In the Dark, Words Matter

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about the darkness this time of year. This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn.

Cathy’s writings have been published in over 200 print and online publications. Check out her website (www.writingwicket.wordpress.com) for further information on her works. Also, check out her latest book, 300 pages of crass, crazy, crude, funny, sarcastic, and weird stories about the Grimes’ Christmases, called (what else?): THE GRIMES’ CRAZY CHRISTMASES. Available on Amazon or (cheaper) through the author. https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1990589448

Today, she is continuing with new Grimes tales...

***

In the Dark, Words Matter

by Cathy MacKenzie

“Bob, there’s something about this time of year...”

“Elise, what now?”

“The dark, Bob. It’s so much darker now. Yesterday it rained, and it made it seem as though it was ten o’clock at night when it was only in the afternoon. Didn’t you see the dark clouds above us as we were driving? Well, as I was driving, since you can’t drive.”

“I can drive just fine, Elise. Not my fault I might have early-stage cataracts and can’t get an appointment at the eye doctor for another month.”

“Gee, Bob, you’ve been acting as if you have four-stage cancer or something. Or early dementia—well, you do have dementia, that’s for sure.”

“Give it up, Elise. Give it up.”

“Okay, I will. But back to darkness. The darkness in life. The darkness of life...” She paused. “I’m not sure which it is Bob. ‘In’ or ‘on’?”

“In or of what, woman?”

“The darkness. Is it ‘in life’ or ‘of life’?”

Bob looked puzzled at first, trying to comprehend her meaning, and finally giving up. “Does it really matter?”

“Of course, it matters. Words matter, Bob! Don’t you know that fact yet? We’re now in a politically correct world—not the world of our parents where people could say what they wanted and not be shot. Or killed in some way. Words do matter. Oh yes, indeed, words matter...”

Bob, instead of tossing the remote in disgust as was usually his way, carefully put down the high—and contemplate life. Even better, why don’t you write a poem?”

Elise glanced at the clock. “Bob, it’s not even seven. I know it’s dark, but it’s a bit early to go to bed. I’d never be able to sleep this early.”

“Write a poem, I said. Put your dratted tablet to good use.”

“Hmm, I suppose...”

It was all Bob could do to suppress his laughter. What a duffus she was. Then again, he had married her...

Hmm, he thought. “I think you’re right, Bob. I’ve always wanted to be a writer and—”

“I’ve heard that a million times in the last few years, Elise. Put your pen where your mouth is.” Hmm, is that the correct phrase? No matter; his dear, lovely, sweet wife was clueless.

He watched her scamper off down the hall like an excited puppy about to search every room for a bone. She wouldn’t do that, of course; she knew where her—their—bedroom was located.

He pondered again. Would she really write a poem? Really and truly? He didn’t know what to think, but he was tired of her continually saying she wanted to be a writer and never produce. Not that he had high hopes for anything she’d write.

Elise plopped to the bed. Yes, it was time. Time to write a poem. But what? She pondered for a long while, while enjoying the heat of the electric blanket. She’d never enjoyed such warmth before she’d bought the blanket. Bob liked to say it was him who purchased it; nope, it was her.

She was tired of being cold at nights. Cold was an ambiguous word. Cold could mean feeling neglected or shunned. Cold didn’t just refer to temperature, but she supposed the word temperature could be ambiguous, as well. She shook her head. Words! Who knew there were so many meanings to words, contrived or not. Or was it just her?

She picked up her tablet, stared at the blank screen on the pre-installed writing app, and then her fingers began typing as if they had ten little minds:

 

It’s the dark, Bob,

When I sob,

The dark in the night

When it’s not light

And I remember dreams

And schemes,

Think of you and our son—

We have only one—

Don’t forget that fact,

How I felt smacked

In the head when another

Appeared, Jimmy’s brother—

No, can’t say that—

You said you’d eat your hat

If that were true,

Your unknown son out of the blue.

I have no secrets, Bob,

No dark things to rob

My soul

Or toss me into a deep hole.

No, I have none.

You have your son,

That dratted lie from your past,

An image that forever will last.

Oh, I know you said it’s not true,

That I shouldn’t be blue.

Thankfully, that kid hasn’t appeared again

To give us more pain,

So perhaps I should believe your words

And wait for spring to hear the birds

When they return from down south,

Then perhaps I won’t be so down-in-the-mouth

And life can proceed

Even though my heart doth bleed

And always will—

Unless my body lays still

In death

Without a breath

And then the world will be dark...

 

Gah, she thought. Can’t find anything suitable that rhymes with dark. She could use “lark,” but she’d already written of birds. After consideration, she decided it was a poem of blackness, the black of night, and nothing rhymed at night, did it?

She continued with the rest of the poem, albeit non-rhyming...

 

And I’ll live forever in the black

If I’m dead...

But this is the time of year

When the clock turns back,

Making it a tad lighter

And, of course, brighter

What with Christmas coming up

And more filled cups.

But then I think back

To another Christmas

And that knock on the door

Interrupting our meal.

The year Jimmy found his wayward brother,

And I, not this kid’s mother,

And Bob said he wasn’t the father.

Eventually the kid said not to bother,

And though Bob didn’t tell me

The kid (James) did flee,

Never (I hope) to bother us again,

Never again to lay a stain

Upon our happy home.

 

There, she thought. It’s done. But it’s not a poem I could ever share with Bob. Or Jimmy. More like a mind-cleanser.

But she hoped the kid was truly gone.

Then—why, oh, why had she thought of James? She thought she’d thrust that kid to the bowels of her mind.

She threw the tablet to the floor.

“I’m not cut out to be a writer,” she screeched. “My poem is crap and—”

“Elise, what’s wrong? Elise! Elise, are you okay?”

“Bob, what are you doing here?”

“I heard you scream. Is everything okay?”

“You heard me scream? And came to comfort me?”

“Of course, Elise. I’m your husband, aren’t I?”

“Yes, I think so, Bob.” She sobbed.

“Elise, what’s wrong?”

In between her sobs, she spoke. “I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a writer, Bob. I can’t rhyme, and I—I...”

“Elise, you don’t need to be a writer. You can just be a housewife, as you’ve done ever since we married.”

She quit sobbing and looked up at him. “Really, Bob? I don’t have to wrack my brain for rhyming words?”

“You do not. All you need to do is take care of me. Well, and Jimmy, of course.”

And then it hit her: all her husband cared about was himself. He just wanted his needs met. He didn’t really care if she was a perfect poetess or not.

But he did come into the bedroom to check on me, she thought. And it wasn’t for sex. No, he truly was concerned about her. He’d never been one to choose his words carefully.

She thought about her poem. Even though she’d tried to find the perfect words, it wasn’t perfect. It would never win any awards; even she knew that. But unlike Bob, she’d tried to choose carefully. Despite all that, it still needed a title. Everything in the world needs a name, she thought. It was her baby, after all. The only baby left in her life; there’d be no more. Well, except for Angel, who lived on in infamy. Angel, the baby who never breathed more than two breaths, the baby who lived in darkness and would never ever see the light of day—or the dark of night.

Poem of Darkness, she thought. Yep, a perfect title. And someday, she thought, I’ll go back to it. I’ll make it more perfect.

“Elise, you okay?”

“What? Oh, Bob. Yes, I’m here.”

“Well, I’m going to send Jimmy to bed, and then I’m comin’ back to join you.”

Hooray, she thought. Just dandy.

She leaned over and switched on the nightstand lamp. That’s about all the light and brightness she’d have tonight. She was delusional if she thought otherwise.

 

 

***

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/

Shadow Blessing

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

This month’s prompt is to write about the darkness of this time of year.

 

Shadow Blessing

by Val Muller

 

For Anna, the merriment had gotten darker as the years went on. It was just like her grandma said, after all. The holidays were for children. When your children grew up, what was the point? That was grandma' opinion. But somehow Anna had managed to be even darker than her grandmother.

Anna had lost the holiday magic even while her children were still young. There was just a never-ending list of things to do; and somehow she managed to grow up without anyone ever telling her that all the Christmas magic basically came from the mother. It was not made of sugar and spice and candy canes or anything like that. It was made of her own sweat and tears and blood.

Who needed that?

She knew too that it had to do with the darkness of the year. There was something about the lack of the Sun and the time change, the darkness setting in earlier than ever. She spent all the daylight hours at work and came home to the night. As it had done for generations of humans before, the darkness pushed her indoors. And that emphasized the mess of her house, the fact that it was not neat like in the magazines.

The children too could not be sent outside in the dark, and that made the house even messier. How was she supposed to host Thanksgiving and Christmas with the house constantly being a mess? Barely time for anything. It was the worst, and she could barely wait until spring.

So one morning as she woke and thought ahead to the weekend and all the cleaning that it would entail, she realized that her alarm had not woken her. Someone was screaming, and it was not the usual child, the young one. It was the older one, and he was screaming in agony. This was more than just a bad dream.

She ran into his room to find him in fetal position on the bed holding his intestines. She thought at first it must be the stomach bug. That can cause cramping. But it didn’t go away with bathroom use and it didn’t go away with drinking. It didn’t go away with moving. It could be his appendix. Or worse.

She and her husband exchanged glances and acted with few words. He took him to the ER while she stayed with the other children.

The oldest, who usually did her best to torment him, turned somber and wanted to call him through her dad’s phone, wanted to wish him well and tell him that she loved him. She got ready easily that morning and was compliant and kind.

The youngest asked after her brother. And now instead of worrying about cleaning, Anna feared the worst. What if there was an emergency? What if he never came home? What would she tell a child too young to understand? What would she tell a child old enough to mourn?

When she finally dropped the other two off and made her way to the hospital, Anna still had plans of going into work. After all, not being at work would mean she would fall behind, and despite the situation the nagging feeling of an unclean house ate at her subconscious.

But when she got to the hospital and saw the fear in her boy’s eyes, she decided not to work. She called in. Everyone at work would survive without her. She was needed here. A little piece of her thought that after he was released, as of course he would be soon, she would go home and clean. That justified time off work.

Six hours of testing, and all thoughts of cleaning went away. The hospital room was dark. Dank. People didn’t stay here. They were triaged and saved. Or not. She watched him snuggle onto the blanket, content she was there. She was his light.

It was not the appendix. It was not the kidneys. It was not the bladder. It was nothing but good old-fashioned constipation, a condition that can really wreak havoc on a young small gut. He would be given a prescription for a colon cleanse and he would be monitored. But he would be okay. It was 6 hours of tests but he was okay.

He had not eaten since the night before and neither had any of them, so they decided to let him choose, and he picked the restaurant in town with the slowest service. Anna didn’t even think to convince him otherwise. It was his choice and that’s where they would eat.

By the time they got home, it would be time to turn around and pick up the other two children. She would have gotten no work done for her job, no cleaning done for the house, no exercise done for herself, nothing. But that was okay. Her son was okay.

The rest of the week was a blur. Nothing that usually stressed her out seemed important. The house didn’t seem so messy anymore. It was easier to throw things out that were cluttery, and the things that were cluttered didn’t even matter. It wasn’t yet Thanksgiving and she would not have ever considered decorating the house for Christmas, but there was just something about the joyousness of him being okay. The family being together. The oldest being so kind to him and the youngest dancing happily to a silly pickle song he played on his tablet when he got home.

She brought out the Christmas lights and decorated the house while they slept. They would awaken to a magical Christmas in November, and they would be so excited that their teachers would wonder what in the world was going on at their house.

And that was okay.

The thing that was going on at their house was a little bit of Christmas magic. Magic that had been lost to the darkness but had been reawakened by a brush with the shadows.

 

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/

Wilhelmina Through the Cracked Glass

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story involving a mirror.

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.

 

 

Wilhelmina Through the Cracked Glass

by Chiara De Giorgi

Created with Canva

Elsa Mon, the beloved author of paranormal romance novels, was browsing through the stalls at the local flea market. She was looking for inspiration for her new novel, The Clock that Broke the Spell, in which a vampire in love with a witch had been cursed by his own family to forget her. The witch, annoyed that he didn’t recognize her anymore, had thrown an old cuckoo clock at his head. Between the blow from the edge of the little birdhouse and the cuckoo itself popping in and out seven times shouting “cuckoo!”, the vampire suddenly regained his memory and ran away with his witch. Only Elsa wasn’t quite sure about the cuckoo clock. She was certain it had to be some kind of antique object, the one that finally broke the curse of forgetfulness,  so the flea market was the right place to find the right idea. 

Among chipped teacups, oil paintings darkened by time, and yellowed lace bedspreads, Elsa spotted a mirror leaning against a vendor’s table. Long and oval, with a dark bronze frame and a thin crack running down the center, it immediately caught her eye.

She stopped in front of the mirror, mesmerized. She couldn’t look away, not even when she flipped the price tag and saw that it was outrageously expensive: it cost as much as two months of her intern salary at the Willow Gazette, the town newspaper—from which she had, incidentally, just been dismissed. With the bank breathing down her neck over the payments for the house she had inherited from her grandmother, and her only income coming from the creative writing class she taught three evenings a week at the library, it was definitely not the time for a reckless splurge. But that mirror… it seemed to be calling her.

“Forget it,” said a voice nearby. It came from a porcelain figurine of a horrible shepherdess carrying a basket full of flowers and a little lamb on her shoulders.

“Stranger! What are you doing here?” Elsa asked the figurine, which was in fact the Stranger, a magical creature that could take the form of anything or anyone it wished.

“Don’t take that mirror. It’s cracked down the middle. Seven years of trouble, guaranteed.”

“Oh, come on, such a silly superstition. This mirror is… magnetic. I can’t leave it here; it’s like it’s calling me.”

“Then it’s more than seven years of trouble, I’m telling you. When a mirror calls you, there’s always something shady going on. And anyway… weren’t you looking for an object for your novel about the vampire and the witch? A mirror is hardly the best choice; your cursed vampire can’t even see his reflection!”

“It doesn’t matter. The cuckoo clock will do. I don’t care. The only thing I want is to take this mirror home.”

The Stranger huffed. “Do as you please. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

It wasn’t easy for Elsa to carry that old mirror home by herself. The Stranger had transformed into a dragonfly and bailed on her. 

Once home, Elsa propped it up in the living room and went to change into her pajamas. It was only five in the afternoon, but Elsa Mon always did her best in pajamas.

When she returned to the living room and saw the mirror, her heart skipped a beat. It reflected the image of a woman, but there was no one there. Then she burst out laughing and shook her head.

“Stranger! For a moment there, you really had me.”

“I’m right here,” replied the Stranger, in the form of a calendar hanging on the wall.

“But… if you’re here… who’s inside the mirror?”

“Don’t make me say, I told you so.”

Elsa stepped closer to the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked a little lost.

“Who are you?” Elsa asked.

“Oh! You can see me? Finally!” the reflection sighed with relief. “For centuries I’ve wandered from mirror to mirror, hoping to stumble across a kindred soul. I’m Wilhelmina, pleased to meet you.”

“Um… welcome…” Elsa said, unsure how to react. The calendar on the wall refused to help: it was sulking.

“Thank you! Come on now, quickly, get me out!”

“Of course, I… I’ll get you out… Just a moment, I need to consult with my, uh, calendar…”

Elsa took the calendar off the wall and carried it into the kitchen.

“Stranger!” she whispered. “What should I do? Help me!”

The Stranger transformed into a rubber duck and stayed silent.

“Come on, don’t sulk! I need you! Seriously! And Wilhelmina needs you too.”

The rubber duck replied, “Ugh, how should I know? I’m not a spirit. Take her to the Squatters and ask them for help.”

“Right!” exclaimed Elsa, smacking her forehead with her hand. The Squatters were a friendly community of spirits living in the haunted house just outside Willow, the small town where Elsa lived. “Will you help me carry the mir—”

The rubber duck took off and flew out the open window.

Sighing, Elsa hoisted the mirror onto her shoulder and carried it to the haunted house.

 ***

“Mmmh, how interesting,” remarked Sister Elena of Cremona, inspecting the mirror from top to bottom.

“Yes, fine, but are you going to get me out or not?” complained Wilhelmina.

“Not so fast!” declared the nun. “First, you must tell us who you are and why your spirit is trapped inside a mirror.”

“I was a witch, back in my day,” Wilhelmina replied. “They arrested me, but while they were taking me to the square to burn me at the stake, I tripped and rolled down a hill. Since my hands were tied behind my back, I couldn’t stop, and I reached the bottom with a broken neck. Oh well, better that than the stake, no complaints there. But I landed on the shards of a broken mirror, my spirit entered it, and since then I’ve been wandering from mirror to mirror, looking for someone who could set me free. Your Elsa is the first one who’s ever seen me. You don’t count, of course—you’re spirits.”

“Mmmh,” Sister Elena said again, pondering. “I need some holy water for a kind of exorcism. But I finished it on my last… well, never mind.”

“Why not use this?” suggested Olga, the retired Russian assassin and Sister Elena’s best friend. She handed the nun a bottle of vodka.

“You think it’ll work?”

“Absolutely!”

Sister Elena shrugged and opened the bottle. Then she began spraying vodka over the mirror, dancing around it and chanting words in Latin. Olga joined in her exorcising dance, while Elsa watched with eyes full of question marks. Had she really done the right thing entrusting Wilhelmina’s eternal fate to this band of weirdoes?

Her question was answered when Sister Elena and Olga collided, sending the mirror flying. A moment later, Wilhelmina was shouting ten different things from ten different shards.

The shouting drew the rest of the Squatters, who immediately began arguing at the top of their voices, each suggesting possible solutions.

“Bring me two bolts and some Teflon tape! I’ve got this!” boomed Tony the plumber, who never missed a chance to remind everyone that, when he was alive, he’d unclogged Al Capone’s toilet.

Elsa was growing more and more worried for the poor witch who had put her trust in her.

“Everybody stop!” she shouted loud enough to rise above the noise. When silence finally fell, and even the ten Wilhelminas had stopped sobbing in their Scottish accents, Elsa picked up the largest shard and smiled at the woman on the other side of the glass.

“You called me. No one else for centuries. Clearly, I’m the one who has the power to set you free from this broken mirror.” After a moment, she asked, “Wilhelmina the witch, do you want to be free?”

Wilhelmina shouted “Yes!” at the top of her lungs, and a second later, she was standing right beside Elsa.

The Squatters erupted in cheers, and Olga and Sister Elena were the first to personally congratulate Wilhelmina and invite her to join them.

Wilhelmina winked at Elsa. “Now, let’s talk about your novel. Honestly, throwing a cursed cuckoo clock at a vampire? Totally ineffective. Try hitting him with a rocking chair instead. Works every time.”

 

 

 

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/

Celestina

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story involving a mirror. 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.

 

 

Celestina

by Phil Yeats

 

Lord Elric stared into the still waters of the lake by which they camped. He saw not his battle-scarred reflection but that of Lexicas, the wizard.

“I salute your mission to slay the traitor Saurus and rescue the fair Celestina and her two handmaids, but beware, trouble awaits inside your castle. Hob has overrun the defenders you left behind,” Lexicas said before his image disappeared. It was replaced by Elric’s.

Celestina crept forward and took Elric’s hand. “Your furrowed brows and the fire in your eyes suggest something’s amiss, but you have a plan.”

“Yes, we must make haste to the castle. We leave immediately.”

That evening, they camped again two hours’ march from Lord Elric’s castle. He was staring into the diminishing evening light when Celestina approached from beside their campfire. “I wish I could have warned you. My stepbrother Hob is not trustworthy. He’s hated me for as long as I can remember. Hob and my father paid Saurus to kidnap me, knowing you’d come to my rescue.”

Lord Elric snorted. “And how were you to warn me?” He placed his arm around her slender shoulders. “But all is not lost. Their treachery is now revealed. Hob’s a worm. By tomorrow night, we’ll have him baited and hooked to trap the real villain. Lord Ranulf. He has no supporters at the king’s court. Ranulf will be exposed as a compatriot of the traitor Saurus. The king will banish him and Hob from the kingdom. They’ll both rot in France.”

“And what will become of his fiefdom?”

A smile softened the harsh lines of scars on Elric’s face. “Surely you know your mother was the king’s cousin, taken and married by Ranulf. Then, when you were but two years old, your mother died under mysterious circumstances. In those days, Ranulf had powerful allies at court, and the king was weaker than he is now. Now the king is strong, and Ranulf’s allies have abandoned him. His fiefdom will be the king’s gift to you when you marry a suitable husband.”

“Like you, my good Lord Elric, we’ll join our two fiefdoms together to make a truly powerful Lordly domain.”

“Yes, my love, that is the plan, but we must play our cards carefully.”

Lord Elric’s advance party departed three hours before dawn. Their plan. Gain access to the castle through the escape tunnel built for escaping priests during the religious crises from decades earlier. With luck, they could take Hob’s pack of vermin, unfamiliar with the castle’s secrets, by surprise. Then, when their main force arrived outside the gates at dawn, they could lower the drawbridge and mop up any vermin lurking in the shadows.

Lexicas met them outside the root cellar that hid the entry to the priests’ secret access and led them single file through the narrow, low passage. They reached a thick door, and Lexicas inserted a key in the lock before turning to Elric. “You should wait here, sire, while I check that the passage is clear. I’ll signal you if all’s clear.”

A high-pitched whistle signalled the all-clear, and Elric, with his archers and swordsmen right behind him, surged into the passage. “The dungeon?” he asked Lexicas. “Does it contain my loyal defenders, or did Hob’s vermin kill them all?”

“Killed some, but most are in the cells. I dosed the wine Hob’s guards consumed last evening with sleeping potion. They should offer no resistance.”

“And Hob and his henchmen?”

“In your quarters and the adjacent guest rooms, also sleeping off the wine.”

Elric deployed three of his strongest swordsmen to subdue the dungeon guards and free the prisoner, deployed the archers to pick off the defenders on the ramparts when dawn broke, and led their remaining swordsmen to his quarters.

Outside Elric’s door, they encountered two sleepy guards who offered little resistance, and inside they found Hob asleep. Elric raised his sword, preparing for a downward two-handed blow. Lexicas stepped in front of him.

“Wait, my lord. Killing him in his sleep would be murder. He’s more valuable alive as a hostage. Put him in a cell and clear out the rest of his compatriots.”

Elric nodded and stomped from the room, leaving Lexicas to deal with the captives. He’d hated Hob and Ilbert, his father, since they used guile, and some false promises, when the king found himself with a losing hand after an insurrection in France.

Outside, Elric exhorted his archers to attack the defenders on the ramparts as soon as the early morning light was adequate. They’d have the initial advantage, being inside when the defenders expected an attack from the outside. Lexicas dispatched his swordsmen, and those liberated from the cells, to attack the castle’s defenders in their barracks. Elric led the attack on the gatehouse, the prize they must win. With luck, the battle would be over before Celestina and his remaining fighters arrived outside the gates.

Elric with four swordsmen and six loyal serfs armed with battle clubs and daggers, for the noise from the attacks on the defenders on the ramparts to draw the defenders in the gatehouse from their lair. When the battle for the ramparts began, they surprised the first four defenders and cut them down without trouble. Several others retreated into the guardhouse, but couldn’t bar the door before Elric’s men were upon them. They were seriously outnumbered and laid down their weapons without a fight, leaving Elric in control of the gatehouse.

The sun was high in the sky when Elric and his trusty warriors flushed the last of Hob’s invaders from their holes. Some died fighting, others surrendered and joined their compatriots in the crowded cells.

Elric retired to his rooms relieved in the understanding he’d survived his first challenge since his father died. He’d left too few fighters to defend the castle, but they’d been able to take the invaders by surprise and win the day.

He could now doff his fighting clothes and don more ceremonial attire in preparation for a feast to honour his loyal knights and welcome the fair Celestina to his castle. He gazed into the looking glass, ran his finger down the most prominent of his battle scars and wondered if she could ever truly love anyone so ugly.

 

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/

 

Too Many Mirrors

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story involving a mirror. This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn—just in time for Halloween Eve!!!—and she’s on a roll with another story about the Grimes family.

Check out her latest book, 300 pages of crass, crazy, crude, funny, sarcastic, and weird stories about the Grimes’ Christmases, called (what else?): THE GRIMES’ CRAZY CHRISTMASES. Available on Amazon or (cheaper) through the author. https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1990589448

Cathy’s writings have been published in over 200 print and online publications. Check out her website www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on her works.

 

***

Too Many Mirrors

by Cathy MacKenzie

Elise stood in front of the full-length mirror. She adjusted her extra-large long-sleeved T-shirt, knowing the long sleeves covered her arms for a reason. She sighed, disbelieving she could’ve aged so fast in such a short time. Had she never noticed Passing Time? Jimmy was only sixteen; she hadn’t even hit forty yet. How much worse would her body get? And what about Jimmy? Was he ashamed of his dowdy mother?

What to do? She’d dieted and dieted. She only moderately exercised; she tried to make time to walk around the neighbourhood for the supposed-requisite thirty minutes a day but wasn’t always successful. But didn’t her daily traipsing after Bob and Jimmy count for something?
Glancing at herself again, she shook her head. “Old age is a bitch,” she mumbled. But if it weren’t for old age, where would she be? “In my coffin,” she muttered, answering her question. “In my coffin. Hopefully, one of those fancy burnished ones at Sunshine Gardens and not a cheapie that Bob would select.”
She smoothed down her T-shirt one more time before giving up in defeat. The baggy sweatpants didn’t help matters. She sighed again. She was what she was. Thankfully, neither Bob nor Jimmy had ever made fun of her looks. Then again, she rarely—if ever—received compliments, so that revealed something, didn’t it?

 

***

 

Jimmy stood in front of the mirror that hung on the wall over his dresser. It was a long and low piece of woman’s furniture, with horizontal drawers, so unlike the tall, skinny chest of drawers his father had. But, in times like this, when he needed a clear view of himself, the female-type dresser with the large mirror provided that.

He liked what he saw in the mirror. Halloween was tomorrow: October thirty-first, as everyone knew. Even he knew that! Tonight was his dress run, and he was “dressed to kill,” meaning he had a great costume—not that he’d be stabbing or shooting someone. He didn’t possess a knife or gun to do that deed, though he supposed he could scoff a knife, one of his mother’s largest and sharpest from the kitchen drawer, or he could steal the pill container from his mother’s mirrored medicine cabinet and boff someone that way—
But, no, he wasn’t in the mood for killing. Too young for that. Though the macabre would fit in quite nicely, especially on Halloween night. Nope, he just wanted to parade around the neighbourhood, gathering as many sweets as the king-size pillowcase he’d pilfered from the linen closet would hold. Most kids carried regular-sized pillowcases. Not him. The bigger, the better.
He examined himself again. The costume at $49.98 had almost wiped out his Christmas and birthday savings for five years, not that he’d saved every dollar he received. Due to his height, he’d had to purchase the adult size, which was ten dollars more than the kid’s suit, but it was worth it. How many people walked around as a lobster?
He’d have to be careful with the claws, though. He’d be mighty pissed if they pricked the plastic and burst the lobster. And if that happened, he wouldn’t be able to return it. (He’d learned that trick from his mother, who always returned artificial Christmas trees the next shopping day after Christmas—IF the family was lucky to have a tree, that is.)

 

***

 

Bob stood in the bathroom, examining himself in the mirror. “Mighty fine,” he mumbled, smoothing down a few wayward hairs. “Sexy or what?”

Hmm, he thought. Halloween tomorrow. Should he dress up, scare the neighbourhood kids? Or should he just plan on scaring Jimmy?
He snickered. No, the better idea would be to frighten Elise. Scare her shitless. He scratched his head. What the heck did any of that mean: scare shitless?
The previous day, Elise nattered about needing to go to the ER, but he’d talked her out of it. “It’s just gas, Elise.”
“But I have these huge pains. And my belly is so bloated and hard.”
“Here,” he’d said, “take one of these,” handing her a box of laxatives that just happened to be within grasp.
Yep, that one pill had pretty well done her in. Doubt he could scare her shitless today or tomorrow!
He glanced in the mirror again. Yep, good to go!

 

***

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/

 

 

 

 

 

Reflection

 Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is: write a story involving a mirror. 

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

***

Reflection

by Val Mulller

The guitar twang echoes in the house, shaking the picture frames. I shake my head to the lyrics. Something about heartbreak and loneliness or a pickup truck or boots. That's all they're ever about.

"It's not true," Evan would say if he weren't up in his room, blasting country music. It's all he's loved from the first time he heard it playing at Steak House of Texas one vacation. Of course, we live nowhere near Texas, and country music's not so big here. I detest it. So of course, he loves it.

The chords grow louder, then quieter. He must have stepped out of his room, then closed the door again. But of course he didn't cut the music.

I think back to me in high school. All goth, all metal. Everyone I know wanted to be either a guitarist or a drummer. But country? We would rather have been dead than to have listened to--

"Dad."

I startle, turn and stand. Evan is there, waiting for me to notice him. It's not like I don't live with the kid. I see him everyday. But I swear he grew a foot since the last time he went up to his room.

"Dad?"

He stands wearing one of my old flannels, but it is buttoned and tucked, not the grunge style I used to wear.

"Dad?"

I shake myself to attention. "Evan."

He looks sheepish. It is money. I know the look. I lived the look as a teenager.

"I was wondering..."

"How much?" I sigh. 

"It's for a movie. Me and--"

I fight back a smile. "Are you taking Jess?"

Before he answers, time freezes. I look at him like I am looking at myself in a mirror. I was him, decades ago. My flannel hung defiantly from my sleeves, buttons uncuffed. Ripped jeans and Doc Martens where his fit jeans and cowboy boots stand. And where I stand? It was my father, always in a button-down, half the time wearing a tie, always ready to pull out a wallet from the pants the wallet had worn thin. 

In Evan's embarrassed smirk, I see my own pride in having a date, my shame in asking Dad for money, my embarrassment at letting him into my love life.

"Yeah, Jess is coming," he says, looking up while bowing his head. I know he hopes I don't ask any more.

"Be careful," I hear my dad say as I hand my son the bills.  I know they say every generation is bad, but I know we were truly worse than Evan and his pals. They are more naive, but they are good at heart.

He reaches for the money, and in the mirror image I see my own hand snatching the money from my dad, glad I have made it past the Inquisition of two questions.

Evan goes upstairs. The music grows loud briefly as he opens his door, then quiets again. I sit back on the couch. I am reading the news on my phone, but I cross my right leg over my left, the way my father did when he read the paper. I look at my reflection in the glass cover of the fireplace.

"Thanks, dad," I whisper. 

****

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/

 

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/