Howl

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month's prompt is "Halloween with a twist." Today's tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

 

Howl

by Val Muller

 

The sun rose in rays cutting through the mist. Randy shook his fur and adjusted his shirt. It was finally here--Halloween. Tonight was his night to prove himself, to terrify small children and howl at the moon, to rustle through bushes and leaves, to claw at doorways.

If he did all that, maybe his dad would finally get off his case.

The werewolf academy was awarding only three red shirts this holiday, making the high award an elite honor most likely out of Randy's league but definitely on his dad's radar.

"You know, there's nothing wrong with being a blue shirt," Randy said at dinner just last week. He had been assigned to terrify a young brother and sister walking their dog after dark, but he really didn't see the need to do such things. Besides, dogs were a little intimidating.

"No werewolf aspires to be a blue shirt." His dad tore a piece of raw meat off the bone, letting the remnants clatter to his plate with a splat while he chewed. Then he rubbed his claws along his size XL red flannel shirt, still emblazoned with the werewolf academy patch and the year he earned it.

"Dad, it's not the seventies anymore. Not everyone needs a red shirt. And even if I stay a green shirt, I--"

His dad growled at the very idea of Randy staying a green shirt. The wereboy lowered his head and munched on a piece of broccoli.

"Dang it, Randy, I've told you how many times. You have to eat your meat first. You think I'm gonna let you fill up on vegetables?"

Randy sighed. The whole week, dad had been like this. Criticizing his diet. Saying his teeth weren't sharp enough, his fur not matted enough.

"You know, Matthew got groomed this weekend," Randy had said. "All the kids at school seem to think his haircut looks nice and--" That set off Dad, of course. Next thing Randy knew, they were at the local dump finding musty discards to roll in.

"No son of mine is getting groomed, and certainly not this close to Halloween."

Since then, they had hunted, clawed, lingered, and howled. But Randy still hadn't found that drive, that urge to scare.

Now, Halloween morning, Randy was determined to put the issue to rest. If he could only just terrify someone, maybe instill in them some indigestion or the need for anti-anxiety meds, maybe that would be enough for Dad.

Randy headed out of their foresty shed in search of victims. The first victim was a woman walking her dog. It was a little one, a chihuahua. But you know what they say about little dogs. Randy chose to stay on the opposite side of the street. He threw the woman a creepy look. Alright, it was more like a sideways smile, but still. Dad couldn't say he didn't try.

The woman gave a half wave and a sympathetic smile. "I like your costume," she said. "Very scary."

The way she said "scary," Randy could tell she really didn't think so.

Randy continued walking toward the town. Surely someone would be frightened. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his green flannel shirt to add that extra little look of dishevelment.

Soon, screeching tires and backup lights. "No. Way." A voice called. Randy caught up to the truck that had stopped on the side of the road. The guy at the wheel looked pretty frantic. Maybe he would make an easy victim.

"Dude," he said. "You look just like Freddy."

"Freddy?"

"Yeah. He was our last werewolf. Something came up, though, and he can't play the role tonight. We don't have any spare actors, and I've been racking my brain all morning. Want to make an easy couple of hundred bucks?"

"Hundred bucks?" Randy approached the car.

The man nodded. "I mean, your costume looks so good, it could be real." He reached out and tugged Randy's facial fur. "That's some beard!"

"You're not scared of me?"

The man laughed. "I run a haunted woods attraction for a living. I'm not scared, but I know hundreds of people who will be."

Randy howled. "Sign me up."

 * * *

 The early November sun gently lit the morning fog. Randy crunched on a celery stalk while Dad ate some marrow out of a freshly cracked deer bone.

Between bites, he looked at Randy and smiled. "So proud of you for earning the scariest character award at that haunted woods place you went to."

"You're not mad I only earned a blue shirt from the academy?" Randy smiled, hoping the whole red shirt thing was behind him.

Dad let out a playful growl. "You only earned a blue shirt for now. There's always next year."

Randy looked down at his "scariest character" medal and the way it gleamed in the sun. His chest swelled with pride, which he released in a long, eerie howl that even made his own skin crawl as his mind wandered to next Halloween.

 

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://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/

History Class

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is: you are home alone watching TV. The phone rings. 

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. 

 

History Class

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

created with Canva

I was home alone watching TV when the phone rang.

A perfectly normal sentence if you were born in the twentieth century. But I was born in the thirtieth, and had no idea what a TV was, or a phone. As for the home… it was above ground, but not in space.

 ***

I was not prepared for such a jump back in time; I would have searched for information about that era if I’d wanted to travel so many centuries into the past. I must have made a mistake in setting the destination in the time machine. I intended to go to 2987, as a matter of fact. Not 1987. But there I was, apparently inhabiting the body of my 15-year-old ancestor of the time. My first instinct was to immediately activate the return mode and go back to my time. But curiosity got the better of me. Everything looked so strange!

I was wearing a bizarre piece of clothing that reminded me of those worn by primitives in historical depictions and covered me from the shoulders to mid-leg but left my arms exposed. The material was likely cotton, in its original form before the genetic alterations of later centuries, when most plants had to be resynthesized. Ha! I recalled something from my studies, after all, no matter what my team-mates—and my teachers—said.

Thrilled by the realization that I might actually know something about human societies that lived a thousand years before my birth, I focused and tried to remember other details. They lived in houses, that is, artificial constructions above ground but not in space. I was inside one—and I was intrigued—but what I really wanted was to see one from the outside. I was curious to see how they looked like. How could I get outside, though? There were holes in the walls, but when I looked down I became so dizzy that I dropped to the floor for fear of falling. We were too high up! Wasn’t that dangerous? I mean. Space residences are much higher up, but they’re safe, there’s no possibility of falling out. As for underground dwellings, well. You’re already underground, where could you fall? And what were they thinking, putting holes in the outer walls? Madness. Unless… Maybe they had some device that helped them float gently to the ground.

I kept looking around. The house was full of objects I could not imagine the use of. A black box with a weird shape caught my attention. I accidentally stepped on something, and the black box came to life.

I froze for a moment, thinking someone had suddenly appeared in the middle of the room. I knew they didn’t have time travel back in the twentieth century, but maybe they used teleportation? I could not remember this from my history classes. But then I realized the people were inside the black box. Fascinating! That must have been the one-thousand-year-ago version of our fun-fiction.

I was watching the screen, completely mesmerised, when I heard a ringing sound. And another. And another. I started to look around to identify the source of that sound. I noticed a small object with the most peculiar shape and I approached it. The sound was louder there. Warily, I touched it. A piece of the object broke loose, and I heard a voice come out of it.

“Hello? Hello-oh?”

“Uhm… Hello?” I said.

“I am the headmaster of ‘Tweedledum and Tweedledee High School’. I called to inform you that your daughter has skipped several hours and I wish to know whether you are aware of this and if there is a good reason.”

“Skipped hours? Could it be that there’s something wrong with the subatomic direct exchange in her tripper?”

“What? I mean history classes! And math. She has good grades, but if she does not show up, she will be failed. Rules are rules.”

“Sure. Rules are rules. No doubt about that.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement. Will you talk to her?”

“Of course!”

“Very well. I wish you a nice day.”

“Thank you!”

The voice disappeared. After a few attempts, I managed to reposition the detached piece. A moment later, the thing rang again.

“Hello?” a different voice than the previous one said when I picked up the removable part.

“Hello?” I said. I was starting to feel more confident in this strange, alien world.

“Hello and good morning, Madame! I want to tell you about this week’s fantastic deal! By purchasing the entire encyclopaedia collection today—”

“Encyclop—What is that?” I remembered that there used to be weapons in the olden days, and I suddenly felt afraid. “Are you offering me a collection of… weapons?” The very word felt dangerous on my lips.

“Ha ha! Good one! But wait. The encyclopaedia is indeed a weapon. A weapon against… ignorance! And it sounds like you could use one, ha ha ha!”

“Is that a threat?” I was starting to sweat. Maybe I should just…

I repositioned the mobile part in its seat and the voice went quiet. When the thing started to ring again, I ignored it. This was not the adventure I had envisioned when I had activated the time machine to go to my favourite hang-out place in 2987—ending up one thousand years earlier by mistake—instead of turning on my history lesson of the day… Wait. That’s what the headmaster was talking about! This made me laugh: my ancestor skipped her history classes and, one thousand years later, I did the same.

At that moment a large hole opened in the wall and a woman walked through it.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a frown as soon as she spotted me. “Have you skipped school again?”

“I…”

The coincidence was remarkable. Apparently, my ancestor and I had woken up with the same idea that day.

“Answer me, young lady!”

Oh, well. I certainly didn’t want to receive the scolding reserved for my ancestor. I activated the return mode and a moment later I was back at home.

“What are you doing here?”

For a moment I thought the return mode had failed, but then I realised it was my own mother who had asked the question. Uh-oh.

“Have you turned down your classes again? What was it, this time? History again? Answer me, young lady!”

 

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/

 

 

 

 

 

Kevin’s Story: Part Two

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is: you are home alone watching TV. The phone rings. Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.

In April, 2024, he 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/

 

Kevin’s Story: Part Two

by Phil Yeats

 

On the day before the start of my annual summer vacation, I looked back on the past two years with conflicting feelings of true accomplishment and deep sadness.

Many factors, including the writing group I’d joined three years earlier and a little girl, Madelyn King, helped propel me from my life as a skilled technologist to a more well-rounded scientist with greater responsibilities in the hospital’s pathology laboratory. I now had a nine-to-five job monitoring the quality of the results produced by the three shifts in the path lab and investigating any deterioration in laboratory performance. I had a subordinate, a technologist who worked on improving laboratory procedures, and this summer, a math and computer science student who was updating our approach to laboratory quality management.

My sadness developed from the days two and a half years earlier, when circumstances placed Maddy in my care. We had two delightful days celebrating Christmas together before the city’s social workers took her under their wings. My frustration and sadness grew when the ‘system’ refused to allow me any contact with the lonely little girl. I couldn’t even send her presents at Christmas or on her birthday.

Her tear-filled wail when they took her away tormented my dreams. ‘But I like it here with Kevin, and Mummy will know where to find me. This was the best Christmas ever,’ were words seared into my brain.

That evening at the start of my summer vacation, I was watching some mindless drivel on the TV when my phone’s ringtone brought me back to the here and now.

A breathless childish voice exclaimed, “Yo, Kevin, the door’s locked. You have to let me in.”

She didn’t identify herself, but I knew at once the caller was Maddy. And if she was outside the front door of the old house that contained my apartment, she must have run away from her foster home or wherever else she may have been living.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I yelled as I shoved my feet into my shoes and rushed out my door, down the hall, and then the stairs to the front door. She slid inside and dropped a small but bulging backpack to the floor.

I pointed at a device on her wrist. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, isn’t it cool,” she said as she scampered up the stairs. As far as I knew, she hadn’t been in the building for two and a half years, but she knew the way. I picked up her pack and followed. She turned at the top. “The nice police lady gave it to me. Said I was only supposed to use it in a ’mergency.”

“So, this is an emergency,” I said after we entered my apartment?

“Two bad guys arrived at the front door and started arguing with my latest foster parents. When they said my name, I ran.”

“What then?”

“I grabbed the special backpack the police lady gave me, shoved in my favourite dolly, and ran out the back door.”

“Did you phone the nice police lady?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t answer, so I came here?”

“Okay, let’s try calling her again.”

She fiddled with her phone for a few seconds and touched the screen. We could hear the ring tone and then Constable Meadows’ voice. “Hi Maddy, what’s up?”

“Bad guys were after me, so I ran away?”

“Where are you now?”

“Kevin’s.”

“Good girl. You did the right thing. I’ll phone Kevin and we can sort this out.”

Seconds later, my phone chirped, and we sorted things out. The solution for Maddy and I was a two-week vacation at the seaside, with safe accommodation paid for by the police. Not what I planned for my two weeks off, but getting away from the city with my favourite ‘niece’ and free accommodation was something I could handle.

Around ten, when Madelyn was safely tucked away in the bedroom of the little guest cottage they reserved for us for our first night about two hours from the city, Constable Meadows tapped on our door. Inside, she slumped into an armchair. She looked like she’d been up for hours and through a wringer.

“Everything’s sorted,” she said. “I’m sure you got away unnoticed, but just in case, two constables from the RCMP will keep watch overnight and make sure no one follows you in the morning. Maddy’s mother was a key informant for a sting of a drug smuggling gang that went down today. It was going like clockwork until we realized someone had leaked the identity of Maddy and her mother to the gang.”

“Do you know who?” I asked.

“We suspect someone in Social Services. That’s why I was so relieved when she contacted you rather than Social Services.”

“But her phone only has your number, my number, and the one for her foster parents.”

“Perceptive bugger, aren’t you? That’s why my boss, the inscrutable Detective Twist, had it in for you.”

“Water under the bridge. What happens next? We need someone, you, to look after Madelyn for the next two weeks while we generate a longer-term solution and sort out the leak in Social Services.”

“And her mother?”

“Back in rehab with our support. If all goes well, we can get Maddy and her mother reunited in the next few months.”

She sighed as she stood and headed for the door. “Back to the fray. We must find the leak and tie up the loose ends in our case against the smugglers. Have a good vacation, and please, do what you can for Maddy. She’s a spunky little kid who deserves a better chance.”

Not so little, I thought as I closed the door behind Constable Meadows, but a resourceful nine-year-old who deserves any help we can give her.

 

*****

 

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/

 

Haiku

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to use this prompt: “You are home alone watching TV. The phone rings.”

This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Alas, she FORGOT! In a pinch and a bind, she penned a Haiku (short and hopefully sweet—not that Haikus are THAT easy to write!).

Cathy’s writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She writes all genres but invariably veers toward the dark—so much so her late mother once asked, “Can’t you write anything happy?” (She can!) Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on her works.

She recently published WHEN KAYAKS FLY, a mix of fantasy, real life, and gallows humour. This book was made possible with three years of Spot Writers’ prompts—after much editing and re-writing. Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1990589332.

 

***

 

Alone, not lonely

Jarring ring pierces quiet

I race to closet

 

***

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.ca/

 

 

Babysitting at Midnight

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month's prompt is: you are home alone watching TV. The phone rings.

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

 

Babysitting at Midnight

by Val Muller

 It was good money, but it sure was creepy babysitting past midnight. There was just something about the Ponds' house, mostly the creepy grandfather clock in the dining room whose chime rebounded across the whole house. And something about the clock striking midnight made it worse.

The lighting in the house was dark, and dark by design. The walls were all shades of purple or stormy gray. Ellie supposed it was calming for the Ponds, but in an unfamiliar house, it seemed less so.

Ellie was not a fan of TV, and she flipped mindlessly through the channels, looking for something to distract her. The Ponds would be gone for at least another hour. They said she could fall asleep on the couch, but the idea of them finding her asleep on their couch was even more frightening than the house.

Still, it was basically free money, sitting here while the Pond kids slept. What would Ellie be doing at home? She would have finished her homework by now. But here, she didn't feel

comfortable spreading everything out, so it was still in her backpack, untouched. She was halfway to convincing herself to attempt it when the phone rang.

Who would be calling the Pond's home phone at this hour except the Ponds. They were probably calling to check in or to update their arrival time.

"Hello?" she answered, trying to sound professional.

"I know what you did last summer," a gruff voice grunted.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me..." The voice breathed heavily. "Are you alone in the house?"

Frantically, Ellie searched for her cell phone, ready to call 911 before the deep voice broke into familiar laughter.

"Grace! I almost called the cops on you. Not funny!" Ellie took a few deep breaths while her best friend let out the last of the giggles. "Anyway, you called so late. How do you know you weren't gonna wake the Ponds?"

Grace giggled again. "I was babysitting right next door. The Martins mentioned you were over here when they returned. Thought I might keep you company."

Ellie sighed relief and hurried to the door to let in her friend.

*

The creepy clock struck 1. Grace and Ellie wondered about their decision to watch a horror movie on such a night. The Ponds were really late tonight. "I wonder when they'll be back," Ellie mused.

Grace shrugged.

Then the phone rang.

 

****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://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 cows of Littledale

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to write a piece that involves a celebration and a weather anomaly. 

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 cows of Littledale

(an Elsa Mon story)

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

created with Flux

Elsa Mon, beloved paranormal romance writer, was very excited.

It was a hot and sunny summer day and Elsa was the guest of honor at the literary festival in Littledale, a charming village nestled in the countryside, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The organizing committee had reserved the central pavilion for her: there was a large table and stacks of her novels, which she would sign smilingly for anyone who bought one.

“Wow! You look lovely! But won’t you be too warm?” Victor, her dentist and her beloved, told her as he saw her appear in a light-colored, elaborate dress that looked just like something out of a Bollywood film, but in something that looked like wool. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Elsa replied. “I chose this dress because it is like the one Jimela wears at her wedding. My seamstress only had wool in this pattern, though. I’ll endure, I’m too excited tocomplain.”

Jimela was the main character in Elsa’s last novel. An unprecedented success, it told of the adventures of the antelope woman who, after saving her village from the dangerous tiger men, gave up magic and settled down with her farrier, who had courted her relentlessly for four hundred pages, gifting her with increasingly richly decorated horseshoes until she was no longer able to resist the call of his love. 

 

Around noon, the sun was shining high above the central pavilion, where Elsa was smiling and signing copies of her book, The Horseshoe That Won Her Heart. Noticing that she was also sweating profusely under her Bollywood dress, Victor offered her ice water. 

“Thank you, dear,” she told him, stopping the signing but not the smiling so that she drooled. “I would also need a fan,” she said, pretending like nothing had happened. 

They looked at the sky: bright blue, cloudless as far as their eyes could see. The grass of the meadow on which the pavilion stood was still, the leaves of the nearest trees were motionless. No birds could be heard singing nor crickets chirping. Even the festival visitors appeared exhausted by the heat, their movements slow and measured, their chatter hushed. The only sound that could be heard was the mooing of cows coming from the farm not far away. 

Elsa continued to smile and resumed signing copies of her book, breathing in the smell of freshly printed paper.

Suddenly, something in the air changed. Before anyone could realize what was happening, an unpredictable, completely out-of-season snowstorm hit the festival pavilions. 

Within a short time, the lawn was covered with a white layer; the wind bent the pavilions and carried away the posters and flyers, scattering them all over the countryside. Elsa and Victor soon recovered from the disbelief and surprise and set about gathering the books as quickly as they could, trying to pack them safely into the boxes and under the table. 

They were almost finished—only a few copies of A Goblin’s Sweet Tooth remained on the table—when a noise drew their attention. Turning in the direction the sound came from, they stood frozen for a moment. Somehow, the cows had managed to escape from the farm and were now barreling toward the festival pavilions, charging them on one side while on the other side the wind was trying to rip them off the ground.

“Run, Elsa, run!” cried Victor, taking his beloved by the hand and heading as fast as he could toward the parking lot. His sweet writer, in the wet clothes of a Bollywood bride, tried to resist.

“My books!” she shouted. “I can't leave them behind for the snow and the cows to wreck!”

Seeing that Elsa was stumbling at every step in her soaked dress, Victor got her into the car despite her protests.

“Stay here,” he told her, quite chivalrously. “I’ll go and get your books.”

Elsa, as anxious about her beloved as she was about her books, stayed and watched from behind the fogged-up car window. What she saw—Victor running with a box full of books under his arm and a herd of cows chasing him in the snowstorm—immediately gave her inspiration for a new novel. 

 

“Moo-moo and Mistletoe,” she muttered to herself. “A Christmas story. The cows see the snow and hear the call of the Mistletoe Man. That’s a sort of Santa, but his sleigh is led by cows instead of reindeers. No, wait. This novel has a farm setting, the sleigh should be replaced by a cart. Or a barrow? Hm. No, no. I can’t picture cows maneuvering a barrow, no matter the amount of magic in play. A magic cart, then. And the Mistletoe Man only gifts book. Oh, yes, I like this! Only romance books? Perhaps that’s too much. Just books. But to be an Elsa Mon story, there must be romance. Let’s see… A cowgirl! Yes, at the Mistletoe Man’s farm there are cowgirls who tend to the cows, and Rina is the prettiest of them all. On Christmas Eve there’s a snowstorm and Rina helps the Mistletoe Man save the books, and that’s how they fall in love.” 

 

So lost in her inspiration flow, Elsa had not realized that Victor had come back, sat at the wheel, and driven them home. When she came out of her reverie, she realized they were parked in front of her house. 

“We’re home,” she said.

“Yes, we are,” her beloved confirmed with a smile. “And the snowstorm is over. See? The sun is shining again.”

“Oh,” she said. She was feeling a little disoriented. “Was I talking out loud? Have you heard me create my new story?”

“Yes, and yes,” Victor replied.

“And… what do you think? Will it work?”

Victor looked at Elsa. He loved the look she had in her eyes when she was in her own world. Despite her matted, wet hair, her melted make-up, and the out-of-season Bollywood dress clinging to her skin with odd creases, she was the one who filled his days with magic. 

“It will,” he said. “As long as Rina wears a dress like yours.”

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: http://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 Dinner

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to write a piece that involves a celebration and a weather anomaly. This week’s story was written by Phil Yeats.

In April, 2024, he 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/

 

Christmas Dinner

Phil Yeats

 Kevin joined the writing group a few months earlier in a belated attempt to connect with humanity.

He was an orphan, a misfit with a misshapen leg. He limped when he walked and running was out of the question. It had been his reality for as long as he could remember, living in group homes and with foster parents, but never in any place for very long. He focused on the only thing he did well; his classroom schoolwork.

At seventeen, he decided on a technical rather than an academic education and graduated at 21 as a certified medical technologist. He landed a job in the pathology lab associated with the city’s largest hospital and progressed up the pay scale more rapidly than most. He was now 27, and he faced a dilemma. Should he keep his eyes focused on his laboratory bench, or respond to requests from his managers to take a greater interest in training new recruits and low-level supervisory responsibilities?

If Kevin was to consider these additional responsibilities, he needed to develop better interpersonal communication skills. He thought back to high school where he enjoyed English class, especially the opportunity to write stories. Joining a writing group seemed like an obvious move.

He arrived at his fourth meeting and Margaret, the group’s rather overbearing leader, brought him out of his comfortable role, sitting back and learning by osmosis, but saying little.

“Today,” she said, “we have a new prompt—a personal story about a family celebration. And since we are starting afresh, I think we should begin with our newest member. Kevin, do you have a story for us?”

Kevin cleared his throat as he shuffled the pages in front of him. He’d written a story and was eager to read it, but he didn’t relish the idea of going first. “I’ve written a story about the celebration of what is normally a family holiday, but as you know from what I told you at my first meeting, I have no family. This is a true story. I call it Christmas Dinner. It’s about last Christmas, when you’ll probably recall, we had a massive snowstorm.”

Christmas Dinner

  On Christmas Day, I arrived home at 5 p.m. after my shift at the hospital. That was at least half an hour later than my usual arrival time, but there was a metre of snow on the main roads and more on the secondary ones. No vehicles were moving, and the sidewalks were deserted. The guy who replaced me on the skeleton holiday staff arrived on skis, and I trudged home on snowshoes. I know, what sort of weird character brings snowshoes to work, but the storm was widely predicted. I even offered to make my way back to the hospital for half of the overnight shift if his replacement didn’t show up, but that’s getting ahead of myself.

Inside the old house converted to small apartments, I found Madelyn sitting on the floor outside my door. “Mummy’s note said I should come here for dinner.”

Maddy was six years old, capable of reading a note if it was carefully printed using simple, well-spaced words, and always surprisingly happy given her less than ideal circumstances.

I couldn’t say the same for her mother, a forty something single mother on welfare with all sorts of problems. She frequently left her daughter in my care with little or no warning, and the social workers seemed happy with this makeshift arrangement.

I unlocked my door, and Maddy scurried inside clutching the doll I’d bought her for Christmas.

“Did your mum say when she’d be back?” I asked.

She shook her head before jumping onto the chair closest to my wall screen TV. “Can I watch Sesame Street?”

The power was off, but I located a Sesame Street Christmas video on my laptop. I placed it in front of her and retreated to my kitchen to sort out something we could prepare on my deck using my camp stove. I soon had spaghetti sauce heating on one burner and the noodles on another. Not quite your standard Christmas celebration meal, but something I knew she’d enjoy.

When I had everything under control, I phoned her mother’s social worker. I was surprised when she picked up. I described the situation and asked for her advice.

“We’re swamped here, dealing with dozens at risk during this storm. It’s good to know Madelyn’s safe. If her mother doesn’t return this evening, can you look after her?”

“Tonight and tomorrow, but Thursday will be a problem. I’m back at work Thursday at noon.”

After I ended the call, I remembered my offer to return to the lab during the night if necessary. I had a momentary panic, but it all worked out in the end. We had dinner rather later than usual for a six-year-old and shortly after, Maddy had a bath (there was no bathtub in her mother’s tiny apartment) and got ready for bed in a cot I set up in the little alcove that was usually my home office. At three a.m., I got her bundled up and towed her back to the hospital on a sled with broad runners I borrowed from another neighbour. She went back to sleep on the daybed in the path lab’s break room.

At 8:30, the power was back on, and we were home for breakfast and another twenty-four hours when I was responsible for a beautiful little girl. We went sledding on a nearby hill and finally got around to having a more traditional Christmas dinner on Boxing Day.

She cried when the social worker arrived on Thursday morning to take her into care. “But I like it here with Kevin, and Mummy will know where to find me. This was the best Christmas ever.”

 

Kevin placed the pages with his story on the table and gazed at the writing group members. “That was the day I realized I must make a serious effort to connect with humanity.”

 

*****

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