Mr. Autumn makes a bet

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “fall or autumn.”

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.

 

Mr. Autumn makes a bet

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

Mr. Autumn was walking along the canal, watching the clouds and the trees and the houses reflected in the water. He was ruminating, had been ruminating for a week. He had made a bet with the Weather Master; time was running out and he still didn’t know what to do to win it. 

The Weather Master had recently come up with one of his ideas: he had invented a thing called Seasons. 

He had assigned one to Miss Winter, who filled it with white and frost: elegant snowflakes, shimmering icicles, bare branches covered with soft snow. She looked so happy in her furry coat! And her hands were enveloped in thick gloves, and on her head she wore a bright woolen hat. 

Mr. Spring was put in charge of another Season. He splashed the meadows with green and filled them with brightly colored flowers, dressed the bare branches of the trees with lovely buds and tender leaves. He unleashed birds in the sky and butterflies in the fields.

A third Season was managed by Miss Summer. She gave juicy fruits to the trees, added the buzzing of a million bees to the chirping of birds, made the sun bright and warm, and the sky clear and deep blue. Squirrels filled their little mouths with nuts and ran up and down the trees.

As the Weather Master boasted about this last invention of his, Mr. Autumn expressed his objection: it was a harsh transition between the Season Miss Summer had created and the one by Miss Winter. To go from bright and warm to white and frost. From juicy fruits and green leaves on the trees to bare branches covered in snow. From fluffy red tails disappearing behind a tree trunk to icicles hanging from the branches.

The Weather Master had smiled and said: “Then, be in charge of a fourth Season! Can you create a good one in a week? Let’s make a bet!”

Mr. Autumn had been taken by surprise, but he couldn’t pull back, could he?

And now, the week was almost over and he hadn’t been able to produce this fourth Season. 

But finally, while a gust of wind pushed a leaf, sending it twirling and floating to rest on the he water in the canal… he suddenly had an idea.

He painted the leaves yellow, red, and rust brown; then he made the wind swirl them around, creating a multicolored carousel, dancing in the air. He dropped chestnuts in the grass, lit fires in the fireplaces, and scented the air with grapes and figs. The air grew colder, the sun hazier. The birds left their nests, and the ants hid in their holes. The fourth Season was ready. 

When he saw the trees so ablaze with colours, the Weather Master clapped his hands, and called everyone for a round of celebrations. Miss Summer brought honey, Miss Winter brought biscuits shaped like snowflakes, Mr. Spring brought flowers for the table, and Mr. Autumn some roasted chestunuts. 

“Marvellous, marvellous!” the Weather Master exclaimed. “Shall we do another bet?” he added excitedly.

Promptly, a squirrel popped its head out of Mr. Autumn’s pocket and tossed an acorn at the Weather Master.

“Excellent aim,” he mumbled, rubbing his head. “I suppose this means no more bets…”

And thanks to the squirrel’s infallible aim, there is no fifth season. 

 

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.com/

 

 

 

 

Autumn or Fall

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “autumn or fall.” This week’s contribution comes from the pen of Phil Yeats. 

In April 2024, Phil published The Body on Karli’s Beach, the third book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore, Nova Scotia town. For information about these books and The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/. He published his latest book, a novella titled Starting Over Again: A Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy, earlier in 2025.

 

***

Autumn or Fall

by Phil Yeats

 

Jeremy and I sat at a table in the residence cafeteria, lost in a discussion of the P vs. NP problem. We’d arrived at eight for breakfast and were still at the table pouring over masses of scribbled notes at ten. Percival Adams the third marched in and came straight to our table. He’d piled his breakfast tray high with all the unhealthy food the cafeteria staff offered on Sunday mornings.

“Crikey,” he said. “Why aren’t you two outside enjoying the fall colours? I don’t suppose you noticed, but we had a frost last night and poof, the leaves are now reds, oranges, and yellows.”

“Fall? Did you say fall? Shouldn’t it have been autumn?” Jeremy said. He was always quick to satirize our fellow student from the Boston states and his obsession with everything English.

It was a sunny but cool October morning. I’d noticed and enjoyed seeing the coloured leaves through the cafeteria windows and didn’t want to listen to Jeremy and Percy’s extended bickering. “Fall or autumn—either is acceptable here, in Britain, and in the US. Autumn is more formal and fall more informal.”

Jeremy wouldn’t back down. “That’s secondary. The English, who tend to be more formal, say Autumn. Americans, more informal, say fall. It’s only here in Canada that the two are interchangeable.”

“Bollocks,” Percy replied, switching from the upper class crikey to more working-class Brit talk. “I’m just trying to fit into the culture up here north of the border, where you insist on using British rather than American English.”

Now they were really into it, a totally meaningless argument about the trivialities of language, when Jeremy and I were getting our heads around the P vs. NP problem.

“Is that so?” Jeremy replied. “What do you think we’d call chemical element number 13, the one with the symbol Al?”

“Aluminium, just like in the UK,” Percy replied.

“Hah, you’re dead wrong. It’s always aluminum up here north of the border, just like in the US.”

“But you spell colour and other words like it with our not or like it should be.”

“As it should be for words with French roots. But, we spell realize with a zed, like in the US.”

“Not so. I’ve seen it spelt with an ess up here.”

“Okay, our Canadian dictionaries accept both spellings for some words, but trust me, almost everyone pronounces it like it has a zed. And what about some other words, like skeptic? It’s always with a kay, never a cee, like in England?”

Percy stood up, taking his now empty tray. Somehow, he’d wolfed down his enormous breakfast during the confrontation. He stared down at Jeremy. “What’s your point, you stupid little math geek?”

“You’re an American. Talk and spell like an American, or try to incorporate some Canadian usage. We’d appreciate that. But your English schtick is nothing but a pain in the ass.”

“Shouldn’t that be arse?” Percy said with a sneer.

“No, dammit, it shouldn’t,” Jeremy yelled at his departing back. 

I leaned back, swallowing coffee that had gotten cold, while Jeremy cooled down. Percy, who could be a pain in the ass, or should that be arse, had the last word. He usually did.

 

***

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.com/

 

Catch Me If I Fall

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “fall or autumn.”

This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her writings have been published in over 200 print and online publications. Her latest book is MOSES AND ME, “tails” of a dog and a senior—a seventy-year-old (Cathy)—who’s disliked dogs her entire life but suddenly had to have one. Available from her or on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589383

Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on Cathy’s works.

***

**The author wrote a series of “creepy crazy” Christmas books for four consecutive years (2012-2015). She has been busy reformatting them into one book (hopefully in time for Christmas 2025), so the wacky Grimes family has been on her mind. This month, she wrote another for this prompt.**

***

Catch Me If I Fall

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“Bob, I was at SuperSave today, and I overheard a guy talking.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. He was saying how hot it is and how we need rain so badly.”

“We do, Elise. People’s wells are drying up. Good thing we’re in the city. Gonna be on the city to keep us water-logged. Glad we don’t have no well that’ll run dry.”

“And it’s so hot, Bob, for this time of year. Jeepers, today is October 2. And it’s sixteen—one of the coldest days we’ve had for months, but still lovely. The rest of the week will be around twenty, twenty-two. That’s unheard of for October. It’s almost Halloween. And Halloween is always dark, cold, and dreary.”

“It’s almost a month before Halloween, Elise. Why do you exaggerate so much?”

“I don’t know. It’s October today. Halloween is October. So, to me, they’re close.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“But it is hot, you must admit.”

“Gotta be global warming, Elise. Or is it global warning?”

“I think they’re about the same, Bob. Just like today and Halloween being close.”

Bob grunted. “So, whatcha gonna be this year, Elise?”

“What am I going to be?”

“Yeah, for Halloween. What you gonna be?”

“Why, Bob, I’ll just be myself. No dress-up for me.”

Elise was taken aback when her husband emitted one of his great guffaws. As if he’d told a funny. No, she guessed it was her who’d told the funny, though what was funny about it was beyond her. She was an adult. Adults didn’t dress up for Halloween—at least, she didn’t. Ergo, she’d be “herself.” 

Jimmy, on the other hand, what would he be? Their son was now sixteen. Did sixteen-year-olds still trick or treat? She figured Jimmy probably would. He revelled in that sort of stuff.

Hmm, she thought. Jimmy. Where in the heck was he?

“Have you seen Jimmy today, Bob?”

“Can’t say I have, Elise. Why?”

“No special reason. But we should know where our son is, shouldn’t we?”

“He’s seventeen, Elise. I think he’s old enough to take care of himself. And if he isn’t, then too bad.”

“Bob, he’s only sixteen. A year makes a difference, you know.”

Bob dropped the remote. “Really, Elise? I thought he was seventeen.” 

Elise scratched her head. “No, I believe he’s sixteen.”

“Well, you’re the mother. You’d think a mother would know how old her son is.”

Elise felt herself blushing at her husband’s smirk. As if she wasn’t smart enough to remember an age. Or was he funning again? “Pretty sure he’s sixteen, Bob. So do you know where he is?”

Bob glanced at her before picking up the remote. “I do not. That’s a mother’s job.”

“Yes, I suppose…”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up, Elise.”

Elise cocked her head. What was that? The front door? Jimmy?

And then he appeared. “Mom, Dad, here I am.”

“Nice to see you, Jimmy.”

“Yeah,” Bob chimed in. “Nice to see you, son.”

“Dad, you didn’t even look at me. How can it be nice to see me when your eyes are on the TV.”

“Oh, I have eyes in the back of my head, didn’t you know?”

“I did not know, Dad. And you still haven’t looked at me.” Jimmy glanced at his mother, who was glaring at his father, who was engrossed in the television, still not caring to look at his only child. Jimmy shrugged. “Never mind. I’m going to my room.”

“What are you going to do there, Jimmy?”

Jimmy sighed. “Nothing bad, Mommy. Just teen stuff, okay? I’m still a teenager, you know.”

“Jimmy,” Elise asked, “are you sixteen or seventeen? Your father and I were wondering.”

Elise couldn’t help but see her son’s eyes bug out.

Jimmy stood taller and said, “I’m seventeen! Both of you: I’m seventeen.”

“See, Elise, told you so.”

“Going to my room now.” Jimmy saluted. “See ya later.”

***

Jimmy couldn’t believe it. His parents actually believed him when he said he was seventeen? Crap, he was only sixteen. What were they—well, his father—trying to do? Kick him out of the house a year earlier? Both of them kept harping that the door was gonna hit him in the butt when he was eighteen. He’d asked once if that door-butting would be on his actual birthday or if they’d give him a few days leeway. He never received an answer. Figured neither of them knew what they would do.

Cripes, why did he end up with such shitty, strange parents? He plopped to the bed.

It was October. Fall. Fall denoted back-to-school vibes, which he hated. But fall brought Halloween, which he loved. 

But his dratted parents…

 

I wish you’d catch me when I fall—wish you weren’t the one who caused me to fall—

You’re supposed to be the one to stand me up,

To stand by my side,

To take a stance with me,

But…

Life’s up and down,

Rise and fall,

Fall and rise,

Topple and die…

 

“Or turn eighteen and have the door slammed on me,” he mumbled. “And then fall.”

 

(To be continued…)

 

 

***

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com

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

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

 

 

 

Nothing Gold

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is autumn. 

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

 

Nothing Gold

by Val Muller

 

Mrs. Paxton stepped down the hall. As she neared the classroom, Miss Summers looked up. Mrs. Paxton's shoes were such a giveaway. She never took to wearing sneakers, not even after the pandemic, like all the other teachers.

Mrs. Paxton didn't want to intrude, even though she wanted to, so she kept moving down the hall, listening to the clip-clop of her own heeled shoes in the vintage hallway. She chuckled, knowing the etymology of the word "sneaker" did indeed originate from its ability to sneak around. Not all words in the English language were so cut and dry. She went down a mental rabbit hole, remembering the old practice of literally cutting and drying herbs and other plants.

See?, she reminded herself. She would have plenty of things to think about during her retirement. There was nothing to worry about.

She neared the end of the hallway and eyed the poster on the wall. Homecoming. This would be her last one. It was a year of lasts, and since she had given up the yearbook, she had more time to consider each milestone. It bothered her, giving up the publication, but it was only fair, letting Miss Summers take over this year, while Mrs. Paxton was still here to mentor her if need be.

She turned back around and headed toward Miss Summers' classroom. Funny, she remembered when the rules for possessive apostrophes were different. She always thought of the people who updated all the style guides as this secret council, meeting in robes and performing chants and other rituals before making decisions about the sanctity of the language. Maybe she could do that in retirement--find out who changes the language rules and join them. Leave her mark on the academic world that way.

Miss Summers and the yearbook kids were reading a poem, "Nothing Gold Can Stay." A classic one, but perhaps a little cliche to include on the back cover. But it was fine. Leave well enough alone.

Mrs. Paxton recited the famous poem to herself as she retreated to her classroom. She ran her fingers through her white hair. Leaf succumbs to leaf, she told herself. Miss Summers was the new greenery as she herself prepared to blow away in the wind.

She'd had her moments. Her golden years were behind her. She sat at her desk, vowing to clean out another file folder before her next class. But the golden rays of sun shone in through the day's heavy clouds. She looked out the window at the school's front lawn. In the golden rays, a PE class was doing aerobics in such unison, it seemed an otherworldly dance. And the lighting was just--

"Perfect!" Mrs. Paxton shouted, running down the hall. Her shoes slipped, so she took them off, hustling to Miss Summers' room. "Grab the cameras," she said. "A photo opp! Front lawn!"

The kids who'd had her last year knew that excited tone and hurried to get the cameras. Miss Summers looked startled, not yet having changed gears from the poem.

"A photo opp," Mrs. Paxton repeated to the startled teacher. "Gold. You've got to be gold while you can," she said, deciding to stop counting her lasts after all, knowing none would stay in the end, but that the golden hour could stretch toward eternity with the right outlook.

 

 

The Spot Writers–Our Members:

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.com/

 

An odd friendship

 Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “nick of time.” 

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.

 

An odd friendship

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

created with Canva

When she was alive, Sister Elena of Cremona was a Catholic nun. She lived with other nuns in a convent, where they tended a vegetable garden, made jams and herbal liqueurs to sell to pilgrims, and ran a childcare center during summer when school was out. 

On the last day of her life, while descending the stairs, she stepped on a piece of bread and jam that had fallen there the day before. She slipped and reached the ground floor in an instant, but with a broken neck. She didn’t realize what had happened, so she kept on thinking she was alive for quite some time, and when she finally got it into her head that she had passed away, she had no idea where to go. She eventually joined a friendly community of spirits in an abandoned house in the charming village of Willow. They self-ironically called themselves “the Squatters.” 

Anyway, this isn’t the story of her life, nor of her death. Neither is it about the slice of bread and jam that caused her untimely demise. This story begins when a virtual reality arcade opened at Willow…

Sister Elena stumbled upon it one evening while wandering the village streets looking for someone or something to bless, and she was immediately entranced. Fascinated by the bright neon lights and chrome finishes of the VR units inside the arcade, she went in to take a look around. 

After giving the popcorn machine a quick blessing (“May anyone who eats this popcorn never gain weight”), she tried on the headset of a vacant unit.

She was instantly thrown into a scene straight out of an adventure book: pointed, towering rocks rising out of a blue mist, rope bridges stretched between them, vultures circling high above, where the sky was purple and black with patches of light. 

When a massive troll suddenly attacked her, Sister Elena reacted on instinct, striking a lethal blow before she even realized she was wielding a sword. The troll’s head rolled and tumbled off the bridge, disappearing into the fog, while the troll’s body slumped onto the bridge, causing it to sway dangerously. One of the ropes holding it broke, and Sister Elena leapt from one bridge to another with the agility of a ninja and climbed onto a rock.

Shocked by what had happened and, above all, by her own unexpected skills, she took off the VR headset and stared at it for several minutes.

Unbeknownst to the other Squatters, Sister Elena began to visit the arcade regularly. Her adventures became more and more daring, and her incredible skills soon earned her top spots in the player rankings.

Olga, the retired Russian assassin who had joined the Squatters after being forcibly passed away by a poison-laced vodka, noticed that the nun seemed increasingly absent-minded and had deep dark circles under her eyes (as much as a departed spirit can have dark circles under her eyes, but Sister Elena apparently really did).

So she followed her one evening when she went out “to bless the streets of Willow.” That’s what she said every night, but Olga had the feeling that something was amiss. Perhaps Sister Elena had a lover? It wouldn’t bother Olga’s conscience, but perhaps it bothered Sister Elena’s, which was why she was keeping it a secret. 

But Olga’s training as an assassin did not allow her to take anything for granted, so she followed the nun until she saw her enter the arcade. She watched her put on the headset and, to her utter surprise, saw her perform incredible acrobatics. 

Look at the little nun, she said to herself. Maybe it’s true that they train them to become ninja warriors!

Olga waited for Sister Elena to finish the session, then approached her. The nun looked sad and worried. What was going on? What mystery lay behind this whole business?

“These adventures make me feel young, strong, and… more alive than ever. I’ve never felt this way before! I can’t stop, I’ve become addicted,” Sister Elena confessed, lowering her gaze in shame when Olga confronted her.

“And now...” she continued, “now I have to make a decision.” 

Sister Elena explained to Olga that the entity that ruled the virtual world in which she now lived a secret life as a formidable adventurer had told her that she had become too powerful and that if she didn’t stop entering the virtual world, it would trap her there forever.

“I don’t understand what the tough decision is,” said Olga. “I don’t think being trapped in that world is what you want, is it?”

Sister Elena wrung her hands. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind that at all. The real problem is that the leader of the World of Rock would not allow me to continue my missions. She would imprison me forever. She’s the only one in the game who’s stronger than me, you know.” With another sigh, she added, “But, to be honest, I don’t know if I can stay away from the arcade!”

Olga placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you. I won’t let you get trapped in that virtual world.”

A few nights later, Olga realized that Sister Elena was nowhere to be found. 

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, and rushed outside. 

When she reached the arcade, she saw the nun in her usual spot with the headset on. Instead of jumping and performing backflips, however, she stood motionless in an unnatural position. Afraid that she was too late, Olga hurried to her side, calling her name and shaking her. Unfortunately, she got no response.

Increasingly worried, Olga didn’t know what to do. Having never tried one of those headsets, she didn’t know how VR adventures worked. She didn’t want Sister Elena to remain trapped there forever, though. She had grown fond of the pious nun, especially after discovering her very intriguing ninja side.

She ripped the headset off Sister Elena’s head, not knowing whether the gesture would save her or seal her fate. But she had to do something.

The nun recovered and threw her arms around her neck. 

“You saved me!” she cried. “And in the nick of time… a few more seconds, and the leader of the virtual world would have trapped me there forever. She’d almost finished chanting the arcane spells to bind the ropes with which she’d tied me to one of the highest rocks. I would have had no chance of escape. Ever!”

Olga was somewhat embarrassed. Such displays of affection made her feel a little uncomfortable. 

“There, there,” she said. I didn’t do anything…”

“You saved my life!” cried Sister Elena. “Or, well, whatever it is we spirits have, anyway. I must thank you. I must do something for you. Ask me for anything!”

Olga thought for a moment, then a smile slowly spread across her face. 

“You once told us about a certain herbal liqueur that you used to make with your fellow nuns,” she said. “Would you perhaps make me a bottle? I haven’t had a glass of vodka since I passed away, and I must say I miss it more than I could imagine.”

Sister Elena’s smile surpassed Olga’s. 

“I can do better than that! I’ll show you where I keep my secret stash. There’s a hidden closet in the abandoned house that only I know about…” 

The odd friendship between Olga the assassin and Sister Elena began that night, between a nearly disastrous ninja adventure and a huge drinking session (spirits can’t get drunk, in case you’re wondering).

 

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.com/

 

 

A Well-Organized Man

 Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “nick of time.” This week’s contribution comes from the pen of Phil Yeats. 

In April 2024, Phil published The Body on Karli’s Beach, the third book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore Nova Scotia town. For information about these books and The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/. His latest book, a novella titled Starting Over Again: A Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy, was published a month ago.

 

*****

 

A Well-Organized Man

by Phil Yeats

 

If you peeked through his house windows,

or glanced at his desk where he works,

the clutter would suggest Nicholas B. Mellow

was a most disorganized fellow.

But when he needed anything in the mess,

he always found it in a trice.

 

And if there was somewhere he needed to be,

or an appointment he had to keep,

he’d leave without checking a clock.

He’d window-shop along the way

or sit in a park to admire the view.

And sketch a flower in his notebook.

 

It didn’t matter how many distractions he found

as he ambled along.

The man without a watch

always arrived in the nick of time.

 

*****

 

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.com/

 

Sunshine Coffins

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story with the prompt “in the nick of time.”

This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her writings have been published in over 200 print and online publications. Her latest book is MOSES AND ME, “tails” of a dog and a senior—a seventy-year-old (Cathy)—who’s disliked dogs her entire life but suddenly had to have one. Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589383

Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on Cathy’s works.

***

Sunshine Coffins

by Cathy MacKenzie

“Bob,” Elise said, “I think we should go to Sunshine Gardens. Check out the coffins.”

“Woman, have you lost your mind? Whatever for? Neither of us will be popping off any time too soon.”

“You never know, Bob. It’s best to be prepared. Even your sweet Winnie said so. As stupid as she portrayed herself, at least she had the smarts to make funeral arrangements before her death.” Elise paused to gauge her husband’s reaction. There was none. No doubt he was relishing his crazy mother’s death and post-mortemly thanking her she had the foresight to pre-pay her funeral. Otherwise, he—no, they: Bob and Elise—would’ve been stuck with the bill.

Elise sighed. “Yes, I think we should go. How about this afternoon? Not like we’re doing anything. Just a lazy Saturday.” As per the usual Saturday, she thought. “Besides, if you happen to die before me, I don’t want Jimmy picking out my coffin. Who knows what contraption I’d end up in.” And who knows what contraption I’d end up in if I died before you.

Bob suddenly came to life. “What kind of coffin do you plan to buy for me, Elise?” 

“Me? I think it’s ‘us,’ Bob. You and me. We’re buying our coffins together. Out of our household fund.”

“Okay, then,” he said, jumping off the couch. “Let’s go. Now!”

“I should call Betty. Let her know we’re going out. Not sure what time Jimmy plans to come home.”

“Cripes, Elise. He’s a teenager. I’m sure he can handle coming home to an empty house. In fact, I know he can.”

***

A half hour later, Bob and Elise stood at the desk at Sunshine Gardens, waiting...

Elise had explained the purpose of their visit, but the gentleman was none too pleased. “We’re busy, Ma’am. We have another funeral later today. And several appointments.” He stressed “appointments” as if Elise should’ve known to call ahead.

“But we drove all this way,” she moaned (even though it was less than a thirty-minute drive). “We just want to look at the coffins. You do have a room full of them, don’t you?” She’d seen displays at funeral homes on TV.

“We do, Ma’am, but we’d prefer to have a staff member in the room with you. To provide guidance.”

“So you don’t have a free person at the moment”— Bob glanced at his name tag and added—“Mister Fitzgibbons?”

Mr. Fitzgibbons turned his attention to Bob. “We do not. I am sorry. Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment for later in the week and—”

“There are other funeral homes,” Bob interjected. “Elise, why don’t we try another one?” 

“Calm down, calm down. Excuse me a second while I see what I can do.”

“We are fine looking at them ourselves,” Elise said. “We don’t make up our minds easily—or quickly—so it’d be a waste of your precious time to stay with us.”

“Sure,” Mr. Fitzgibbons said. “Give me a moment.”

“It was a ‘second’ the first time,” Bob muttered. “Now it’s a ‘moment.’”

Elise hushed her husband as the funeral director headed down the hall. “Bob, how rude was that!”

“Yeah, he was very rude.”

“No, not him. You!”

“Oh, Elise, he didn’t hear. But how rude was he not wanting to wait on us.”

“Well, I think he did, Bob. They just happen to be busy with dead people.”

“Yeah, well, he’s gonna be dead shortly if we’re kept waiting much longer.”

Minutes later, Mr. Fitzgibbons reappeared. “Come this way.”

Elise winked at Bob, elated to have gotten her own way.

They followed him into a large room filled with coffins galore.

“Wow,” Elise mumbled. “I never expected this many.”

“Each coffin is labelled. Here is a pad and pencil.” He handed the items to Elise. “Walk around, see what you like. Mark the numbers on the pad, and I can advise further. I’ll be back when I can. As I said, we’re short-staffed today.”

After Fitzgibbons left the room, Bob muttered, “He never said they were short-staffed. What a crock.”

“Doesn’t matter, Bob. We’re here. We’re alone with coffins. I’d much sooner check them out together, just you and me.”

“Me, too, Elise. Great work.”

They walked around the perimeter of the room and then down four aisles. Most of the coffins were stacked on metal shelving, two high. Several, on the back wall, were three high.

“Elise, don’t you find it a bit creepy looking at these things?”

“No. You do?”

“I do.”

“Death’s a fact of life. If it weren’t for death, there’d be no life.”

“That’s profound, Elise. Your words?”

She smiled as she rubbed one of the burnished coffins.

“What about this one, Elise?” Bob pointed to a coffin on the floor.

Elise examined it. “Looks okay. Nice wood. Lovely fluffy satin.” She wondered if it might be too pricey, what with all the ornate carvings. Who needed all that buried six feet under? Ha, she thought again. That sounded like something Bob would say, trying to save an almighty buck. Though, heaven knows, they needed every buck they could, what with the rising cost of living and Bob’s sporadic work hours.

“I’m gonna try it out.”

Next thing Elise knew, Bob was prone in the coffin, his hands clenched across his chest.

“Bob! What the... What are you doing?” She scanned the room, eyeing the open door. What if Fitz returned? They’d be in deep doo-doo. 

“Bob,” she whispered. “Get up. Up and out. He’s gonna come back. And if not him, it’ll be someone else. We’ll be kicked out. Probably arrested. And what would Jimmy do then?”

Her husband didn’t move. What the hell! Had he died? She giggled. Had he gotten into the coffin in the nick of time? No, even if he’d suffered his demise, he’d have to be taken out, clothes removed, embalmed—all that weird crap “they” did to the dead.

“Bob! Get up,” she pleaded again.

He remained motionless.

“Bob,” she whispered, “I’m gonna scream if you don’t soon come to life. One, two, three, four...” Had he died? Really and truly? 

Just when she was envisioning a future without him and thinking she might actually enjoy the peace and quiet, Jimmy’s face flashed in front of her. Drat, she’d have to deal with their son on her own and—

At that moment, Bob slowly “rose from the dead.” He slid one leg over the side, and then the other. Then, he was standing beside her. “Ha, funny, eh?”

“Yeah, hilarious.”

“Had to try one out. Figured all that fluffy cloth stuff was just that: fluffy. But fake. As soon as you were in it, you’d sink to wood. But I was surprised. Quite comfy. Guess that’s why I fell asleep.”

At that moment, Fitzgibbons appeared. “Checking in. How you making out?”

Another “just in the nick of time,” she thought, and this one was real! What in the world would he have thought had he entered when Bob was in the coffin?

Elise grasped the pad to her chest, not wanting him to see it was blank, and then she almost fainted when she saw the once-pristine linens in the coffin Bob had availed himself of. It was obvious someone’s (her husband’s) shoes had dirtied it.

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgibbons. But we must run. My son, Jimmy, just called. He has a slight emergency at home. I’ll call you later, okay, and make an appointment for later in the week as you suggested.”

“Mighty fine coffins there, sir,” Bob said. “They look very comfy. Are we allowed to—”

Elise grabbed Bob’s hand and out they raced. 

Truth be known, she was becoming a bit freaked by death.

**The author wrote a series of “creepy crazy” Christmas books for four consecutive years (2012-2015). She has been busy reformatting them into one book (hopefully in time for Christmas 2025), so the wacky Grimes family has been on her mind. Thus, a new Grimes story might make its way into a non-Christmas book at some point.**

***

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com

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

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