A ghostly picnic

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.

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.

 

A ghostly picnic

by Chiara De Giorgi

Ever since the Egyptian prince Khamose had gifted her with the Sight, Elsa Mon’s life had taken a curious turn. She’d made friends with the spirits living in the haunted house (who referred to themselves as ‘the Squatters’) and her days were brightened by all sorts of supernatural beings. They were amazed that a human could not only see them but also talk to them, so they never missed a chance to chat, ask for favours, try to sell her things, or simply play tricks on her.
Recently, Elsa had bumped into the Stranger, a shapeshifter who loved turning into everyday objects to observe the world without being noticed. No one knew what her original form was... not even the Stranger herself. Before realizing that the colorful stone she’d just picked up was actually the Stranger, Elsa had been scared out of her wits.

 

After her shifts at the Willow Gazette, the town’s newspaper, Elsa often stopped by the haunted house to say hi to the Squatters and trade a bit of gossip with the Thing, a spirit she’d grown especially fond of, who for some reason refused to tell her who he really was.
That day, sitting right on the worn-out doormat by the front door, Elsa spotted a brightly painted rock with WELCOME written across it. She bent down to pick it up.
I wonder who left this here, she thought. Suddenly, the rock changed in her hand. It went from hard, smooth, and slightly warm from the sun to cold and slimy.
“A snake!” Elsa screamed, dropping it with a thud. But how could she have mistaken a snake for a rock? Maybe it was a mouse? Nope. It was just the Stranger pulling a prank.
“Very funny,” Elsa grumbled.
When she stepped inside the haunted house, the chattering voices she’d heard from outside immediately went quiet. She caught just a few whispered words: “warn everyone”… “before sunset…”
What were the spirits plotting?
She spotted the Thing (he was always around), Olga the retired Russian assassin, Tony the plumber, Norman the failed time traveler, and even Sister Elena from Lombardy. Their sudden silence made her suspicious, but she didn’t feel close enough to any of them yet to confront them about it.
Maybe if I catch the Thing alone later... she thought, just to make sure they’re not planning to rob a bank or something.
The presence of Sister Elena reassured her a little, and Elsa decided to let it go.
She didn’t stay long. It was clear she had interrupted something and the conversation was awkward and stiff. So, after a few minutes, she made an excuse about needing to pick up her trench coat from the dry cleaner and left.

 

Later at home, Elsa tried, as she always did, to work on her novel, but inspiration just wouldn’t come.
“Well, this is useless,” she sighed, slamming her laptop shut. “If I can’t write tonight, I might as well read something.”
She headed into the living room, where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, all neatly alphabetized. Right away she noticed a book out of place: it was lying on the couch. She picked it up and read the title: ‘A Guide to Pine Trees’.
Where did this come from?
Elsa was used to strange things turning up in her house. She’d inherited it from her grandmother, full of everything it contained. As a poor apprentice journalist, she had considered it a blessing: she hadn’t needed to buy a thing. And ever since supernatural beings had entered her life, the number of odd surprises had skyrocketed. This book could have come from literally anywhere.
She flopped down onto the couch and flipped the book open. Immediately, she noticed something bizarre: the pine trees, firs, and other evergreens pictured inside were winking at her, blowing kisses, even sticking their tongues out!
“Stranger!” Elsa cried, half frustrated, half amused.
The ‘Guide to Pine Trees’ promptly morphed into a red octopus plushie with a pirate’s eyepatch. A talking plushie, obviously.
“Do you know a good spot for a picnic in the nearby woods?” the octopus asked.
“A picnic?” Elsa repeated, thinking. “Yeah, there are a few clearings around here where they sometimes hold little country fairs. I know one with a water fountain, perfect for a picnic.”
“Fantastic, thanks a bunch!” said the octopus, who immediately transformed into a tube of hand cream.
“You’re organizing a picnic?” Elsa asked.
“It’s the Squatters’ idea! The summer solstice is coming up, and they thought it would be fun to have a little outing all together.”
“Yeah, that is a cute idea…” Elsa said absently. Then she paused. “Wait a second. Who exactly is ‘all together’?”
“Oh, you know, the usual crew. Melancholy poet Friedrich’s not super excited about it, but Zinny’s working on convincing him.”
“Zinny?”
“Maybe you haven’t met him yet! He’s a Tibetan Buddhist monk. Says he used to be a wild one before switching to full-time meditation. I’m sure he’ll talk poor Friedrich into it. Some fresh air would do the poor lad good.”
Elsa couldn’t help wondering why they hadn’t invited her. Now she understood what she had interrupted that afternoon: the conversation about the picnic.
They had gone silent not to involve her... and she felt hurt. She had started thinking of these supernatural beings as her new friends.
Yawning loudly, she said goodnight to the Stranger and headed to bed.

 

Elsa couldn’t fall asleep. The more she thought about it, the sadder she felt. She had welcomed the Squatters into her life, with all the chaos they brought, and yet, apparently they considered her an outsider.
“They’re planning to have the picnic on the solstice, right?” she finally decided. “Well then, I’m crashing it! Let’s see if they kick me out!”
Feeling slightly better, she finally drifted off to sleep.

 

June 21st arrived, and Elsa set off toward the haunted house, determined to catch the Squatters red-handed.
She was still far away when she noticed something strange: a lot more traffic than usual on the country road. Cars parked along the side, people standing around staring… but staring at what?
Elsa stopped the car and continued on foot.
When she finally caught sight of the house, she understood the commotion.
Parked right in front of the door was the most bizarre school bus she had ever seen.
It was as big as a coach, all rounded shapes like something out of a cartoon, painted in stripes of white, purple, fuchsia, and pink, covered in silver glitter. Its exhaust smoke was white and smelled like vanilla. The horn kept honking different jingles, and the doors opened and closed in rhythm.
The crowd was utterly delighted.
That’s the Stranger, as sure as the sun in the sky, Elsa thought.
She couldn’t see any of the Squatters around yet. But a troubling idea struck her: once the Squatters boarded the bus—a.k.a. the Stranger—she would drive off for the picnic... without a driver... right in front of a huge crowd!
“Oh no… I’ve got to come up with something fast…”
Thinking quickly, Elsa left the road and dove into the bushes along the side. She circled around to the back of the haunted house and climbed in through a window.
The Squatters were gathered in the entrance hall, clearly distressed by the spectacle taking place on their driveway.
“Never trust a Stranger,” Sister Elena was muttering.
“Oh, come on, no need to be harsh!” the Buddhist monk countered cheerfully.
“Elsa, thank goodness you’re here!” The Thing was the first to spot her. “You’re the only one who can help us!”
For a moment, Elsa remembered she was still mad at them for not inviting her.
“Oh really?” she said coolly. “And why’s that?”
“Well... the Stranger offered to take us to the woods for the picnic, but... she’s attracted way too much attention, and now we have no idea how to get everyone to leave!”
“I do have an idea…” murmured Olga, running the tip of her finger along a sharp, gleaming knife.
Sister Elena screamed and fainted.
“No, no, come on, there’s no need to bring out the knives,” Elsa hurried to say. Maybe it was time to set her resentment aside for a moment and avoid a crisis.
“Elsa can drive the school bus,” Tony suggested. “We can sneak on board without being seen, and with her sitting in the driver’s seat, everyone will assume she’s the driver.”
Everyone murmured in agreement, pleased with the practical solution the plumber had come up with.
“I have no idea how a Stranger school bus works,” he added, turning to Elsa, “but maybe you won’t have to do anything—just sit there and be seen.”
Elsa nodded. “Alright. I’ll help you. We still have to come up with a reason why a glittery school bus would be parked outside an abandoned house, and why an apprentice journalist would be behind the wheel… but I’ll think of something.”
“Don’t worry!” said The Thing reassuringly. “I’ll help you!”

 

The next day, an article appeared in The Willow Gazette, signed by Elsa Mon.

Ghost Bus Movie ended before it even started!
In a surprising turn of events, the abandoned house known by the locals as “the Haunted House” and supposed to be the set for a low-budget supernatural comedy, Ghost Bus, was discarded at the last minute by the obscure director who wishes to remain anonymous.
The film crew reportedly faced a driver shortage, so a young apprentice journalist, who also wishes to remain anonymous, graciously stepped up to volunteer behind the wheel and saved the day. Truly a star!

 

 

******

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/

Marketting

 

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.

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/

 

Marketting

by Phil Yeats

 

My new yard contained a small tree I didn’t recognize. It looked like a pine, but not quite like any pine I’d seen before.

I visited the library looking for a book on pine trees. I picked up one titled ‘The Guidebook to Pine Trees’ and flipped through its pages, but didn’t see mine. A more careful look with my little tree close by was in order, so I signed it out.

Outside the library, a school bus went by and a rock flew out of a window, bounced once on the sidewalk and landed in the grass. I picked it up and turned it over. Written on the bottom in white paint was ‘Painted Rock by Jessica’.

Interesting marketing strategy, I said to myself before replacing it face up so more people might notice its bright colours.

 

*****

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/

 

Buses, Pines, and Rocks

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a write a piece involving a school bus, a guidebook to pine trees, and a painted rock. This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her writings are found in numerous print and online publications. New under her writerly belt is THREE HEARTS, a memoir eight years in the making about her son’s last days and how she did/didn’t cope with his death and the aftermath. Available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589197.

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

 

***

 Buses, Pines, and Rocks

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

When I grew up, I became a teacher instead of the preacher Daddy pushed me to be.

Mommy wanted me to be a mother and raise a brood of ten kids like her and, she said, “Be like the wife of your brother.”

I said, “No way! Neither’s the life for me.” And I wandered fields of corn and wheat, pondered my future that looked oh so bleak, for I was weak—though I did stand tall, stood my ground despite my feet in quaking shoes.

Years passed oh so fast...

Back then, in those times and in that place, we instructors could sub as bus drivers, and so it was that one hot sweltering day in June I took the seat of deceased Pete Hilliard and steered twenty-five kids to home.

On the way, while at an unnecessary stop sign on a deserted dirt road, I spied Pete’s Guidebook to Pine Trees. No time to leaf through the pages but how wonderful it would be to detour for an excursion with these unruly kids who lived off the grids—perhaps pinecones might drop from a tree and knock sense into them so dense.

“Hey, kids,” I shouted into the din, “wanna have some fun?” I wasn’t known to be a fun-type of teacher (would never have lasted as a preacher), so the kids sat still (probably against their will) and frowned until one screamed, “Yes, let’s have some fun!”

And that’s how the sunny warm day turned into an evening of thrill and chill...

Henry found a painted rock (unknown in those dark ages) hidden behind a scraggly bush. ’Twas a plumpy penguin—ha, apropos in today’s grumpy trumpy times—but once he screeched of his find, the other twenty-four whined for theirs. Alas, that sole rock was just that: an anomaly (no more to be found), which enraged the rest of the bunch who turned into a gang of sorts, almost driving me to escape out of my shell to hell.

“Kids, come on, be the better soul,” I did screech. “Painted rocks are not yet in fashion. But, hey, if you want to get ahead of the times, let’s all search for perfect stones, and then I can drop each of you home. You can explain to your mother or father that you were tardy after school, too busy trick or treating for rocks, but then I—the great saviour-school-bus-sub—came along to drag you home, without a nag or fuss or muss.”

I paused for effect, checked each child one by one, but I’d scored a homerun! All listened acutely without spouting blather.

“And when you get home, you can gather paints and paint your rocks. Tomorrow, we’ll hide them for another kind soul to find. And that’ll make us all happy, right?”

Dumbfounded, they stared as if I were God or some sort of alien creature instead of their teacher, and then they clapped and stomped their feet, happy for fun homework (no doubt they’d cheat!).

And, dear friend, that is the end of the story of the school bus, the guidebook, and the painted rock. Thankfully, not one child got struck by a cone and not one did scorn, so I consider that day a win in every way.

Except...

 

Soon after, right or wrong, at the breaking of dawn’s light while bothersome birds sang their insufferable song, I quit teaching. Alas, mother and father and brother were long gone by then, never were they that strong—unlike me, standing tall in shoes that never quaked again, preaching to strangers in pews.

 

 

***

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/

 

 

 

Polvere di Fata - Recensione

 Grazie a Francesco Giommoni, linguista e educatore, per questa bella recensione di Polvere di Fata!

Polvere di Fata è una raccolta di fiabe scritte da autori provenienti da Paesi diversi, curata da Ünver Alibey e illustrata dall'artista italiana Valentina Bardazzi, che la casa editrice Kaba ha deciso di pubblicare in edizione bilingue italiano-inglese, rendendone la lettura adatta anche per scopi didattici.

La trovi QUI.

 

Personalmente ho molto apprezzato l’opera consistente in 7 fiabe scritte da autori provenienti da paesi differenti, curata da Ünver Alibey.

La multiculturalità di questo progetto, oltre a permettere di leggere storie molto diverse tra di loro, aiuta a comprendere meglio come alcuni topoi letterari si ripresentino in tradizioni letterarie differenti e come, allo stesso tempo, altri siano propri di alcune tradizioni e sconosciuti, o perlomeno, non diffusi in altre. 

Pur trattandosi di un genere destinato a giovani lettori, è indubbio che possa essere utilizzato anche come un’introduzione alle letterature comparate, tema affrontato con discenti più adulti, sin dalla più giovane età. 

Gli insegnanti delle scuole elementari che opteranno per questo testo potranno, infatti,  stimolare gli studenti con domande che passano da un racconto all’altro, come una certa figura, ad esempio la fata o la strega/il mago, vengano rappresentate in ogni singola fiaba e spingere a fare ricerche più incentrate sulle tradizioni e letterature locali per comprendere come alcune figure vengano rappresentate e descritte. 

Da docente di lingua italiana per studenti stranieri, trovo assai utile disporre di un testo bilingue perché può, indubbiamente, aiutare gli studenti a comprendere meglio l’uso e le collocazioni di alcuni termini, oltre ad analizzare strutture grammaticali di medio e alto livello. 

A differenza dei romanzi per adulti, questo genere letterario si presta meglio ad essere utilizzato in quanto, tendenzialmente, contiene frasi più brevi e chiare, adatte a studenti che non sono di madrelingua italiana, seppur già in possesso di un livello B1/B2. 

Il rischio di consigliare letteratura “standard” è, infatti, quello di demoralizzare lo studente che si trova ad affrontare strutture ormai desuete e parole arcaiche che non lo incentivano a migliorarsi. 

Tale testo, oltre che dagli insegnanti della scuola primaria, può essere utilizzato anche dai docenti di italiano per stranieri per sollevare domande e incoraggiare ricerche circa gli elementi tradizionali delle fiabe del proprio paese. In primis, permette agli studenti di conoscere autori del proprio paese magari sconosciuti. In aggiunta, offre la possibilità di poter arricchire i dibattiti attraverso elementi delle fiabe proprie di ogni tradizione letteraria e linguistica. 

Da un punto di vista stilistico, il testo presenta un lessico moderno seppur non banale, ottimo per sviluppare il vocabolario degli studenti, siano essi di madrelingua italiana o straniera. Anche a livello sintattico e morfologico, ho apprezzato l’uso del passato remoto, proprio della letteratura, dal momento che il suo utilizzo è sempre più ridotto, in particolar modo quando si pensa a testi per bambini. 

Infine, una nota all’editing:  mi è molto piaciuto il filo narrativo che dall’introduzione porta alla conclusione, in particolare la presentazione “fiabesca” dell’autore e della fiaba stessa. Non una classica biografia dell’autore o un riassunto scontato, ma qualcosa di più, un’introduzione che anticipa alcuni elementi della storia successiva e che potrebbero essere sapientemente usate dai docenti per stimolare gli studenti a inventare la propria storia e la propria narrazione. 

 

Francesco Giommoni

Linguist/Educator

 

A guidebook to pine trees, a school bus, and a painted rock

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.

 A guidebook to pine trees, a school bus, and a painted rock

 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.com/

Debts, Dreams, and Dedication

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story where the main character is a creative writing teacher. 

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. After writing several episodes featuring paranormal romance writer Elsa Mon, this story represents the beginning of the beginning…

Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.

 

Debts, Dreams, and Dedication

(An Elsa Mon story)

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

created with Canva

Elsa groaned in frustration. She had done the math three times; there was no mistake. She had been so happy when she had been offered an apprenticeship at The Willow Gazette, the town newspaper. But, after six months, it was clear that the measly pay she received was not enough to cover her expenses. She took a disconsolate look around. She did not want to leave that house. Her beloved grandmother had left it to her, it was all hers, and every corner whispered fond memories and promises of a good life. She absolutely had to figure out a way to make some money quickly.

“My novel...” she murmured, brushing a finger over her laptop on the table. Yeah, her novel. Her hobby, her passion... But goodness knew how long it would take her to finish it! And in the meantime?

Sighing, she went to pick up her mail. She had heard the letter carrier pass by and drop something in the slot on the door while she was in the midst of her very disappointing accounting session.

“Ugh! Bills, bills and more—”

She stopped. In between the bills was a letter. The envelope bore the logo of the local library.

“And what is this?” she asked aloud.

She dropped the bills on the carpet and promptly opened the letter from the library.

Dear Ms. Elsa Mon,

Town Hall just destined a share of the town budget to activities promoting culture aimed at the locals. As the only town library, we therefore have the opportunity to organize cultural events for the residents. We are considering a creative writing course, for which we have received numerous requests.

Your name has been mentioned to us…

Elsa groaned. Were they inviting her to enroll in their creative writing course? For one thing, it was redundant, since she had taken a creative writing course in college as part of her journalism major. And besides, she had no money, as she kept being painfully reminded. Nevertheless, she resumed reading.

Your name has been mentioned to us, and we would be happy to have you as our creative writing teacher. In case you are interested, please get in touch with Ms. Underwood.

Sincerely, etc. etc.

Elsa could not believe her eyes. She read the letter several times, then pulled out her phone and called the library.

“Hello? May I speak to Ms. Underwood please?”

***

In the weeks that followed the start of the creative writing course, Elsa’s already feeble organizational skills were put to the test. Sure, her days were full, but her debt to the bank had already begun to decrease, and she was very relieved whenever she thought about it.

Full days didn’t even begin to describe it… She had the assignments for The Willow Gazette to complete, for starters. These were never complicated inquiries—she was just an apprentice after all. But not wishing to remain an apprentice forever, Elsa always worked hard, doing extensive research on whatever topic she was asked to write about in her articles. She was very serious about the creative writing course, too. She wanted it to be successful so her contract would be renewed; therefore, she always prepared her classes meticulously, tailoring them for her students. And finally, of course, there was her novel to finish. Finish, yes… If she made up her mind about the beginning, perhaps. She had changed genre and setting at least four times so far!

She opened her laptop and the novel file. Last night she had once again deleted everything, ready to start over. “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she whispered…

***

Over the next few weeks, Elsa would experience some bizarre incidents, all sharing one common element: Mr. Khamose, a charming man from Egypt who was enrolled in her writing class. She was sure that a passionate romance would ensue, but she was not ready for what Khamose brought into her life…

 

*****

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/

Paying the Price

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story where the main character is a creative writing teacher. This week’s contribution was written by 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/

 

Paying the Price

by Phil Yeats

 

He trudged along the coast road to the north of town, bemoaning his fate. He’d spent two soul-sucking early evening hours teaching bored housewives and retirees the rudiments of creative writing. Hours he should have spent pouring forth pearls of creative wisdom on his next novel.

Who was he kidding? He’d produced no pearls since he published his first award-winning mystery romance during his final year as an undergraduate in a small university’s creative writing program. He’d self-published it using the pen name Annabelle Granger. An independent publisher respected in the realm of mystery novels snapped it up and moved it from the winner of a minor award with modest sales to the top of the bestseller list.

Two follow-up novels featuring the same characters weren’t as good. He knew it, his publisher knew it, reviewers knew it, and so did his readers. Sales tanked, and he soon found himself without a publisher. Or a steady income.

As he turned off the coastal road and down the dirt track to the dock where his rowboat awaited, he reviewed his rapid fall from fame and fortune. There was no mystery.

He wasn’t into mysteries, but during that final year at the university, a fellow student in the creative writing program encouraged him. Together, they turned his initial draft into a semi-literary novel that pleased both the readers of cozy mysteries and the stuffier literary critics. After they graduated, he didn’t put the required effort into the follow-ups because his mind was on what he hoped would be his next project—an adventure romance that asked a simple question. Why can’t society deal with the rapidly approaching climate change crisis?

He squandered the royalties from his only successful book on the small island he purchased and the house he built. No wonder he was now stretched for funds and reduced to teaching creative writing classes.

When he arrived at the shore, he saw her sitting on his dock, admiring the sunset. He recognized her immediately. Ashley Barnes, the muse who helped make his first book a roaring success.

He sat beside her and said nothing until the sun sank below the horizon.

“So what brought you to this obscure point in the western hemisphere?” he asked as the sunset’s yellows and oranges expanded to fill the western sky.

“Looking for my friend, Annabelle,” she said.

“Well, here I am.”

“Don’t think so. I’m looking at David Mitchell, not Annabelle Granger.”

As he rowed his skiff to his island home, he pondered the meaning of Ashley’s last comment. The answer seemed obvious. Annabelle was his creation, but Ashley contributed to her success. Did that mean she was looking for payback?

If it was money she was after, she was out of luck. He never had any.

 *****

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/