggest challenge–that, and balancing family life and mandatory quarantines, etc. With that said, I am going back through the books I have been reading lately and posting reviews. Some are books for younger readers that I am previewing for my own children. Others are books I am reading for my own teachings or for pleasure. In any case, I hope to be more regular in posting a book review every Monday 🙂

Book Review: A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Newton Peck

I learned about this book on a poster advertising banned books. This one, if I remember correctly, was banned for being too grim or realistic or something like that. Naturally, if something is banned, I want to read it.

It’s a short read and an easy one, based on Peck’s own childhood and is described as “semi-autobiographical.” At the time of writing this review, I did not go back and check which elements are based on actual events. Though it’s written for children, it is quite blunt in its depiction of the difficulties of farm life in New England.

I read the book in two days—I had left it in the basement and forgotten about it all summer (we only use the basement during the winter, as the warm pellet stove is down there). The setting—sitting next to a warm fire during a snowstorm—helped to emphasize the setting of the novel. Even just taking the dogs out in the cold and all the steps involved in putting on snow gear, shoveling through the crusty top layer of snow so they could walk, etc., helps me to understand a fraction of what the characters in the novel had to go through.

The family in the story follows some of the beliefs of the Shakers, though at times those beliefs seem to be used to justify an acceptance of their difficult and impoverished life in rural Vermont in the early 1900s. The novel follows a twelve-year old named Rob, who helps around the farm, learning about birth and death—his two brothers have already died, though his sisters have survived. There are several bloody and brutal scenes, including a dog fighting a weasel, a hawk killing a rabbit, a pig being mounted quite brutally, and Rob himself pulling a goiter out of an animal with his bare hand. Not to mention frequent butchering of animals for daily survival.

What probably made the novel become added to the list of banned books was also what made it beautiful. In the grim reality of farm life, there is beauty. Rob’s father tells him that growing up means dealing with things that are not pleasant—simply doing what you have to do. Life is not fair and was never promised to be. While the message applies to the grim details of farm life—butchering animals you may have cared for and watching those you love die—it can be applied to life as a whole. For instance, I remember as a kid thinking that puke was possibly the most disgusting thing in the universe. One day—I remember quite clearly—it dawned on me that someone has to clean up puke. Parents. When I asked my parents how they did it, they told me they did it because they had to—because that’s what you do as parents. In many ways, the graphic details of the book help to emphasize that point.

While I would be careful in recommending it to a child (it would depend on age, disposition, etc.), I do think that when framed in the proper context, it will be a poignant read, one that will stay with readers long beyond the actual reading, and one that will help develop life lessons without readers having to necessarily go through the grim realities on their own.

 

book reviews none

Writer Wednesday: More #napowrimo poetry

April 14, 2021 No comments

Following the whole “keep myself accountable,” I am sharing the poems I wrote this week as part of my #napowrimo goal of writing one poem per day in the month of April. I hope you enjoy!

April 8, 2021 (free form)

“Things My Toddler Says”

My truck is a hammock.
I farted on Mom.
I want rainbow chocolate muffins.
That tree is too long.

Right now it’s wake-up time.
I want to watch a show.
No, don’t change my diaper—
No, no, no, no, no!

*Incoherent screaming*
Can I have a hug?
My ketchup is bleeding.
I just ate a bug.

I lost my toy car—
We need to go back!
Oh, wait. Here it is.
Can I have a snack?

Mom, are you sleeping?
Wake up! Play with me!
Tell me the story
Of getting stuck in a tree.

Now I need water—
In the green cup, not blue.
No, the yellow cup, now!
Yes, that one. Thank you!

You’re little, I’m big.
I’m big and you’re small.
I want pizza for breakfast.
Watch me kick the ball.

The muffins are gone.
They’re in my tummy, too.
Soon they’ll come out
In a big stinky poo!

 

April 9, 2021

Research for a Story (sonnet)

We’re spawned during the darkest midnight storms.
We live to lie upon, and with, our marks.
To us, so many surprise babes are born
That shade their mothers’ morals in the dark.

An incubus and succubus are we:
We are both creatures, changing by the hour.
We steal from men—and corpses—their fresh seed
Then lie with women, transferring that power.

Cause nuns to burn, if pregnant with our child,
Excuse the hazards of a midnight tryst,
Explainaway behavior lewd and wild:
All this we do with secret midnight bliss.

Despite our power over humankind,
We’ll never know the love that true hearts bind.

 

April 10, 2021

“Monster”

Succubus

I lie underneath

Where dwell your doubts

Where dwell your fears

I breed them.

Succumb

To my teasing

To your weakness

To the illness I plant in your mind.

I work to bring out your worst.

Cubicle

Cubare! Lie down!

Find your box

And do not venture from here

You are easier to catch that way.

Success

I’ve come out from under

Embrace what I’ve made you:

You were great but—

You’ve surrendered your humanity to me.

 

April 11, 2021 (haiku)

Too many things due.

No time to write this poem—

And yet I’ve done it.

 

April 12, 2021 (ghazal)

“Grading is Better with a Corgi on Each Foot, a Ghazal”

Grading late work is better with my corgis.
Office: sitting warm, cool view, nearby: corgis.

Late work floods my screen: drowning. No end in sight.
Perhaps students were distracted by corgis

Or whatever intrigue captivates their soul:
Cat, hamster, book, song, or asking “Why?” Corgis

Don’t question why I sit at my screen all day.
My feet are their pillow. Sleep. Snore. Like, corgis.

Life is better with a corgi on each foot.
And what helps me when work makes me cry? Corgis.

 

April 13: “Clean”

Something smells—it’s in the fridge.

I just don’t know what the heck it is.

A cup of milk? Some moldy cheese?

I cleaned it out—but tell me, please,

Why the fridge still smells so bad.

It makes me cringe, it makes me mad.

A gremlin stew? A witch’s brew?

I cleaned it out: I want to pout.

A deadly ghost? A rotten frog?

Zombie perfume? Eau de Bog?

Let’s eat it up or throw it out

Until the day that we can shout:

“This is it! Here it is—

I found the smell within the fridge!”

 

April 14—limerick

“Lonely Lunch”

I sit eating lunch in my van;

Raindrops tap the roof as they land.

It’s lonely and still,

But it follows my will:

Breathing maskless in here feels so grand!

poetry none

Spot Writers (poetry): All the Pretty Things by Val Muller

April 8, 2021 2 comments

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s theme is “All the pretty things.” This week’s piece comes to us from Val Muller, who is challenging herself to write one poem today in celebration of NaPoWriMo, or National Poetry Writing Month, a convergence of novel writing month and poetry month ? You can read the first week’s poems at https://wp.me/p2dkaY-17S . Today’s poem is from April 7:

All the Pretty Things

By Val Muller

I am a crow
Because you always thought
That’s what I would be

Ever since you read
That crows can symbolize
Mystery, Wisdom, or Death.

And so when I came for you,
You saw me
As a crow.

Remember in childhood
You left food for me:
Berries, grains, meat;

And in exchange
I brought you shiny things,
All the pretty things

I could find:
Bottle caps, lost earrings,
Shells, bright bits of string.

You wondered at the mystery
And treasured my gifts
In a box.

You grew and moved
But heard me calling,
Cawing, through all your years,

Knew I was there,
Waiting.
You photographed me,

Painted me,
Wrote of me,
Of all my pretty things:

Claw, feathers, eyes,
Beak, gaze, wisdom,
As you aged into autumn,

Thinking of life lived
And wisdom bought
With time.

And now I’ve come,
Reminding you, before we leave,
Of all your pretty things:

Of love, tears,
Successes, failures,
Family, solitude, travel,

Of treasured things locked
In the box of your soul
As we take to the sky
In search of pretty things.

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

poetry none

Writer Wednesday: NaPoWriMo (Part 1)

April 7, 2021 No comments

April is national poetry month, and I’m challenging myself to complete one poem per day as part of NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month). I’ll post the week’s progress each Wednesday this month. Each poem was written within the day, and I’m trying out different forms. I hope you enjoy.

The Night That Shook the Tree (villanelle—April 1)

The wind came; fierce, it shook the tree.
We, from inside, looked on:
We knew not what the damage of the night would be.

The wind blew clouds against the moon so that we could not see,
But listened instead to its howling song:
The wind came; fierce, it shook the tree.

The soft white blossoms had only just bloomed free—
They would not be for long.
We knew not what the damage of the night would be,

Or its impact on you or me—
The heartless gusts, so strong!
The wind came; fierce, it shook the tree:

The young tree’s death, a travesty,
The rotting buds, so wrong!
We knew not what the damage of the night would be

Until morning, when neighbors cleared what they could not foresee—
Those infantile buds were the tree’s swan song.
The wind came; fierce, it shook the tree;
We knew not what the damage of the night would be.

 

Summer’s Kiss (Echo Verse—April 2)

Summer came in March.
March
               To the outdoors—
Doors
              Open, flowers perfuming the air.
Heir
               To spring, summer cheated;
It
               Followed fast on winter’s heel.
Heal      
               The gaping wound of the cold,
Cold
               Death of winter’s kiss.
Kiss
               The sun today; summer in March will not stay.

 

“Cleaning House” (Dansa—April 3)

The dust lurking in corners hides
Among boxes and clutter stacked:
A magazine here, an ancient toy headed for the trash.
Is he who keeps it all a fool, or wise?
The dust lurking in corners hides,

But who can take issue with that?
Our memories are bound to the materials they begat.
We tuck them away in our mind and inside—
The dust lurking in corners hides.

 

Boy, Wild (Fibonacci Poem—April 4)

Boy,
Wild:
Living
His best life,
Smashing food on face
And laughing while mom cleans it up.

 

Melting Time (Cinquain—April 5)

Easter.
Just yesterday,
It was me finding eggs.
That wonder now belongs to them,
My kids.

 

Sonnet to Late Work (Shakespearean sonnet—April 6)

Late work: it doth pour in, pour in! And I,
Its hapless victim, feel the wrath, resigned
To toil all hours until The End, when by
The grace of Guidance must submit on time

Completed grades from all who slacked in sloth;
In laziness and apathy begot
By coddling, as if a pig at troth,
The scholars’ motivation seems but aught.

Knowledge do they devour? Sadly, no—
But care for what percentage they will earn.
True knowledge not does a report card show,
As one may pass without his having learned.

A change we need, but how do we begin?
True learning blossoms deeply from within.

poetry, Writer Wednesdays none

Fantastic Friday: Writers of the Future

April 2, 2021 No comments

This week was spring break, and while last week’s summer weather took a turn toward winter, I was still able to tackle the indoor elements of my to-do list. (The house now looks like it was hit by a normal storm rather than a metaphorical tornado, so—progress!) But after installing a very stubborn ceiling fan (the battle was epic: it involved going into the attic, balancing on beams, straddling ducts, trembling muscles, feats of glory…), I decided to do something for myself.

Last summer, I had started the free online workshop from the Writers of the Future contest, which takes writers through the steps of taking writing to the next level. The workshop is designed for intermediate writers—those who have the basics but are looking to make them stronger.

The workshop is based on the contest’s sponsor, L. Rob Hubbard, and his essays on writing, but it is facilitated by three powerhouses in the speculative fiction world: Orson Scott Card (Ender’s Game), Tim Powers (On Stranger Tides), and David Farland (The Runelords). What I liked the most was that interspersed among the videos were activities participants were asked to do. Taken together, the activities would help the participant (me!) write an original story.

While the workshop forced me to think “out of order” compared to my normal way of writing, I ended up with a solid story when I went to type the different elements together. I left with some fantastic reminders and pointers about what makes compelling writing.

When I was younger, I used to enter the Writers of the Future contest from time to time with the sole goal of being invited for the in-person workshop. I was excited when the contest opened the workshop to the general public, for free. It felt great to finish the week having accomplished something for myself, and I look forward to the live Q&A session next week.

If you’re an aspiring writer, give it a shot. There’s nothing to lose.

https://www.writersofthefuture.com/writing-workshop/

 

Fantastic Friday none

Flash fiction: The Bag by Cathy MacKenzie

March 18, 2021 No comments

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month, the task is to use the topic “someone finds a bag.” This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie.

Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark (18+) sequel, is now available. MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series, is scheduled for release in 2022.

***

THE BAG by Cathy MacKenzie

“What’s that?” I ask James, my seven-year-old brother, who just straightened up after picking something off the ground.

“I dunno. A bag of something.” He thrusts it out as if it’s a prize. “It’s pretty, eh?”

“Yeah, okay. I guess. It’s a pretty blue. And brown.” Blue’s my fav colour. I laugh. “Maybe you should open it. Might be jewels you can give Mom.” Our mother’s birthday is coming up in less than a week. We usually make her something special. “Homemade’s best,” Mom always spouts.

Every year, I wrack my brains trying to figure out what to make her. Most times, my self-perceived “treasures” are epic fails, but I’ve never been that desperate that I’ve resorted to picking up discarded bags holding who knows what.

He peers at the small bag, turning it every which way. It’s the size of sandwich bags Mom uses for our school lunches. But those bags are clear.

“Doesn’t look like much,” he says. “Don’t think there’s jewels inside.”

I laugh. “Nah, not jewels.”

He examines it again. “Nothing’s moving. Nothing alive. Kinda lumpy.”

I keep a straight face. “On second thought, don’t open it. It’s bulbs, and they don’t grow very good if they’re disturbed.”

“Really? Do you think that’s what this is? Bulbs?” He looks at me, waiting for an answer.

I smile. “I can almost guarantee it. Can’t you see the dirt covering them? You know how Mom loves gardening. That’d be a good birthday present.”

I can’t resist adding, “I wish I’d found something spectacular like that. You’re so lucky, James.”

He smiles. His eyes light up like icicles shining in the sun in winter. “Really?”

“Yeah. You’re lucky, for sure.”

“You really think they’re bulbs?”

“Yeah, pretty sure. I bet someone lost it. Probably after being at Nelson’s Nurseries.” I point ahead, to the trail winding in between the trees. “You know, now that I think about it, I saw an older lady walking ahead of us a bit ago. She had a whack of them. She must’ve dropped one of them.”

James glances at the bag and then at me. “Ya think? I really want to give Mom a nice present.”

“Yeah, that’s what happened. Let’s go home. I’ll sneak into her stash of wrapping paper and find something pretty you can use to wrap it up.”

His grin takes over his face. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

I cover my mouth to stifle my giggles. They’re more than giggles. Huge guffaws if I let them loose. Stupid James. Does he really think the bag is full of bulbs? It’s all I can do to remain silent.

Carlson County recently introduced a dog bylaw. Everyone must pick up after their dogs. The corner store sells those little blue bags. I thought them cute when I first saw them. Asked Mom to buy some for our lunches. “No, dear,” she said. “They’re for dog poop.”

I can’t wait for Mom’s birthday. I’ll laugh my head off when she opens James’ gift. James is her favourite. He never does anything wrong—in her eyes, that is. I bet she’ll change her tune at a bag of dog poop, though. Ha ha

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

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

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

Catherine A MacKenzie, flash fiction none
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