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

 

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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/

 

Creativity

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.

 

***

 Creativity

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

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

 

 

 

Interviste di #marzoMarziano 🚀✨

Questo mese ho aderito all'iniziativa #marzoMarziano, volta a promuovere la fantascienza di autrici e autori di origine italiana. Oui, c'est moi!

Nell'ambito di questa iniziativa, ideata dall'autrice Katjia Mirri, insieme ad altre autrici e altri autori di fantascienza italiana abbiamo popolato i social media con post a tema, nei quali abbiamo parlato dell'ambientazione delle nostre storie, dei nostri personaggi, dei temi che ci stanno a cuore. Basta cercare i post con tag #marzoMarziano su Facebook, Instagram, Blue Sky e TikTok e si avranno delle belle sorprese! 

È stato anche stimolante per me rispondere alle domande di ben due interviste. E non vi dico la mia autostima dove è schizzata! Dire che è "alle stelle" mi pare decisamente appropriato in questo caso.

La prima intervista me l'ha fatta proprio Katjia Mirri. Mi ha chiesto di parlare soprattutto delle tematiche di cui mi sono occupata nelle mie storie (dalla più recente alla più antica: Cut & Paste, AI Detective Services, Il Saltatempo) e le mie risposte si trovano sul neonato sito di Marzo Marziano.  

Un'altra, bella intervista mi è stata proposta da Taylor Blackfyre, il cui libro fantasy Succube del fato (il primo volume della saga I canti di Wixenia) è stato pubblicato di recente. Riporto di seguito l'intervista e ne approfitto per ringraziare ancora Taylor Blackfyre per questa opportunità.

1 – Ciao! Per prima cosa, vuoi presentare te stessa e le tue opere scifi?

Ciao, sono Chiara e amo le storie e i gatti. Leggo molto e di tutto, ma per quello che riguarda la fantascienza si può dire che sono “nata” con il ciclo della Fondazione di Asimov, che ho letto quando avevo sedici anni. Si può anche dire che sulla Fondazione di Asimov sono pure morta, perché rimane ancora una delle mie saghe preferite, ed è sicuramente la storia di fantascienza che ho amato di più.

Le mie opere scifi date alle stampe per il momento sono tre racconti: Il Saltatempo e poi AI Detective Services e Cut and Paste, che invece non sono (ancora…) disponibili in italiano. Sono tre storie completamente distinte e diverse tra loro, sia per tono sia per i temi trattati.

2 – Scrivi anche in inglese, quindi. Come ti sembra il mercato estero?

Molto variegato  Le antologie vanno a fasi alterne: momenti in cui nessuno se le fila e momenti in cui evidentemente infilano il canale giusto (tipo qualcuno che ne parla sui social e che ha un buon seguito) e per un po’ vanno molto bene

3 – Mi accennavi che sei riuscita a raggiungere quello che è un po’ il sogno di tutti noi, vivere di scrittura. Prima hai lavorato per una Casa Editrice, poi hai aperto con due colleghe un’agenzia di servizi editoriali, Alchiaro. Di cosa ti/vi occupate?

Edito, traduco, impagino e ultimamente collaboro con colleghi stranieri alla creazione di raccolte di racconti di autori e autrici internazionali di diverso genere. Abbiamo “prodotto” raccolte di fiabe per bambini, di fantascienza, e adesso stiamo lavorando a una raccolta di un genere a cui non avevamo ancora lavorato prima, per ora non dico altro.

4 – Il #marzoMarziano pone come protagonista la fantascienza italiana. Secondo te in cosa si differenzia – o si dovrebbe differenziare – da quella anglosassone cui siamo abituati?

Credo di aver letto più fantascienza anglosassone che italiana, ma non ho notato grosse differenze. Alla fine siamo parte anche noi di una visione occidentale o occidentalizzata del mondo. Per esempio ho letto, e mi è piaciuto molto, Il cuore finto di DR di Nicoletta Vallorani. A parte il fatto che la storia si svolge a Milano, l’ambientazione è quella di un classico cyberpunk e Milano potrebbe essere tranquillamente Londra o New York e non cambierebbe niente. Non posso dire in cosa si “dovrebbe” differenziare; posso forse suggerire in cosa “potrebbe” differenziarsi. Con il mio lavoro mi capita di incontrare autrici e autori di vari Paesi anche al di fuori dell’orbita occidentale. Ho per esempio letto alcuni racconti di fantascienza opera di autrici turche che mi hanno colpito per lo stile, diverso appunto da quello a cui siamo abituati, con un diverso ritmo, e anche perché fanno riferimento a situazioni “locali” a partire, molto banalmente, dall’avere un Sultano, o dal ruolo della religione nella vita delle persone. Noi italiani abbiamo un po’ perso il contatto con le nostre antiche tradizioni o i miti regionali, ma si potrebbe provare a rivisitarli in chiave fantascientifica. Chissà cosa verrebbe fuori!

5 – Siamo tutti cresciuti con un certo immaginario, ma se provi a scrivere una space opera rischi di sentirti dire che è un’americanata. Anche in Germania, dove risiedi, si sente tanto l’influsso dei classici?

Sì, se si vuole leggere qualcosa di davvero “diverso” bisogna uscire dalla visione occidentale proprio. Ho letto poco di scifi tedesca, ma siamo sempre lì. E comunque può non bastare. Anche con Il problema dei tre corpi, a parte forse la lentezza della narrazione, poco americana, non si andava molto lontano.

6 – Qual è la tua ambientazione preferita? Spazio profondo, distopie terrestri, -punk di qualche tipo?

La mia ambientazione preferita per ora resta lo spazio. Lo spazio già conquistato, abitato, colonizzato… lo spazio come realtà della vita quotidiana, insomma.

7 – Preferisci una fantascienza hard, ben basata sui dati scientifici, o hai un approccio più vicino al fantasy?

La fantascienza mi piace basata su dati scientifici. Quando mancano (perché spesso mancano), allora vado in due direzioni: la migliore approssimazione di verosimiglianza, oppure la follia totale, come ho fatto nella storia del Saltatempo, dove metto in discussione ogni scoperta scientifica, invento di sana pianta laddove non ci sono certezze e piego le leggi della fisica senza pietà.

8 – Come immagini il mondo tra 100 anni?

Mi piacerebbe che le scoperte scientifiche e tecnologiche fossero messe a disposizione dell’umanità allo scopo di migliorare la vita di tutti. Per esempio sarebbe bello che i soldi venissero globalmente investiti per rendere soluzioni di medicina avanzate alla portata di tutti, rinunciando alle innovazioni in campo militare che servono solo a distruggere meglio e in modo più efficiente. Purtroppo credo che questa sia un’utopia. Non credo che la fase attuale che stiamo vivendo sia definitiva e non credo che quella cha appare la direzione in cui il mondo si sta muovendo sia la direzione che effettivamente prenderà. Sento tante voci che propongono con determinazione soluzioni realistiche e realizzabili, e questa è una differenza importante rispetto a 100 anni fa. Ecco, magari spero che tra altri 100 anni non siamo daccapo…

9 – Ottimista, io immagino un futuro molto più cupo!

Cerco di essere positiva!

10 – Quali progetti letterari hai per il futuro?

Quali progetti letterari NON ho per il futuro, hahaha. È il tempo che manca, purtroppo. Ho in lavorazione il romanzo del Saltatempo, ma ha ancora bisogno di qualche capitolo e una revisione completa. Ci sto mettendo talmente tanto, che non ho ancora finito ma ho già pianificato dei cambiamenti a quello che ho scritto finora. Secondo me di questo passo mi ci vorranno ancora un paio d’anni, ma non ho fretta. Immaginare e scrivere questa storia è estremamente divertente, quindi non mi pesa affatto. Ho anche un racconto lungo, sempre di fantascienza, che voglio far diventare una novella o un romanzo breve. Ci sono pirati spaziali, corporazioni cattive, una cyborg ultracentenaria comandante di stazione spaziale e musei che espongono cimeli tipo i videogame di Super Mario.

Al di fuori della fantascienza, è in lavorazione il terzo libro della serie “Chiara nel tempo”. Il testo è pronto, sto aspettando i disegni dall’illustratore. Si tratta di una serie per bambini dagli 8-9 anni, in cui una ragazzina viaggia nel tempo e nello spazio e incontra vari scienziati, imparando direttamente da loro. La serie viene pubblicata in Turchia da una casa editrice di Istanbul; io poi me la autopubblico in italiano, inglese e tedesco. E poi vorrei tanto riuscire a scrivere la storia di Elsa Mon, una scrittrice di paranormal romance che mescola realtà e fantasia e vede creature soprannaturali.

11 – Consiglia uno dei tuoi libri.

A chi legge l’inglese posso consigliare l’antologia Radioactive Dreams, in cui ci sono altri dieci racconti oltre al mio AI Detective Services, di autrici e autori dell’area mediterranea (più o meno). La raccolta Star Maidens, che contiene il mio racconto Cut and Paste, purtroppo al momento è disponibile solo in Canada (ma tengo le dita incrociate perché dovrebbe presto essere disponibile anche in Europa, sempre in inglese). Contiene dieci racconti da altrettante autrici, tutte donne provenienti da diversi Paesi. Il Saltatempo invece è contenuto nella raccolta di “fantascienza apocalittica” Funesti presagi. 

  

The Easiest Job in the League

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

 The Easiest Job in the League

by Val Muller

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

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

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

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

More time to edit, she thought.

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

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

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

"I'm Claire, by the way," the woman said.

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

"That's the start!" Claire screamed.

Frantically, Jackie pushed the button on her stopwatch. The

first race was the little kids, just one lap. But they were slow. Thirty four seconds was just enough time to--

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

"Here she comes!" Claire called frantically. "Get ready!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Jackie!"

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

"It's too late," Claire said. Swim is a sport where a fraction of a second counts.

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

"You'll keep your mind on it," Jackie whispered to him, watching the way he swayed as he walked, capturing the beauty of it for her next great work.

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

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

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

 

 

A croaking disaster

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story that starts with “The stranger appeared…”

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 croaking disaster

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

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The stranger appeared. She was definitely one stranger, but she looked like several strangers at once, and none of them made sense.

 

Elsa Mon, the beloved paranormal romance author, had seen her fair share of oddities. She had written about goblin dentists, vampire bureaucrats, werewolves cursed by singing demons, horseshoe-obsessed centaurs, and even a particularly amorous ghost haunting the local radio station during late-night broadcasts, spooking the listeners with his ghostly cries (but convinced he was dedicating love songs to his beloved, a retired Tooth Fairy). But Elsa Mon was sure she had never encountered a stranger quite like this before. Mostly because she wasn’t sure what “this” was.

It had all started in a bookshop, where Elsa was perusing the mythology section, muttering to herself. “Used that one… dragons, check. Shapeshifters, overdone. Talking teapots, too much paperwork.” She sighed. “I may very well have exhausted every possible supernatural creature.”

“Not likely,” said a voice, close to her ear.

Elsa shrieked and turned, but no one was there. Only a small, decorative globe perched on a nearby display. The kind that people bought in bookshops to use as paperweights.

“Who’s… talking?” she said, hesitantly.

“You haven’t written about me yet,” the globe replied. Then, wobbling, it turned into a Victorian teacup equipped with a mustache-guard (a sensible accessory to prevent gentlemen’s mustaches from getting wet). For a Victorian teacup, this one looked rather smug.

“Goodness gracious!” Elsa shrieked, stumbling over a pile of romance books and knocking over an entire section dedicated to brooding dukes who didn’t wear shirts on book covers.

The teacup snickered. “Fallen for me already!”

Getting back up and straightening her pink cardigan, Elsa asked, “Who—or what—are you?”

The teacup became a fluffy teddy bear wearing a train driver’s hat. “I am a Stranger.”

“Stranger than what?”

“Exactly.”

Elsa rubbed her temples. “You’re giving me a headache and an idea at the same time, and I’m not sure which is worse.”

Inspiration won.

“Come with me,” she said. “We’re getting tea. And cake. Lots of cake.”

“Will there be jam?” the teddy bear inquired, now balancing on one chubby paw like an overenthusiastic ballerina.

“Sure. There will be jam,” Elsa confirmed. She grabbed the teddy bear and dashed out of the bookshop before it could turn into something hard to disguise. Like, I don’t know, a giant inflatable octopus or something.

Over tea and a prodigious amount of cake (the Stranger appeared to have a gargantuan stomach capacity no matter her form), Elsa asked all the questions she could think of on the nature of this creature unknown to her until now. In return, the Stranger grilled Elsa about why humans put umbrellas in drinks that were meant to be consumed indoors.

By the end of their tea break, Elsa had made a decision. “You’re going to be my next heroine.”

“I approve,” the Stranger said, now a spoon stirring her own tea. “Who shall be my suitor? A smoldering knight? A morally gray specter?”

“A Frog-Prince,” Elsa declared, her eyes twinkling.

The spoon stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s perfect! You both can change your shape. You’ll be a mismatched couple; it will be like identity crisis meets true love!” Elsa clapped her hands, thrilled by her own genius. “Oh, gods, I can’t wait to be home and start writing!”

The Stranger, now a very skeptical beaded necklace, sighed. “This will be a croaking disaster.”

Elsa nearly choked on her tea. “Oh, I am so putting that in the book.”

  

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/

 

The Stranger on the Beach

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story that starts with “The stranger appeared…” 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/

 

*****

The Stranger on the Beach

 by Phil Yeats

 

The stranger appeared on the beach beside the island’s only decent harbour. It was midwinter and several days of particularly harsh weather had closed it to all marine traffic. The fog lifted for a few moments. George, the village drunk, waiting on the harbour pier for the pub to open, noticed him.

He headed toward the village, and George followed. He only occasionally glimpsed sight of the stranger in the fog, but had no trouble following as the interloper cursed loudly as his hard-soled city-slicker shoes slipped and slid on the icy road.

They progressed through the village and up the road, turning onto the long drive to the island’s largest house. It belonged to a summer visitor. The fog thinned as they approached the house, so George stopped well back, hidden by a large tree. He watched the stranger unlock the door and let himself in. There was no way this young stranger was the homeowner, the old fart who spent his summers criticizing George’s depraved lifestyle. He checked his watch before hurrying away.

The pub would now be open, and he had a compelling story to tell. One that would surely keep him well-supplied with beer for the evening. George got his fill of beer, all paid for by others, and everyone else, their fill of skeptical speculations. Most focused on how someone could appear on their beach in such inclement weather.

The next evening, Charles Abercrombie visited the pub. He was the self-declared mayor of the island’s unincorporated village, but seldom entered the establishment.

“I’ve visited the stranger at the hill house,” he said. “His name is Daniel Smith. He has a letter of introduction. He’s here to do some repairs in the house before Mr. Wentworth arrives in the spring.” Charles turned and left the pub without engaging in conversation. He was a teetotaller and wanted out of such a den of iniquity before the patrons, led by George, insisted he buy a round.

Over the next weeks, strange things happened. Mrs. Weebly’s missing cat returned. He was thinner than when he disappeared ten days earlier, but that was a good thing. She overfed the poor beast and kept him cooped up inside her winterized cottage. One morning, the postman found old Mr. Dobson’s tumble-down front fence with a gate that wouldn’t close upright with a smoothly functioning gate. The Brown’s wayward daughter, who’d left home at seventeen ten years earlier, returned cradling a baby with a husband in tow. The raucous-sounding motor on George’s fishing boat suddenly sounded smooth as siIk. I could add more examples, but you get the idea.

The nightly conversation in the pub became increasingly animated, and the tone changed to a mixture of skepticism and wonder. All these positive events happened after the stranger arrived in the hill house. He remained in residence—lights went on and off in the evening and the early morning—but none other than George the drunk and Charles the mayor had seen him. Neither was a reliable witness. George would do anything for a free drink, and Charles, anything to puff up his feeling of self-importance. Was he real or an apparition?

Nothing was resolved until Mr. Wentworth arrived in the spring. He told the pub’s patrons he found no evidence of anyone living in his house over the winter and denied hiring anyone to work there. “But,” he added, “several problems I planned to tackle in the coming weeks have mysteriously righted themselves.” He bought a round for everyone in the crowded watering hole and joined the conversation. The skeptics were silenced. Wonderment ruled.

 

*****

 

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/