Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

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.

 

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!

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/

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.

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/

 

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/

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “someone finds a bag.” Today’s post comes to you from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series (find out more at www.corgicapers.com). The timing of this is serendipitous, as a year ago today was the last “normal” day before schools closed for nearly a year.

Iterations in the back of a minivan during a pandemic

By Val Muller

 

School’s closed.

Online learning?

Maybe. But not today.

The district’s figuring it out.

Me? I’d better drop the kids—

While daycare is still open for business—

And then head west,

Over the mountain,

To the county that hasn’t closed yet,

Where panic is still on its way.

Hit up the Walmart there.

Make sure not to forget anything.

Take the van. That way I can fit everything.

 

What is “everything?”

 

I think of feeding family,

Of fruit cups and juice boxes,

Of boxed pastas and shelf-stables.

I think of an apocalypse.

I do not think of toilet paper.

Another customer fills a cart

With 12 gallons of milk

And the rest, Pepsi.

What kind of apocalypse are they expecting?

 

I do not think

Of sidewalk chalk

Or hand sanitizer,

Of coloring books or boredom busters.

My mind fills with

The Walking Dead,

But without the zombies.

Food, food is what we need.

I’d best head home, unload the van,

And organize the freezer.

 

In the fearful months,

When no one yet understands,

The van’s automatic door

Becomes the gateway to the world:

Order online, curbside pickup.

“Pop your trunk,” the instructor always says,

From a phone or from ten feet away,

Masked.

With gloved hands, they push the automatic button

To close the door

On our precious supplies,

While my then-four-year-old

Soaks it all in.

 

School is online now,

But optional.

What student would attend optional school,

During a pandemic,

When the work doesn’t count?

And so I spend days with tots—

Now out of daycare, closed—

And nights planning lessons

And grading papers

For the handful of students

Who pretend things are normal.

Sometimes, when we feel extra risky,

And can’t stand another moment at home,

We buy takeout

And drive somewhere,

Have a picnic

In the back of the minivan.

 

The weather temperate,

We venture out,

One parent going into the store.

Who is most expendable?

Who must we watch carefully for the next two weeks

To see if they succumb?

Two weeks of nerves

That will only repeat about 15 days later,

When we must venture out again.

 

Sometimes we all come along for the ride

On those days when we cannot spend another hour

At home,

When we just need a reminder that the rest of the world

Still exists.

And we pass a restaurant,

Give a little nod,

And order curbside,

Drive to the end of the parking lot,

Pop the back door open,

Our family picnic.

Through that open hatch we watch

Sunsets,

Firetrucks,

Ants,

Seasons,

Our growing children.

We find all the hidden cupholders

The makers of the Odyssey

Must have one day imagined

Could hold all the cups

Of a family

Picnicking during a pandemic.

We find the one cache

The former owners had not cleared out,

Containing a yellow hair tie

And a marble.

The nooks of the van

Become caves and mountains

For puppy figures

And racetracks for cards.

And then we clean it up again

And return home.

 

The world steps toward Open.

Schools would count this time, this August.

No, make that September—

We need more time.

I will teach from home, but how—

With Little Ones?

Broken heart watches child mask up,

Mask hiding smile,

Skipping back to preschool

Knowing only the happiness of friends

And not the Dangers that worry parents.

Driving home without them,

The first time alone in months:

Zen.

But lonely.

So back to the minivan,

Picnic blanket spread,

This time for the dogs.

Want to go for a ride?

Skeptical at first after all the time home,

They soon expect it, their Daily Ride.

 

Vaccines and promises:

The world steps toward Open.

Students return,

But is it Safe—really safe—

In the building,

A building older than grandparents,

Designed more for air raids

Than pandemics?

Is the tiny air filter in the corner

Our generation’s Duck and Cover?

 

At lunch, teachers pass in the hall,

A quick gesture or masked smile

Hiding sadness of memories:

A packed workroom, laughter, stories, jokes,

Sharing of food, the old days.

Then we head to our cars to eat,

Alone,

Or to a closed room,

Remembering that isolation

Is the worst of the side effects.

I take the pillow out of my milkcrate,

Place laptop on milkcrate desk,

Sit.

This is my life now.

Worried and lonely,

A terrible lottery:

Never knowing when my number will be called

To cover for a sick teacher

Or to bring germs home to my family.

 

As I stop to stretch in a space that seems so large

With just me and a laptop,

I find a bag from that burger place,

The one we went to months ago

For a picnic.

We had gotten the kids each a toy:

Plastic bow and arrows and a monster truck.

He raced the truck around the contours of the van

While she shot arrows into the peaceful bushes.

I ache for my family,

But why, when for so many months

I wished for solitude?

 

Inside the bag: a pink puppy superhero

And her pink motorcycle.

It has been missing for months.

The kids will be relieved she is safe—

But maybe I shouldn’t tell them.

I place her in one of the cupholders,

Her motorcycle in another.

Maybe soon there will be another picnic,

Another chance to savor the small things,

To take in all the details,

Instead of rushing through endless Daily Grind.

 

And on that day, they will find their lost pup

And the magic of childhood once more,

In the back of the van.

 

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/

 

I’ve greatly enjoyed the Alexa Williams suspense series, which I was introduced to as an editor. I was happy to hear that the fifth book in Sherry Knowlton’s series was released yesterday.

This installment takes us away from the familiar Pennsylvania setting and into Botswana. At a time when the world is essentially on a travel lockdown, it’s refreshing to be able to pick up a book and experience somewhere away from home. I’ll admit that as someone who prefers to stay home more of the time, this book did inspire me with a bit of a travel bug. I felt like I was traveling along with Alexa. As an amateur photographer, I was a bit jealous of all the wildlife photo-ops Alexa and her team had (though at many times during their adventure, I was glad to be safe and sound at home!).

While I did benefit from having read the rest of the series prior to this novel, it works as a stand-alone novel as well for anyone looking for an exciting tale of travel and suspense.

When Alexa Williams agrees to spend four months doing lion research with boyfriend Reese, she looks forward to witnessing the elemental life and death struggle of the African wild. But she never imagines she’ll become one of the hunted on the famed Okavango Delta. In the latest Alexa Williams suspense novel, the kick-ass lawyer tangles with elephant poachers and conservation politics on the African continent.

About the book:

Botswana protects its wildlife with one of the strictest policies on the African continent and an entire army deployed to combat poachers. So, Alexa and Reese are shocked when poachers wipe out an entire herd of elephants. At the site of the mass slaughter near their lion project, they promise authorities that they’ll watch for poaching activity as they travel the Delta doing research.

In the capital, Alexa is part of a committee updating conservation legislation. When the strict anti-poaching policies come under debate, tensions flare and Alexa begins to suspect the ongoing poaching incidents may be about even more than the illicit ivory trade. The elephant poaching continues unchecked, and a close friend dies when caught in the crossfire. After an alarming series of near escapes, Alexa knows she’s getting closer to the truth.

When gunmen attack the safari camp where she and Reese are staying, Alexa must brave wild animals and the dangerous labyrinth of Delta channels in a desperate attempt to save the hostages, including the man she loves.

The book is available at Amazon (https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Delta-Alexa-Williams-Novel/dp/1620064332) and most online retailers.

About the author:

Sherry Knowlton is the author of the Alexa Williams series of suspense novels including Dead of Spring and Dead of Winter.  Passionate about books at an early age, she was that kid who would sneak a flashlight to bed at night so she could read beneath the covers. All the local librarians knew her by name. When not writing the next Alexa Williams thriller, Knowlton works with her health care consulting business or travels around the world. She and her husband live in the mountains of South Central Pennsylvania. Check out her website at www.sherryknowlton.com.

 

Praise for Sherry Knowlton’s Dead on the Delta:

“Every page of Dead on the Delta radiates Knowlton’s love and knowledge of this unique part of our planet and highlights its potential for disaster. Knowlton’s suspenseful book sets the beauty of the Okavango against the dangers that lurk there.” – Michael Stanley, author of the Detective Kubu series, also set in Botswana

Dead on the Delta is a gripping new adventure for Alexa Williams. Set against the backdrop of Botswana’s Okavango Delta, Alexa faces brutal poachers and a frightening conspiracy that reaches all the way to the top of Botswana’s elite. The situation comes to a head in a terrifying confrontation that requires all of Alexa’s strength as she fights for her own survival. A satisfying read set in a gorgeous landscape. – Michael Niemann, award winning author of the Valentin Vermeulen thrillers

A well-balanced and intelligent thriller…Suspense and thriller fiction fans have plenty to look forward to with Dead on the Delta.- Independent Book Review

 ★★★★ – “full of action, adventure, politics, and, of course, animals” – Manhattan Book Review

★★★★★- “great cast of characters and a fantastic female lead. Now I want to read the other books in the Alexa Williams series.” – San Francisco Book Review

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “Valentine.” It could be something upbeat related to Valentine’s Day, or any other story with a character named Valentine.

This week’s post comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. You can learn more at www.corgicapers.com.

Princess Valentine

By Val Muller

Princess Valentine sighed and stared out the window through her pink unicorn curtains. The ground was crusted over in a white glittery glaze that still looked bright in the darkening evening.

Stupid snow.

There went her Valentine’s Day party. Now here she was, a princess on Valentine’s Day, all alone. The five-year-old’s hair hung down in curly rainbow locks. At least her parents had allowed that, the rainbow hair chalk Aunt Bea had given her for her birthday last month. She wore her best gold and silver crown, of course, and a golden necklace to match. Striped stockings under glittery tutu with an ice queen dress on top.

She was the epitome of a Valentine’s Day princess, and here she was trapped at home. But really, it wasn’t the snow, was it? She knew it. Her parents knew it, and she knew they knew she knew. It was stupid Corona. It ruined everything. She no longer went to school. She never saw her friends. And now, she didn’t have a valentine.

There were friends, of course. She had had several computer play dates with her friends from preschool last year. But always the grown-ups had something more important to do. They always ended the computer conference way too soon. Like, why couldn’t she have a computer sleep over? And on nice days, she could go to the park. She always met a friend or two there, but they never ended up seeing each other after that. What good was meeting friends if your parents never let you have anyone over?

And today had been a lonely Valentine’s Day. Now it was a lonely Valentine’s nighttime, and her parents said it was too snowy to do a conference call. Without her friends, who in the world would be her valentine? Princess Valentine stared into the night sky. The clouds were almost completely gone now, and several stars twinkled. Princess Valentine was old enough to know that many of them were planets. That red one was Mars. She looked at Mars and then at the twinkling star, probably Sirius, her dad said one night.

One of them could be her Valentine. Which would it be? A warm, red planet like Mars? Of course, it wouldn’t really be warm. That’s what her dad said. It just looked warm because it was red. But really, it would be cold, just like the snowy night. But then there was the silvery, twinkly star. It looked like a jewel that belonged her crown. Stars were warm. That’s what her dad had said.

Star or planet. Which would be the perfect Valentine for a disgruntled princess? She tried to picture going to a Valentine’s Day ball with either of them, but she couldn’t very well concentrate.

Down the hall, her little brother fussed how about bed time. He was at that age. He was always a pain. And Mom and Dad were the worst about figuring out how to calm him. Princess Valentine sighed and descended from her throne by the window. She traipsed down the hallway, her ice queen dress trailing behind her. She deigned to enter the Chamber of The Whining brother.

“Oh honey,” asked Mom, looking very disheveled. “What’s happening? I thought you were going to play in your room while I put brother to bed.”

Princess Valentine shook her head. Who can possibly play with all that caterwauling? But she didn’t say that. Instead, she just raised a hand to her expectant brother. The boy stopped crying immediately, and a smile broke on his face. He grabbed her hand.

“He wants to have a sleepover in my room,” Princess Valentine said. He was still relatively small, and he’d only had one sleepover before: Christmas Eve, when the two of them were so excited that neither could sleep. They slept on the floor in sleeping bags and eventually giggled themselves to sleep thinking about Santa.

The little boy jumped up and down at the mention of a sleepover.

“Is that really what he wants?” Mom asked, perplexed.

“Of course it’s what he wants,” the princess declared. The little boy grabbed her hand and followed her down the hall. The bewildered mom spread out two sleeping bags and watched as the little boy willingly climbed in and settled.

A few minutes later, when the lights were out, Princess Valentine’s Little Valentine snored softly in his sleeping bag. The princess stared out the window at the twinkling star and the warm looking planet. They would have to find their own valentines this year. Next year they might claim her, she thought as she smiled at her little brother, but this year, she was already taken.

 

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/

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is to write something using the words “light, new, blue, love, peace.” This week’s poem comes to us from Val Muller, who was so distracted by end-of-semester grading and a laptop malfunction that she forgot yesterday was Thursday. Please excuse the lateness. You can check out her kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers at www.corgicapers.com.

 

4 a.m.

by Val Muller

Something is awake.

Light goes on.

Squint.

Fumble for glasses.

A troubled child, clanking two toy trucks.

“Bad dream,” he mumbles.

Dreams are new to him.

They have happened twice this week.

He whimpers, “Scary.”

“What did you dream?” I ask,

Peering into his teary blue eyes.

“Monster truck. Crush me.”

The tears start again.

We all feel that way these days, I want to say,

Crushed, scared;

But instead I cuddle him in a lie,

A dinosaur blanket—peace, love, warmth—saying,

“You are safe.”

*

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/