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 it’s Cathy
MacKenzie’s turn. (Alas, she’s only five days late!) Her writings are found in
numerous print and online publications. She recently published WHEN KAYAKS FLY,
a mix of fantasy, real life, and gallows humour. A fun read! Available on
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589332.
Check out
www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on Cathy’s works.
***
by Cathy
MacKenzie
“Come on, class. Hop to it!” Cheryl gripped
her hands, immediately regretting she’d been so gruff on her Grade 3 students,
but they were an ornery bunch, rarely listening to her. Were their parents
raising a den of juvenile delinquents? Kids in her generation had never acted
like the kids today, and she could only imagine the state of the world for the
next generation’s children. Ah, not my worry, she thought.
She scanned the
class. A brainstorm hit her. “Children, attention please.”
For once, they hushed
and looked expectantly at her.
“I have a surprise
for you!”
The kids stared
intently. A surprise? That never failed to get their
attention.
“Well, perhaps not that much of a surprise, but something exciting to do. Let’s
write a creative exercise. A creative fiction. I don’t usually give homework,
but today I am. It’s Friday, so you’ll have all weekend to do it.”
At the stunned looks
on their faces, she added, “It’s homework, yes, but it’ll be fun.”
“Yes, Jimmy?”
“What’s ‘creative
fiction.’”
“Good question! My
apologies for not giving an explanation. So, a creative non-fiction is a true
story with a creative twist on it. ‘Creative’ as in with imagination. But let’s do a ‘creative fiction’ instead. For
instance, you could... Ah, think ahead thirty—no, forty—years and write about
where you think you’ll be then. Or hope to be.” Gah, could the children even
count that high?
She eyed the clock. Thankfully,
almost 2:30.
She smiled. “Any other
questions?”
Several kids nodded
but didn’t speak. Others continued to dumbly stare.
Saved by the bell!
“Have a good weekend,
class.” She doubted one child heard her. They were too busy gathering
their things and racing from the room.
She sighed. Perhaps
she should do the exercise too. After all, she was a creative writing
teacher—or supposed to be—until she’d been called to sub Grade
3 after Ted Greene had met up with an untimely vehicular accident. The
motorcycle driver—Ted—hadn’t stood a
chance against the semi that had swerved into his lane, but he was still
hanging on...
Such a handsome guy.
She let her mind wander, remembering their recent dates. Though they hadn’t really clicked, she’d fantasized about their eventual union
if they did click at some point. The happy life she—they—would share. Their beautiful,
intelligent children. And after their children were settled in university, she
and Ted would travel the world. Visit all the places she’d read about in
geography high school books and—
A knock on the door
jolted her from her thoughts.
“Cheryl, you okay?”
“Sandra, hey. Yes,
all’s good. You?”
“You looked like you
were off in another world.”
“Ha, no. I’m right
here. Just gathering my things.” Gathering my thoughts is
more like it!
“Plans for the
weekend?” Sandra asked.
“Nothing exciting.
You?”
“Same old. Same old.”
She turned to go. “Call me if you want to meet up tomorrow. Go shopping or
something. I hate that you’re alone all the time.”
“Thanks. Will do.”
Cheryl stuffed papers
into her briefcase, slung her purse over her shoulder, and headed to her
car.
When
she was in view of her Porsche Boxcar, she paused. What in the world! Who was
that snooping
around her vehicle? The guy peered into the passenger side window and then
walked around to the other side, where he looked in the driver’s window. What? Could
there be a dead body in her two-seater? Yeah, okay...
He
was gazing intently into her vehicle when she stopped a foot away from him.
She
coughed.
The
stranger jumped and looked up. “Oh, hello. Is this your car?”
“It
is.”
“I
have one just like it. Just wanted to see if our interiors were identical too.”
Yeah, okay. That’s
what all men say. A pick-up for sure!
“Mine’s solid black,”
she said. Stupid comment; he knew that from examining the interior.
“Mine too. I believe
we own identical vehicles.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, what’s the
chances?”
Yeah, she thought, what’s
the chances?
He was intriguing
despite the snoopiness. Dark hair. Tall. Almost “tall, dark, handsome.” Not that tall, however. Cute—not handsome.
“What you doing
later?”
She was taken aback. What? “Umm, why do you ask?” What if she were
presumptuous, thinking he wanted a date when he was simply making friendly
convo?
“It’s almost time for
dinner. I know a great little place. We could grab a drink first. Then a bite
to eat...” Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be presumptuous.”
Ha, she thought.
Presumptuous—her exact silent word.
“I’m sorry. You
married? I’m not in case you’re wondering. And if you are or have a boyfriend...
Heavens, not trying to ruin a relationship or— ”
She thought quickly. “No,
I’m not married. I could meet up in say, half an hour? I have an errand I must
run.”
“Sure. It’s The Old
Port. On Fitzgerald. The corner of Fitz and Main.”
“I know where that
is. I’ll meet you there. Maybe give me an hour.”
“Great. See you
shortly.”
She watched him walk
away.
He turned. “My name’s
Sam, by the way. Sam Banks.”
She nodded. Nice to meet you, Sam Banks.
When he was out of sight, she rummaged in her
purse for her cell. She scrolled until she reached her husband’s number. Dan
answered on the third ring.
“Hey,” she said. “Whatcha
doin’?”
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry
to ruin our evening. Philip’s called a last-minute board meeting for five
o’clock. I might not be home until ten or so.”
“Aw, really? That’s
okay. I might go out with Sandra for a quick bite.”
“Great. I’ll see you
later. Don’t wait up.”
I won’t, she thought,
stuffing the cell back into her purse.
“Hmm,” she mumbled. “Who
shall it be tonight? Should I visit Ted in the hospital? Meet Sam? Or should I
stick with Dan and mope in a lonely house?”
Cheryl sighed. At
sixty-four, what were the chances she’d have three men pining over her? She’d
promised herself, sufficient money or not, that she was retiring at sixty-five.
Then she’d be free. Free to do what she—and only she—wanted. She’d never
married, never had kids. No family to speak of. But she was fine with that. She
couldn’t wait for her new life. She’d already bought the acre of land on
Stephens Road, and the only decision left was to pick one of two tiny homes.
She’d been guaranteed delivery on either one within four months. Then, she’d
put her house of thirty-plus years on the market. With her pension and the
profit on the house, not to mention her savings and investments, she’d be on
easy street and—
“No,” she muttered, “tonight
I’ll enjoy a dinner with Sam.”
***
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
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