Elise Versus the HSA

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write something starting with “he or she started the new year with…”

This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her 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.

Cathy is continuing with more tales about the Grimes family.

 

***

 Elise Versus the HSA

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Elise started the new year with a formal complaint filed against her by the Home and School Association and a lifetime ban from the school bake sale.

She sat at her kitchen table, reading the text for the tenth time, while Randy (the raccoon) watched from the mantle with what she swore was smug approval.

“They banned me from baking,” she said to no one in particular, ignoring Randy. “Banned me! Do you believe it?”

“What’d you do?” Jimmy asked, wandering in for his tenth snack of the day.

“I made brownies no one liked—well, maybe they liked them too much.”

“Banned from making your delicious brownies?” Jimmy giggled, thinking, No wonder. Mom’s baking isn’t always the best.

“What are you giggling about? This isn’t funny. Not my fault your father’s gumdrops got into them.”

Jimmy froze, the bag of Doritos in his hand. “What? You put gummies in the brownies? Gross.”

“Not those kind of gumdrops. The pot ones.”

Jimmy stared. “Oh, gottcha. You mean you got everyone high? That’s hilarious. Maybe you made everyone in this town happy. Well, the ones who bought them.” Hmm, he thought. The eaters wouldn’t have noticed how horrible they tasted, not with pot in them.

It had been an honest mistake. She had been making two batches of brownies simultaneously—regular ones for the bake sale and special ones for Bob. The pot gummy brownies were in one container, the regular brownies in another. Apparently, in her pre-caffeine, early morning haze, she’d grabbed the wrong container when rushing out of the house.

“Did anyone die?” Jimmy asked.

“I don’t think so. It was a week ago. I don’t check the obits every day, you know.”

Jimmy munched on a chip. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it then.”

“But they found out. How did they find out it was me?”

Jimmy eyed his mother. “Perhaps because they all bought your brownies and they all got hallucinations?”

“I suppose. But—”

“I think it’s pretty funny. I’ll never tell anyone.”

“But why would you tell anyone?” She glared at her son. “Never mind. Everyone knows now. Probably that Nosey Nellie that everyone hates.”

Bob entered the room at that moment. “What’s this about a nosey person?”

“Someone told on me, Bob. Tattled. Without proof!”

“Said what, Elise?”

“That I drugged people.”

“Drugged? What the…?”

“I drugged the Home and School Association. And anyone else who ate my brownies.”

“What! My brownies? What have I been eating all week?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“No wonder my back still hurts!” Bob muttered.

Elise pondered. To heck with Bob and his fake issues. The real problem wasn’t the accidental drugging—though that was bad. The real problem was that no one liked her. And she wasn’t sure why. “Stuck-Ups and Suck-Ups,” she mumbled.

Jimmy pointed at his mother before leaving the room, secretly happy he wasn’t the one in trouble. “Your fault for a change.”

“They’ve called a meeting for tomorrow night,” Elise announced. “I guess I gotta go. Defend myself. Explain again that it was an accident.”

“I’ll go with you if you want, Elise,” Bob said. “I’ll stand up for you.”

“That’s all I need,” she whispered. In a louder voice: “No, that’s nice of you, Bob. But I gotta fight my own battles. This one’s on me for a change.”

 

***

 

The next night, Elise dressed in one of her nicer track suits. Not that she ran marathons—or even ran anywhere (except from Bob when he became too randy, which made her think of Randy the Racoon, sitting high on the shelf), but she liked to be comfy.

She walked into the gymnasium where the meeting was to be held and faced a dozen members of the Home and School Association, regretting she’d had the decency to show up. She pulled back her shoulders, stood as ram-rod straight as she could, eager to defend herself.

“I’m sorry, guys. It was a total honest error. Bob sometimes has gummies around for his bad back. He’s in so much pain that the doctor okayed the purchase. I made two batches of brownies, one for Bob, one for the bake sale. Thought I had grabbed the right container, but I—”

“That’s the thing, Elise. Sometimes you don’t think.”

Someone else piped up: “This might not be the place for you.”

Another individual: “Perhaps you should resign.”

And: “You don’t contribute much of value.”

Then: “You don’t follow rules. You don’t even TRY to fit in.”

Elise stood, knocking over the chair she’d plonked onto. She’d planned to be diplomatic. She’d planned to apologize and leave quietly.

But she was so tired of Gloria and her rules and her judgement and her suffocating need for everyone to perform perfectly.

“You’re right,” Elise said. “I don’t try to fit in. Because this isn’t junior high. We’re adults. And I’m not going to pretend to give a damn about whatever new performance of perfection you’re all competing in this week.”

“How dare you—”

“I’m not done. I made a mistake with the brownies. A real, genuine mistake. And I’ve apologized. But you don’t actually care about that. You care that I don’t worship at the altar of your dictatorship. Well, guess what? I don’t. And banning me from bake sales? Go ahead. I hate baking anyway.”

Elise grabbed her purse. “You know what Jimmy’s favourite lunch is? A ham sandwich and Doritos. Not organic. Not locally sourced. Just processed meat and MSG. And he’s fine. He’s a good kid. So maybe spend less time policing and more time wondering why you need everyone to be as miserable as you are.”

She raced out of the school. The parking lot was dark and quiet.

Elise sat in her car, shaking. Had she made everything worse?

Her phone buzzed. A text from a number she didn’t recognize: That was amazing.

Then another: About time someone said it.

Then another: Nosey Nellie had it coming.

Elise laughed, then cried, then laughed again. But she wasn’t going back. Volunteering wasn’t for her. She much preferred being a homebody.

When she got home, Bob had pizza waiting. He opened a bottle of wine and poured her a large glass.

“What’s all this?”

“Figured you might need something special.”

“So unlike you, Bob.”

“Yeah, don’t be mad, but I went to the school. Listened from the hall. Proud of you, Elise. We don’t need them. Jimmy’ll be graduating soon, so who cares!”

They ate pizza and drank. Wine for Elise, beer for Bob, pop for Jimmy. They toasted to Elise’s quitting the organization.

Randy Racoon watched from the mantle, sunglasses glinting in the kitchen light, always watching.

Elise eyed the racoon. He reminded her of Sprite of the Night from Christmases past. Who put Randy there anyhow?

 

***

 

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/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Presentazione libro

Il 14 febbraio presenterò il libro

"Felice come una rana in uno stagno"

presso la libreria Metis Books & Café a Berlino. 

Con me ci sarà Cristina Ferretti, psico-pedagogista. L'incontro è pensato sia per genitori e insegnanti, sia per i bambini, primi destinatari della storia di Marzio, piccolo marziano in una classe di terrestri. 

Il libro, scritto da me insieme ad Alessandra Buschi e Roberta Martinetti, è stato pubblicato nel 2025 da Chiaredizioni ed è disponibile per l'acquisto in libreria o sugli store online.

Perfect

Welcome to the Spot Writers! This month’s prompt is “He (she/they) started the new year with…” Today’s prompt comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

Perfect

by Val Muller

She started the new year with a pen in hand. Perfection was the enemy of progress. She’d read so many variations of that quote lately, it was like the universe was talking directly to her.

The blank page in her new sketchbook stared back at her. Yes, a sketchbook instead of a journal. There would be no lines, no rules. Just progress.

She wrote a sentence, a line that struck her. It had been with her for a few months now, coming and going, and with it a vague idea for a new story. For now, it was just a line. She’d read that a single line is how J. R. R. Tolkien started his masterpiece The Hobbit. Just a line.

And look where that led him.

She didn’t know what to write next, so she copied the line over again, in cursive this time. Then again in a bubbly font. The letters looked perfect.

No.

How did Tolkien go from a single line to an epic adventure? Certainly not by copying a sentence. An illustration, perhaps.

The line had to do with flight. What could she draw? Something about freedom. A cloud. Pathetic. What else? How do you draw blue sky? How to draw freedom?

All the familiar fears came. The internal and eternal editor, her own worst critic. How could she silence it?

This is how the past year had gone—the start of something, then that something killed by an internal editor. This could not go on. She was going to draw a bird. It was decided. It was going to be the worst bird she ever drew, but it would help her. A bird was like freedom, right? She just didn’t know where to start. The body? The wing? She almost reached for her phone, for a tutorial to show her how to do it the right way.

But no.

This year was about imperfection.

Just draw.

She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Drew the arc of the wing. Felt its body curve as she drew blindly on the page. She thought about the story arc, the character’s drive to be free. The story flowed into her subconscious as she tried to feel her way back from the body to the second wing.

She opened her eyes.

It was the worst drawing of a bird she had ever seen.

And it was perfect.

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.ca/ 

 

The Edge of the Galaxy: A Christmas Story

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about anything to do with Christmas.

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.

 

 The Edge of the Galaxy: A Christmas Story

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

Created with Canva

The Space Station at the edge of the Galaxy held its course, eternal and silent. The technological upgrades that Commander Punzel had implemented over the centuries, both on the Station and on herself, were the reason she was still alive. Over time, they had become her only reason to live.

They had intended to condemn her to a solitary existence at the fringes of the Galaxy, but Punzel had turned that sentence into a victory. Centuries later, those who had signed her exile were long dead; their successors still tried, at regular intervals, to take back control of the Station and its technological secrets, and to capture the commander, now more cyborg than human. They tried. Without success.

No one, after all, knew about the immense source of energy lying just beyond the borders of the Galaxy. No one but Punzel. It was thanks to that energy that neither she nor the Station ever powered down.

Ping.

An automatic notification blinked on the Commander’s visor.

“Christmas is happening on Earth.”

“Christmas…” Punzel whispered.

As her cybernetic parts gradually replaced her organic ones, Punzel had realized she had lost the ability to dream. Feeling emotions had become increasingly difficult, until she understood that, just as time for her was no longer measured in days but in events, her memories had become nothing more than dry lists of people, objects, and exchanges.

So she had rolled up her sleeves and created SEELE, a Memory Database linked to an Empathic Artificial Intelligence.

A quick glance at the console: all systems stable. The perfect moment to tap into a memory. Punzel connected to SEELE and ordered: “Christmas, childhood, Earth.”

“Connection initiated,” buzzed the AI.

 

A fire burned in the hearth, a Christmas tree decorated with shining baubles and twinkling lights, colorful packages tied with tidy bows at its base. A soft blue shawl draped over her shoulders. Outside the window, snow fell in gentle flakes. The notes of Vivaldi’s Winter floated from the record player, and the scent of hot chocolate filled her nose.

 

Punzel closed her eyes. She felt the warmth of the fire on her cheeks, and then, just after, her father’s voice from the doorway, carried on a chill breeze.

 

She leapt off the couch. Her feet, wrapped in thick red socks, pounded the wooden floor.

“Papa! Papa!”

He scooped her up, spun her in the air, and then held her close. His strong hands supported her, his beard pricking her skin. The smell of his heavy leather jacket mixed with the scent of snow and, in the background, motor oil. Her father worked in the Air Force. He was a skilled engineer and held the rank of general. He had returned from a mission in space, away for what felt like forever. For a moment, Punzel had thought he would never come back.

“I was near the edge of the Galaxy, you know,” he said as they ate knödel and sauerkraut.

Then he smiled, as if speaking of a simple stroll, and added: “There’s no emptiness out there. Only something waiting to be understood.”

Punzel didn’t much like the sauerkraut: it was slightly bitter, slightly sharp, prickling her tongue. But then the presents would be opened, and there was no time to linger over food.

 

“My gift,” Commander Punzel whispered.

She remembered it, but she couldn’t feel it anymore. Not without SEELE’s intervention.

 

The ribbon came undone almost on its own, and Punzel lifted the lid of the box. She was kneeling on the floor, the warmth of the hearth on her back; her father and mother were beside her, present like a silent embrace, their eyes shining with anticipation and affection.

Inside was a model kit of a Space Station. Punzel studied the picture on the box and felt a twinge of disappointment. It wasn’t what she had asked for. And she was just a little kid… how would she ever assemble it? On the box it said: 2,500 pieces.

Without a word, she lifted her eyes to her father, already a little defeated. He smiled at her.

“If you understand how it works, it will never be able to scare you,” he said.

Punzel lowered her eyes back to the box. Of course. What was there to be afraid of? Two thousand five hundred tiny plastic pieces? She laughed.

Her mother opened her gift: a coat like they used in the Kepler Star System, with embedded fiber optics. She hugged it around herself and laughed. A full, bright laugh. She was happy.

Punzel felt that happiness wash through her and realized that, in the end, anything could have been in the box, and she would have been happy all the same. Her family, that tiny microcosm in the living room, in front of the hearth and the Christmas tree, with Vivaldi filling the air, was everything her heart could have wished for.

 

Centuries later, Commander Punzel smiled and opened her eyes aboard the Space Station at the edge of the Galaxy. She was still emerging from the memory, that almost felt like a dream, when a notification blinked on her visor.

“Three vessels approaching. No identification codes.”

A quick wave of her hand, and the main display flared to life. Three small ships, patched and asymmetrical, moving in tight formation. Too small for a government fleet. Too deliberate to be debris.

"Enhance," she commanded.

The image sharpened, isolating the hull of the lead vessel. A symbol emerged from the noise: crude, hand-painted, unmistakable. A skull. Two crossed bones.

Punzel’s breath caught. “I know that symbol!”

“It appears repeatedly in your Memory Database,” SEELE noted. “Associated with childhood. With defiance. With redistribution.”

“They’re pirates.”

Punzel smiled. Not in anticipation of danger, but of possibility. Of something unplanned. Of emotions she had not felt in centuries.

“There is no emptiness in their trajectory,” the AI said. “Only intent that has not yet been defined.”

“Then,” she murmured, “I suppose I’ll unwrap it. And... merry Christmas."

 

 

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/

Christmas magic?

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about anything to do with Christmas. This week’s story 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, The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, and his latest, a novella titled Starting Over Again: A Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/.

 

Christmas magic?

by Phil Yeats

 

He shuffled into his neighbour’s living room, giving the brightly lit tree and the other guests a wide berth. He found a chair in a remote corner and settled down with the one glass of eggnog he’d permitted himself. In less than an hour, he’d slink to the door and into the cold winter night for the walk down the street to the tiny house he and his wife had chosen as their retirement home after their daughter left home.

Now, three years after his wife died, he rattled around the place alone. He seldom interacted with his neighbours beyond the perfunctory ‘hello, how are you’. He wondered why he’d accepted the invitation to the neighbourhood Christmas party. It was too late to revisit that decision, so here he was watching the goings-on while trying to blank out the cacophony of voices echoing off the living room walls.

He was sipping his eggnog—it had the perfect amount of rum in it to dispel the overwhelming sweetness of the raw beverage—when someone stopped beside his armchair.

“Mind if I perch here for a few minutes?” she said.

He suspected she’d asked her question several times before it penetrated the personal firewall he’d erected to protect himself from unwanted noise. He jumped up and offered her his seat.

The woman, who looked like she couldn’t be more that ten years younger than his 53 years, laughed. “Not trying to steal your seat. The arm will be just fine.”

“Don’t think I’ll be good company, but if you want a place to perch, you’re welcome to it.”

She sipped her eggnog quietly for several minutes. When he finished his, she gulped the last of hers and asked, “Can I get you another?”

He held out his glass. “I wouldn’t mind another adulterated one if you’re going.”

She returned and passed him his refilled glass. “My name’s Lizzy, and I know yours is Glen. My daughter and I have been house-sitting Bev Carstairs’ place for the past two months, and we have another month to go.”

When she sipped her drink, he said, “Must be nice to go away for three months during the winter. They have a dog, don’t they? You looking after it?”

“Yorkie. Little guy’s not much trouble, and Jenn, my daughter, really likes him. But the reason I’m telling you this is that we’ll be looking for a new home in a month. Diane, our hostess, tells me you have an unoccupied apartment.”

“I do, but it needs work. My latest tenants were a disaster. Parties two or three times a week. They skipped out at the end of last month, owing me a month’s rent. When I got inside, I found holes punched in the walls, broken furniture—an awful mess.”

“Wow! Can’t the university’s housing agency do something?”

“Tried. Turns out they registered. I checked that before I rented to them, but they didn’t pay the second installment of their fees due on October first. The university disowned them, and they’ve apparently left town, but of course they didn’t tell me.”

“Well, I’m not a student. I’ve lived here all my life. I have a job, but I’m not making a huge amount of money because I’m working reduced hours so I can be home for Jenn as much as possible. This is a great neighbourhood, and we’d like to be living near here when she starts school in September.”

He took a notebook from his pocket, tore out a page and wrote his email address on it. He handed it to her. “Pick a time and day that’s convenient for you, and you can come have a look at the place. See if it suits you.”

“What about now? I could collect Jenn and we could go over right now.”

“She’s here?”

“Yeah. Several parents brought their kids. They’re in the lower-level rooms, where Diana’s daughter runs a daycare.”

“Okay, but it might be better to see the place in the daytime. It’s much nicer in the daylight.”

Glen downed the last of his second eggnog while Lizzy collected Jenn. Then they got their hats, gloves and boots and headed past five intervening houses to his. Along the way, he wondered how he got into this mess. He’d promised himself one drink and forty-five minutes at the party. He’d been there for over an hour and two drinks. Not only that, but he was escorting prospective tenants to view the apartment he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to rent again.

***

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/

 

Doorknocker

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about anything to do with Christmas.
This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her 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

Lately, she’s been continuing with new Grimes tales. Since today is Christmas Day—of course, it’s a Christmas story. And it has to be about the Grimes. Is it a sweet one? Read on to find out...

***

Doorknocker

by Cathy MacKenzie

Bob presents Elise with a doorknocker for a Christmas gift that he installs on Christmas Day... Elise thought it was such a lovely gesture from her husband: a beautifully wrapped gift on Christmas morning. That was a first for him. Despite her numerous beautifully wrapped gifts for him—her dear, sweet hubbie—she hadn’t received one gift from him in years. In fact, too many years to count, so she gave up trying to keep track.

She accepted the gift with gratitude. And love, of course. Always love behind a gift.

However, she’d been dumbstruck seeing a doorknocker at the bottom of the too-large box. And not even covered with tissue paper! Just there: bold and gold. Ha, she thought. Fake gold, of course. Did anyone ever have a solid gold doorknocker? Only the rich. And she and Bob weren’t rich—not in gold or love. Well, there was a minutiae of love, but not the earth-shattering lovingness she wished she had. Despite that, she was “reasonably” happy with her life. Not much else she could do, not after reciting: for richer, for poorer; in sickness, in health. Or whatever the correct words were.

Her mother had raised her well, and she remembered her manners. “Thank you, Bob. How sweet.”

“I thought it appropriate, Elise. Especially after last Christmas.”

Appropriate? After that weird kid arrived on their doorstep, claiming to be Bob’s long-lost son, the hopeful half-brother of their legitimate son, Jimmy? And to call himself “James”? What fake kin would name himself after a living kin? She found that to be more than presumptuous. Which brought her back to the more-than-strange doorknocker gift, which would, if installed, be a constant reminder of that Christmas she wanted more than anything to forget. But—it was installed. Bob insisted. And now she had to endure that pain, that constant reminder of that interloper, every time she entered her house. She could enter through the back door, but who wanted to make the long trek around to a backyard, especially at night? No, not her.

“Oh, Bob, do we have to put it up now?” she’d asked, thinking if she put him off for a few hours that he’d forget about it.

“I don’t wanna forget, Elise.” He smiled. “You know how forgetful I can be.” He grinned and added, “Well, only a couple of times, eh?”

“Yes, right, Bob. Don’t want to forget.”

And so that was their Christmas afternoon: installing the gaudy gold doorknocker, which was an unnecessary item since they had a working buzzer on the siding to the left of the door, and who would hear that faint click of metal upon metal inside the house? With Bob’s limited skills, it was, indeed, an afternoon’s work. Three hours and eleven minutes, to be exact. A job, Elise figured, that would’ve taken a “normal” person ten minutes. Heck, she could’ve put it up in half the time that Bob wasted.

At the end of the three hours and eleven minutes, Bob was so pleased with himself that she dared not say a word. She pursed her lips, bit her tongue—anything to keep her lips zipped. That evening, after Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, she managed to get Bob and Jimmy (the Real Jimmy, not the Imposter James) pinned down long enough to begin work on the puzzle that someone—or something—had dropped off on their doorstep late on Christmas Eve or early Christmas morning before the household had awakened.

They’d gone to bed at nine, and no one had heard anything. But there it was on Christmas morning: a wrapped package. When Jimmy discovered it, shortly before breakfast, he insisted upon checking around the yard, hopeful that Santa had tumbled off the roof with his bag of presents that would’ve scattered around the yard. Hopeful, too, that Santa hadn’t suffered any ill effects from a fall, all the while hoping the fat man in red might have missed picking up a few packages. But, no, the only gift had been the one on their doorstep.

Okay, Elise thought, at her son’s silly notion that Santa had toppled off the roof with his deliveries. Let the stupid kid believe what he thought. Within seconds, she reconsidered her words. Her kid wasn’t stupid. Just a tad—hmm, the appropriate word wouldn’t come to her at that moment. But it would later.

When they sat at the dining room table to work on the puzzle, Bob and Jimmy agreed that Santa had had a minor mishap and that the Grimes were the lucky beneficiaries. The three of them dug into the puzzle as if it were a multi-layered chocolate cake with four inches of chocolate icing across the top and sides. And a fine evening they were enjoying. All except Elise, however. She wondered about the doorknocker. Was it a harbinger of events to happen? Would that James yank on the handle and slam it down, gold-covered metal to gold-covered metal, and interfere with their game? She was grateful he hadn’t interrupted their dinner. She should be thankful for small miracles.

But she wished she could’ve enjoyed the puzzle more without that seed of doubt planted in her head. But who’d planted it? She sighed. She did, of course. Bob hadn’t brought up James. Neither had Jimmy. Both had been adamant the previous year that they didn’t want to see that guy ever again. Still... She fretted.

Elise was thankful when nine o’clock rolled around and they could scamper off to bed. Yes, it was still Christmas Day, but it had been a hard day, and she was happy when her head hit the pillow. But then—then she dreamt. And it was bad. All about James, who’d doorknocked at one minute to midnight, awaking them all from deep sleeps, with a joyous shout: MERRY CHRISTMAS! MERRY CHRISTMAS TO THE GRIMES! AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!

She awoke sweating and looked at the clock, happy to see it displayed 12:06 a.m. Just a horrible, bad dream, she thought. Just a horrid dream. Christmas Day was over; no more merry Christmases until next year. She smiled and lay back on the pillow.

And then— What? What was that? The doorknocker?

She glanced over at Bob, who emitted an obnoxiously loud, grating snore. She groaned and rolled over, pulling the linens over her head to drown out unwanted noise.

***

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.ca/

The Week Before Christmas for Mrs. Smith, a Frazzled Chemistry Teacher

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write something about Christmas. 

Today’s tale comes to us from a frazzled teacher not of chemistry, who is a day late posting this due to all the holly, jolly merriment happening at school. If you know a teacher, treat them kindly this week!

The Week Before Christmas for Mrs. Smith, a Frazzled Chemistry Teacher

by Val Muller

In the week before Christmas,

The teachers were frazzled:

The students were restless,

Expecting to be dazzled

By fun holiday lessons

And fun holiday snacks,

Not pestered by essays

And quizzes and facts.

But Mrs. Smith taught chem,

And they had an exam

That would take the whole class–

That was her plan.

Holly and jolly

Were not quite her drift,

And all that sugary spirit

Left her a bit miffed.

Holiday dress-up days

Demanding her brain–

Hopes of organization

Flushed down the drain

With last-minute gifts

For her own kids’ teachers,

Then dashing to pep rallies

To monitor the bleachers.

They made it through Monday,

And all that entailed,

Made it to Tuesday,

And then even sailed

To Wednesday, bemused,

But their red and green used

By Thursday, when the hue

Turned to holiday blues.

By Friday the piles of laundry were tall,

The whole family went through red, green, and all

Of the Santa hats, reindeer socks, jingles bells, too–

And what could this poor frazzled teacher do?

It was PJ day, but what could she wear?

She looked in the mirror and said,

“Frankly, I don’t care!”

Her Grinch shirt was stained

With some sauce from her toddler–

Her green pants were missing,

So why even bother?

As she looked out the window

And saw it was pouring,

The toddler was angry,

The boy was still snoring.

How would she make it this morning,

She wondered,

Without losing her temper

Or causing a blunder?

At first she put on

A pair of black Christmas PJs,

But she just couldn’t see wearing them

Throughout the entire day.

So she went back upstairs,

Put a finger on her nose,

And said, “not today, Satan, because, I suppose–

Today is the day I’ll wear just what I want,”

And just like the Grinch in reverse,

Her heart shrunk.

She put away red socks, her green socks, her hats–

She brought out the blue jeans and a black hoodie and laughed.

There was the happiness that had been missing all week,

The true Christmas spirit when things had looked bleak.

As she pulled her comfy dark hoodie around tight,

She said, “Happy break to all! My break starts tonight!”

Then she headed to school with a mischievous grin

And couldn’t wait for her chemistry test to begin.

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/