Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a guidebook to pine trees, a school bus, and a painted rock.

Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

Transcend

By Val Muller

We got off the bus to organized chaos. Piles of rocks were visible at the far side of the field, their red-and-blue or green-and-yellow hateful slogans illegible from the yellow school bus but still very present there in the sun. Near them, a vat of white paint. Only the adults, parents and troop leaders, would be dousing the hateful rocks in paint.

At the far end of the field, the press: cameras craving a look. Between the two, scouts and their friends gathering for the event. Some wore their uniforms and others wore white shirts, ready to be splotched in paint.

All along the field, troop leaders were setting up tables and paints, paintbrushes and reference photos. I led our small entourage to our troop’s table, then opened the guide to pine trees. That was our theme. Pine trees in sunlight, pine trees in silhouette, pine trees blue in the light of the moon, and on the back of each rock a message of hope–a word, a phrase, something uplifting.

A man with a wheelbarrow stopped at our table with the first load of white painted rocks. “All dried and ready to go,” he said. Each member of our troop came around from the table to choose three rocks to start out. All day the man would bring us white rocks from the pile. All day we would cover them in colors. At the end, we would package them up for distribution to whoever needed a smile.

Little Lilly was with us. Too young for scouts but old enough to participate. She attempted a pine tree, but it came out more like a smudge.

“Mom, she’s ruining it,” Allison said, frowning.

I looked down at Lilly’s messy rock.

“Let that one dry,” I said. “That can be the first layer. Lilly, we can paint over it again, but put less paint on the brush for the next one.”

Lilly reached for another rock. “This one’s already been painted,” she said, pointing to some words that were starting to bleed through the white paint.

I reached for the rock, but Allison snatched it and studied it. “Mom, what’s a–”

She started to read one of the hateful words bleeding through the white paint, but I snatched it from her hand.

“Nevermind,” I said.

The national news was ridiculous, elevating even local politics to the divisive partisanship that had become our nation. The “Rock War,” as we had been dubbed, had also made the national spotlight, with journalists traveling to see all the hateful painted rocks true grown adults had left all over the front yard at City Hall, all over a small town scandal that should have been a small hiccup in local history, nothing more. But the more the news hyped it up, the more people traveled from afar with rocks of their own, supporting one side or the other. Soon, the fight between the mayor and the police chief had risen to national ranks.

Local and regional scout troops had pooled money to have a day of painting, turning the hate rocks into something positive. It was a joyful idea, but it was so hard to be positive with all that was going on in the world.

“But Mom, what does it mean?” Allison asked.

“Nevermind,” I repeated. “It’s just means we need another coat. What do you think? Dark blue? Starry sky?”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

Both sides were avoiding dialogue by throwing hate. That’s what it boiled down to, to people refusing to have a dialogue. Like the rocks at City Hall. A thousand pieces of hate. How do you explain that to a child while reinforcing their faith in humanity?

We agreed on a night sky with the aurora borealis behind a row of pine silhouettes. Allison turned Lilly’s green mess into a blue-green sky. The sun dried the paint quickly, and it was time to write a message on the back. But Allison’s accusation still hung in the air. I worried about my parenting. I had told them a little of the conflict, of the different parties involved, of the hateful rhetoric being slung by both sides, but I didn’t delve. Was I wrong? I wanted to protect their childhood, but would that come at a cost?

“What do we write on the back?” Allison asked. I had brought the pine reference book, but maybe I should have brought some inspirational quotes or something, too.

The press was starting to pack up now, and I watched one of the vans disappear into the drooping sun. In its place along the roadside was a group of people holding signs. I tensed, wondering which side they were and what they might say. Would I have to shield my kids?

“Look, Mom, those are for us,” Allison said. She pulled Lilly a little closer to the fence. Lilly couldn’t really read yet, and I tensed as Allison started to read the signs aloud. “Love. Peace. Talk.”

Then I smiled.

Allison squinted to make out a word on a sign. “T-r-a-n-s-c-e-n-d,” she spelled. “Mom, what does that mean?”

I picked up my brush and smiled at her, choosing a rock big enough to write it in bold capital letters. This word I could explain.

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.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 month’s prompt is to write a story in which the main character is a creative writing teacher. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, who is so busy revising and illustrating her Corgi Capers tales that she forgot it was her turn to write!

The Easiest Job in the League

By Val Muller

“A timer?” She placed her hands on her hips. “Like standing there the whole time holding a stopwatch and clicking the button when they finish their lap?”

The swim official nodded. “That’s right. It’s the easiest job in the league. Best way to get volunteer hours.”

Right. Volunteer hours. Those required hours you had to fill or pay the fine. She had always preferred paying the fine. It was easier to sit in the stands at the swim meets, laptop on her knees, letting her mind zone out with the monotony. She could earn enough through her writing to pay the league for her missed hours, and the work was much more enjoyable.

But now, the officials were combing the stands in search of volunteers. Required hours or not, they said, the meet could not run without volunteers, and everyone would have to sit there, swimmers included, until five more people stepped up.

More time to edit, she thought.

But then, there was her daughter. She was here to swim, after all.

Before long, Jackie found herself standing there on lane 9, holding a timer in her left hand and a plunger timer in her right, waiting for the clock to start. Her partner, holding a stop watch and a clipboard, offered a smile. “It’s so fun to watch from down here. You get such a good view that way,” the woman said.

Jackie wracked her writer brain for something to say, some positive and innocuous banality, but there was nothing. Her brain ran loose with allusions to Dante’s inferno, and she wondered which circle of Hell made you time a swim meet.

“I’m Claire, by the way,” the woman said.

Jackie nodded, but her mind jumped to another scenario, one in which she ran down the line of timers, pushing each into the pool. Of course it wouldn’t be her doing it. It was a character with a backstory, someone who had been slighted early on in life, maybe someone with a toxic mother. Pushing the timers into the pool was just the tip of the iceberg. But she wouldn’t use such a cliche in her description, of course. It’s just that it was so hard to avoid being trite when she had to–

“That’s the start!” Claire screamed.

Frantically, Jackie pushed the button on her stopwatch. The first race was the little kids, just one lap. But they were slow. Thirty four seconds was just enough time to–

This time, the aquatic center was abandoned. It was a post apocalyptic novel, probably a young adult piece, and of course there would be some teens who made their way to the pool. They would drain it, maybe. Or maybe fill it with toxic chemicals to trap the zombies. There would be zombies, right?

“Here she comes!” Claire called frantically. “Get ready!”

Jackie looked down just in time to see the swimmer in lane 9 hit the wall. Jackie hit her stopwatch and the plunger and showed her time to Claire, who recorded it on the clipboard.

“It’s so hard to keep your mind on it,” Jackie mumbled. But Claire didn’t hear with all the cheering and yelling and splashing echoing in the pool room.

“These next races are medleys. You have to count. Two laps of each stroke.”

Two laps of each stroke? That was enough time to compose a novel. Jackie hit her stopwatch and peered up at the stands. There was a man looking disinterested and angry. Wonder why he didn’t get asked to be a timer.

And that’s all it took. She was off in the middle of a spy novel. The man had no swimmers in this meet, of course. In fact, he had no children at all. That is, none that he knew about. But that would all change after today’s rendezvous. The woman who called him here under the guise of needing a private eye was actually a former lover, and their one-night stand was now twelve and about to enter the seventh grade. He would not take it well. He would have no interest in her and would remain estranged, sending only a birthday card once a year until a tragic accident killed his former lover, leaving him the sole–

“Jackie!”

Claire was punching her. “That’s the race. Did you get it?” Startled, Jackie pushed down on both the plunger and the stopwatch.

“It’s too late,” Claire said. “Swim is a sport where a fraction of a second counts.”

Three minutes later, sheepish yet relieved, Jackie was walking back to the stands, wondering what she should write while waiting for her kid to swim. The grumpy man passed her along the way. A frowning swim official handed him Jackie’s stopwatch and threw Jackie a glare. The grumpy man would be taking Jackie’s place as a timer.

“You’ll keep your mind on it,” Jackie whispered to him, once he was too far away to hear, watching the way he swayed as he walked, capturing the beauty of it for her next great work.

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.com/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “winter is coming,” and today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. Look for releases of books 4 and 5 in 2025!

The Fancy Wrapping Paper Exchange Club

By Val Muller

It was about that time, that certain chill in the air, winter was coming. Gus zipped his jacket and peered one more time up the staircase. This had all been so much easy easier before the dog died. At least in those days he could always just claim he was walking Bailey. But now he had to make up excuses, and it wasn’t even trash day.

It was the first night that a cold snap was truly coming. There was going to be frost on the ground in the morning and the kids were going to start asking about those Christmas elves. They usually showed up right after Thanksgiving. Or sometimes December first, but some of the families had their elves show up on the first frost. The weather was making some of the families nervous, so they sent the men out tonight to do the wrapping paper exchange.

It was an idea that came about when Frankie down the street decided he was going to keep a scrap of Santa wrapping paper from every year. He was one of those kids destined to be a historian. Or maybe an archeologist or a detective. His attention to detail was going to be the downfall of every family in the neighborhood. Rumor had it he was even keeping pieces of tape to check for fingerprints.

So every year, the family pulled that special tube of wrapping paper down from the rafters, or wherever it was they stored it for the year. And they met up at the Martin’s shed at the front of the neighborhood. Some of them had had experience doing these sneaky nefarious things as teenagers, and Gus imagined it must be sort of exciting to get that adrenaline rush again, to feel again like children.

For Gus, this sneaking was a new thing and definitely got to his nerves. Probably two times out of seven during the week, at least one of the children would get up for water. Or forgetting to do a homework assignment. Or any of the other five thousand things kids do while they’re trying not to fall asleep at night.

Rebecca was in bed reading, but he knew she would be asleep in the next five or ten minutes. Gus thought about leaving the shower on, but that would be a long time for the water to be running and after all, it was a drought year. It would be unfair to use the water for this purpose. He just had to hurry up and hope for the best.

George kept a list, and every Christmas Eve, he texted it to the other fathers in the neighborhood, just in case. And it was a good thing, too, because George got a new phone and forgot to transfer the list over. So when guys got there, Mike had already pulled up the list, and they were comparing notes. Gus had the red foil paper last year and it was his turn to pass that over to George. Mike had the glittery Santa paper and that would go to Gus this year, and so on. There were certain papers that Frankie was aware of and others that he wasn’t. All the families tried to go to off-beat stores and purchase fresh rolls for future years.

It wasn’t until last year that Frankie started getting other kids involved and making the matrix that much more complicated. In some ways, all the dads couldn’t wait to spoil the surprise so that at least Frankie could be on their side and help with the younger ones.

There at the shed, there was the obligatory exchange of pleasantries, some talk about their children’s milestones or whose kids had the bad teachers this year. Gus felt under the surface the repressed talk of men who could truly be friends if not for the relentless responsibilities of families, responsibilities so demanding that meeting at night near abandoned shed to exchange wrapping paper was all that they had left.

The exchange was made, a few of the dogs pooped and that had to be cleaned up, but soon the men went home because after all, they were sneaking out and they had to get back quickly and store the wrapping paper somewhere secret before they got too tired to think.

They were like burglars, plotting the best route home so as to avoid any detection by relevant neighborhood cameras and doorbell cameras. His house being on the cul-de-sac, Gus would be the last to get home. He had forgotten just how dark the neighborhood was. And it was never so quiet as now, walking alone, his first year without Bailey.

In the quiet night with only a slim sliver of a moon lighting the way, his breath left ghostly trails in the air as a thought crossed his mind. He and these other dads, they were walking almost like zombies or people possessed. What was making them do all these things? What was making them hide the wrapping paper? What was making them wrap these gifts so secretly? All for the children’s happiness.

A thought crossed his mind that maybe there was more to this Santa thing than he had realized. He heard a rustling in the woods behind the house and it almost sounded like sleigh bells. Gus shivered and turned up his collar, being careful not to tear the wrapping paper since it felt like maybe there wouldn’t be quite enough for the gift he would be wrapping that year.

He turned to look up at the moon, and a jolly laughter echoed in the air, or at least in his ears. And as he gazed up at the starry sky, he could swear he saw the silhouette of Santa’s sleigh being driven by eight tiny reindeer scurry across the moon.

The Spot Writers:

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.com/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “Halloween with a twist.” Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

Howl by Val Muller

The sun rose in rays cutting through the mist. Randy shook his fur and adjusted his shirt. It was finally here–Halloween. Tonight was his night to prove himself, to terrify small children and howl at the moon, to rustle through bushes and leaves, to claw at doorways.

If he did all that, maybe his dad would finally get off his case.

The werewolf academy was awarding only three red shirts this holiday, making the high award an elite honor most likely out of Randy’s league but definitely on his dad’s radar.

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with being a blue shirt,” Randy said at dinner just last week. He had been assigned to terrify a young brother and sister walking their dog after dark, but he really didn’t see the need to do such things. Besides, dogs were a little intimidating.

“No werewolf aspires to be a blue shirt.” His dad tore a piece of raw meat off the bone, letting the remnants clatter to his plate with a splat while he chewed. Then he rubbed his claws along his size XL red flannel shirt, still emblazoned with the werewolf academy patch and the year he earned it.

“Dad, it’s not the seventies anymore. Not everyone needs a red shirt. And even if I stay a green shirt, I–”

His dad growled at the very idea of Randy staying a green shirt. The wereboy lowered his head and munched on a piece of broccoli.

“Dang it, Randy, I’ve told you how many times. You have to eat your meat first. You think I’m gonna let you fill up on vegetables?”

Randy sighed. The whole week, dad had been like this. Criticizing his diet. Saying his teeth weren’t sharp enough, his fur not matted enough.

“You know, Matthew got groomed this weekend,” Randy had said. “All the kids at school seem to think his haircut looks nice and–” That set off Dad, of course. Next thing Randy knew, they were at the local dump finding musty discards to roll in.

“No son of mine is getting groomed, and certainly not this close to Halloween.”

Since then, they had hunted, clawed, lingered, and howled. But Randy still hadn’t found that drive, that urge to scare.

Now, Halloween morning, Randy was determined to put the issue to rest. If he could only just terrify someone, maybe instill in them some indigestion or the need for anti-anxiety meds, maybe that would be enough for Dad.

Randy headed out of their foresty shed in search of victims. The first victim was a woman walking her dog. It was a little one, a chihuahua. But you know what they say about little dogs. Randy chose to stay on the opposite side of the street. He threw the woman a creepy look. Alright, it was more like a sideways smile, but still. Dad couldn’t say he didn’t try.

The woman gave a half wave and a sympathetic smile. “I like your costume,” she said. “Very scary.”

The way she said “scary,” Randy could tell she really didn’t think so.

Randy continued walking toward the town. Surely someone would be frightened. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his green flannel shirt to add that extra little look of dishevelment.

Soon, screeching tires and backup lights. “No. Way.” A voice called. Randy caught up to the truck that had stopped on the side of the road. The guy at the wheel looked pretty frantic. Maybe he would make an easy victim.

“Dude,” he said. “You look just like Freddy.”

“Freddy?”

“Yeah. He was our last werewolf. Something came up, though, and he can’t play the role tonight. We don’t have any spare actors, and I’ve been racking my brain all morning. Want to make an easy couple of hundred bucks?”

“Hundred bucks?” Randy approached the car.

The man nodded. “I mean, your costume looks so good, it could be real.” He reached out and tugged Randy’s facial fur. “That’s some beard!”

“You’re not scared of me?”

The man laughed. “I run a haunted woods attraction for a living. I’m not scared, but I know hundreds of people who will be.”

Randy howled. “Sign me up.”

* * *

The early November sun gently lit the morning fog. Randy crunched on a celery stalk while Dad ate some marrow out of a freshly cracked deer bone.

Between bites, he looked at Randy and smiled. “So proud of you for earning the scariest character award at that haunted woods place you went to.”

“You’re not mad I only earned a blue shirt from the academy?” Randy smiled, hoping the whole red shirt thing was behind him.

Dad let out a playful growl. “You only earned a blue shirt for now. There’s always next year.”

Randy looked down at his “scariest character” medal and the way it gleamed in the sun. His chest swelled with pride, which he released in a long, eerie howl that even made his own skin crawl as his mind wandered to next Halloween.

The Spot Writers:

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.com/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s assignment is to write a story in which a celebration coincides with a weather anomaly. This week’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

The Inaugural Launch of the Hammingway County Library Book Club
By Val Muller

Emily adjusted the book in the middle of the picnic table again. She eyed the centerpiece. Then she wiped the sweat from her brow. A wool sweater and a plastic campfire made the heatwave seem that much hotter. Hundred-degree days in September seemed…wrong. With pools closed after Labor Day, it seemed like a cruel joke from the universe.

And a cruel joke for her first day on the book club project. It was her first community outreach assignment, her first day away from the circulation desk and the stacks, the inaugural launch of the Hammingway County Library Book Club. And here she had chosen a book with strong late fall vibes. Back in June, when she imagined September, she thought the rustic picnic spot would give Halloween vibes with a kiss of frost.

But now, the heat wave. It was being called “historic.” And the book had been a disappointment, too. The whole thing followed this stalker, the crisp fall weather being a metaphor for his cold intentions, but he never actually did anything. It was almost entirely stream of consciousness except for a few pointless interactions. Even the stream behind Emily seemed to laugh at her choices. Would anyone even trust her to pick a book again, let alone plan the meetup?

Just as she was starting to think, or maybe hope, no one would be coming, a car’s tires echoed on the gravel parking lot. Three doors opened, and out stepped four adults, four women and a man. Two of the women carried tumblers.

“Oh good, we didn’t miss it,” one of them said. She sloshed her tumbler around in the air. “See, I did have time to stop home and grab my special drink.” The other one with a tumbler shared a smile, and the group headed toward the table.

“Hot enough for you?” Emily said lamely.

“You know,” one of them said, “It’s just nice for us to be out of the classroom.”

The man picked up a pinecone from the table. “We’re all teachers, and we’ve reached that point in the year where the honeymoon is over, and Thanskgiving’s not close enough. We thought the bookclub would be a nice break. Sure is hot, though.” His brow had already beaded in sweat. More tires on gravel, and out stepped a frazzled-lookikg mom and her children.

“Mommy, mommy, there are already people at our picnic spot!” a child moaned.

“It’s not ‘our spot,’ Billy. It belongs to everyone.”

The boy eyed Emily, then the group. The two women with the special drinks shared a laugh. Then the boy sprinted to the stream and splashed. Even Emily felt the wave of jealousy pass over the group.

“Come on in,” the boy shouted. “This water is so refreshing!”

The man eyed the pinecone in his hand. “I’ll be honest,” he told Emily. “I didn’t get past chapter 9. I mean, the guy just didn’t do anything.”

Before Emily could answer, he was already taking off his shoes.

*

A half hour later, a soaking Billy made his way to his mom’s car, with four half-drenched teachers in tow. The man stopped to shake Emily’s hand. “Really fun time,” he said. He picked up the pinecone again and chucked it toward the stream. It landed with a plunk and started its spiraling journey downstream.

The two teachers picked up their empty tumblers and giggled. “You’ll have to let us know when the next book club meets,” one of them said. “Only, maybe the protagonist could actually do something next time.”

“And maybe it won’t be so hot.”

Emily nodded, already taking mental notes, thinking how to attract even more patrons next time.

“The weeks between winter break and spring break are especially long,” one of them added helpfully as the group continued to their car.

Emily nodded again, cleaning up the centerpiece. Then she giggled, picked up the book from the centerpiece, and threw it into the stream.

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.com/

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s assignment is to write a story that begins with the words “and then it started to rain.” Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, the author of The Corgi Capers kid lit mystery series.

Running in the Rain
Val Muller

And then it started to rain. There he was, dressed for a run during one of the longest droughts on record, ready to start training, and now this downpour. In this rain, his shoes would be soaked in minutes, and so would his knee brace.

The worry in Mike’s gut dissipated with his anxiety over running up the hill on Blakeney Court or his concern he would hit a wall five miles in and have to shuffle back home. And no one would be able to judge him for this. Knee surgery wasn’t easy, and neither was running. Why, he should get a medal just for getting dressed.

He hurried under the overhang and navigated as best he could to the apartment’s gym, managing to stay mostly dry. As if in conspiracy with the rain, the elliptical and treadmills were all taken. Only the weight bench and the bike remained open.

How easy would that be? It was like getting away with murder. No running. Easy bike. Maybe a few weights. His knee would have no chance to fail. There would be no pain.

He started the workout, choosing a rigorous hill course that took 45 minutes to complete. See? Rigorous. No one could judge him. Less than a mile in, though, and he knew it was too easy. Better than nothing, obviously, but if he really wanted to make a change, this bike was not the way to go. Was this really the best use of his workout time?

An old woman walked into the gym. She chose the bike next to Mike and opened a novel. “Nice day for biking,” she said. “It’s really coming down out there,” she said. She started biking in a leisurely way, going slowly enough that she could read her novel.

Mike kept it up for another mile, but he kept looking outside. The rain had been a heavenly chorus, and excuse, but now it was mocking him. It was telling him he couldn’t do it, encouraging him to give up.

He got off the bike, wiped it down, and nodded a good day to the woman next to him. Outside, the rain was heavy. Steady. His feet were soaked within his first two steps, and the rain soaked the front of his shirt. At the same time, he smiled. He’d forgotten how fun it was to run in the rain. Like being a kid again, like the universe was winking.

The pitter-patter of the rain matched his footsteps as he turned up Blakeney Court and smiled.

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.com/