Unfinished Business

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a picture frame from a thrift store with a message scrawled on the back. 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/.

 

Unfinished Business

by Phil Yeats

 

Talia arrived at the Jewish Student Centre at our small-town college with another wooden picture frame—her second or third, all small, dirty, and weatherbeaten. She handed it to me.

“Got it for fifty cents at the thrift shop,” she said. “Should clean up well, but I see one problem. How do I get a photo into it?”

I turned it over and checked out the back. Like most photo frames, it had a third leg for standing it on a desk or shelf, but as she said, no obvious way to get the frame apart. The thing that caught my attention was a faint seven-digit number, 9111938, pencilled onto the back’s dark material.

Talia and I were employees of the college—Talia was an administrator in the Arts Faculty, and me a professor of chemistry. We were volunteers at the centre. We were both Jewish, Talia of German or Polish descent, she never said which, a Holocaust survivor and a devout Zionist. I was Canadian whose faith was not a major factor in my life. I left university twenty-five years earlier for military duty during World War Two. Those days were long past, but I still had terrible memories of my time on the European battlefields. I’m sure Talia’s wartime memories were much worse.

I continued turning the frame, studying at it from all angles. “A puzzle, for sure. I could take it to my office and make a more careful inspection...”

“Yes, please, but try not to alter the weather-beaten look.”

I tapped the back. “The appearance of the front and sides shouldn’t be an issue. This frame’s secrets must be hidden here.”

 

Under a powerful light in my office, I probed the back of the frame with a sharp blade. I found, after considerable effort, a seam on the bottom edge that wasn’t glued. More probing and prying produced a slight movement. The back panel slid down a quarter of an inch. I could now grip it with my fingertips and wiggle it down. A black-and-white photo and a rectangle of cardstock fluttered to the floor.

I remembered enough from my WW2 experiences to recognize the man in the photo as a member of the Third Reich’s Schutzstaffel (SS). On the back, someone had written a name (not a very German-sounding one) and an address in a nearby town.

I reassembled the frame with cardstock and photo inside and left them for Talia. I should have pushed Talia’s picture frame from my mind at this point. They were really none of my business, but I could never resist a puzzle. This was definitely a puzzle with few clues. I had the number written on the back of the frame and a name and address on the back of the photo of a Nazi SS officer.

I started with the number on the frame. My first thought was that the number on the frame was a Nazi concentration camp ID number. I cast that idea aside quickly. The information I dug up suggested the numbers were five or six digits, never seven.

I then considered dates. Could the number indicate September 11, 1938, or November 9, 1938, depending on whether the writer used the Canadian or American convention? Even a lapsed Jew like me recognized November 9, 1938, as Kristallnacht.

I turned next to the name and address on the back of the photo. Eric Smith was pretty generic, but Eric was a commonly used Germanic forename, and Smith could have been a Canadianization of the German Schmidt. The address was in a nearby town.

On the next day, a Saturday, I bought a book by a local author and drove to the address written on the photo. It was in an enclave of small bungalows that could’ve been post-war construction. I knocked on the door of #22. A young woman with two small children, one in her arms and the other hiding behind her, answered the door.

“What can I do for you?” she said.

I handed her the book. “I was an organizer of a book fair two weekends ago. Mr. Eric Smith won one of our door prizes. He gave this address and a phone number that doesn’t work.”

She sighed. “He lived here until three years ago, when he moved into a palliative care facility. We never met him, but a neighbour said he’d died more than a year ago. Looks like someone’s leading you astray.”

I retrieved my book, thanked her, and moved on to the library, where I consulted old copies of the town’s weekly newspaper. With little effort, I found a brief mention of Mr. Smith’s passing. The few details confirmed what the woman at #22 told me, gave me Mr. Smith’s age when he died, 45, and the time he lived in their community, ten years. It also said he lived alone and died with no known relatives.

If I wanted to pursue the matter, I needed a better cover story. I reluctantly jotted down the details from the obituary, closed my notebook, and returned home.

I crossed paths with Talia on the following Thursday. She glared at me and growled, “Kummere dich um dienen Kram,” before stomping off.

My German wasn’t very good, mostly restricted to technical usage, but I got the gist—stay out of my business. I tore the pages with notes about this little mystery from my notebook and deposited them in a trash can. An unsatisfactory end to my investigation—a few questions answered and several more raised. But Talia was right. I shouldn’t have charged into something that was none of my business.

 

***

 

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/

 

The Message

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write something write about a picture frame from a thrift store with a message scrawled on the back.

This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Her writings have been published in almost 400 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.

 

***

 The Message

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“Mom!” Jimmy yelled. “I thought all the Christmas decorations were put away.”

Elise’s voice echoed from the top of the stairs. “They are. What are you talking about?”

“You’ve got a Christmas picture on the table, and it’s February.” And it’s of that damn Sprite, Jimmy thought.

His mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “What picture?”

Jimmy pointed to the dining room table. “That one.”

“Oh, that. Picked it up at the thrift store yesterday. Two ninety-nine. They’re trying to clear out Christmas stuff, I guess.”

“We don’t need it. We have enough pictures of that guy.”

“Jimmy, such language!”

“I said ‘that guy.’ I didn’t swear.”

His mother waved him off. “Even if I didn’t want Sprite’s picture—which I do—the frame’s worth at least nine ninety-nine.”

“We have enough frames. Boxes of them in the basement. Dad’s gonna be pissed when he sees another one.”

Elise laughed. “Then it’ll be our little secret.” She gave him a sly smile before heading back upstairs.

“Jeepers,” he muttered. “Why...”

He went to the dining room. Hated touching the thing but picked it up anyway. Sprite stared at him with that expression. That knowing look. Like he could see everything Jimmy had ever done. Sprite’s mouth was weird, though. His lips were pressed tightly together as if physically holding words back. Jimmy was glad the thing was behind glass.

All the sprites looked that way. Every. Single. One.

What was it with these things?

He turned the frame over. The backing was loose. “Cheap,” he mumbled. “Not worth nine dollars. Not even two.”

He picked at the tape holding the backing to the frame. His fingers kept going—peeling, peeling, peeling.

The cardboard fell off.

A small envelope dropped onto the table.

Jimmy picked it up. Glanced around. Made sure his mother hadn’t come back down.

He felt something inside. Tore open the side.

A small card. Heavy stock. About two inches by three. Green.

He flipped it over.

I still watch what you do!

Jimmy dropped the card. Looked back at the frame on the table.

Sprite’s expression had changed. Still that “knowing” look, but now he smiled.

 

***

 

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/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Take a Left

 

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about a picture frame from a thrift store with a message scrawled on the back. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

Take a Left

by Val Muller

“Number 31!” the MC called, holding up a ticket from the bowl.

Ryan stood up and held up his ticket .”That’s me!”

He walked to the front table to retrieve his prize, a picture frame that had been repurposed in whimsical cats of various styles, a trendy decoupage. “Enjoy!” the MC told him. “And all of the cats at Katty Kafe thank you for your support.”

Ryan returned to his seat, wondering where in the world he was going to put such a frame. Like most of the donated goods, this raffle prize had been purchased and repurposed—bought from a thrift store, or maybe donated. The glass front was missing from the frame. What would he do with it?

At the next table, a caged cat wailed in protest. Several of the picnic attendees had brought their cats, and the animals weren’t happy about it. Ryan had only come at the request of his attractive neighbor, who now was nowhere to be found.

A volunteer was circulating around selling 50/50 raffle tickets. Not wanting to have to stay until the drawing, Ryan flipped the picture frame over and pretended to be studying it carefully. After the ticket seller passed by, he noticed something scrawled on the back of the frame. It looked like it had been written before the decoupage. Ryan squinted. The words were in an old-fashioned cursive:

Take the one on the left.

He looked up instinctively. There were two doors to the event hall. The one on the right led to the bake sale. The one on the left led outdoors. He thought of his attractive neighbor and took the one on the left.

At the stoplight home, he maneuvered into the right lane and prepared to take the most direct route. But he glanced at the picture frame sitting on the passenger seat. He put on his left turn signal instead and took the scenic route home.

Later that night, trying different spots for the picture frame, he decided to splurge and order pizza. When the delivery came, they accidentally doubled his order. He stuck his pizza in the oven and brought the extra pie out into the hallway of his apartment. Maybe Emily had a good reason for not coming to the picnic, despite asking him to attend. Her looks gave her a second chance. Maybe a free pizza would make him more appealing to her. But as he approached her door, another door opened down the hall. It was the girl in apartment 3. He hadn’t met her yet, but he’d seen her getting her mail and coming in from a jog now and then. She had moved in less than a month ago. She bent down to pick up a package that had been delivered to her door earlier.

She was not attractive like Emily, but she had a kind face, and she looked up at him with a smile. The pizza box in his hand grew heavy. “The delivery guy accidentally gave me two,” he rehearsed in his head, willing himself to step out of his comfort zone. “No,” he admonished himself quietly. “Tell her your name first. Hi, my name is Ryan, and I guess we’re neighbors,” he practiced with barely moving lips. Was she looking at him? He couldn’t tell, but if he was going to say something, he had about half a second.

He heard Emily’s door open to his right. He had to choose.

“Hi, my name is Ryan,” he said, holding up a pizza box in welcomebto the new neighbor he’d chosen, the one on the left.

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/

 

Of Dreams and Frogs

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 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.

 

 Of Dreams and Frogs

by Chiara De Giorgi

Created with Canva

Elsa Mon, the beloved paranormal romance writer, started the new year with a dream.

In the dream, she found herself in the clearing in the woods, the one she sometimes liked to visit to play the violin. She was sitting on a fallen log and was surrounded by frogs. It was a beautiful day, and there were frogs everywhere: countless frogs of every size and shade of green and brown, complementing the colors of the grass, the bushes, and the leaves of the trees. They croaked and hopped about, and Elsa instinctively knew they were in a good mood. It was a happy croaking. Elsa wondered why there were so many frogs in the clearing, far from a pond or a stream or any other place frogs normally lived. She would have checked Wikipedia, but her phone wouldn’t connect. Still, she seemed to recall that frogs generally lived near water (if not actually in it).

When she woke up, she remembered the dream perfectly, along with the feeling of serenity paired with perplexity it had left her with. She went to have breakfast and, while crunching on the butter-and-chocolate cookies the librarian, Miss Underwood, had given her, she thought about it.

“If the dream left such a vivid impression on my mind,” she said out loud, mumbling around a piece of pastry, “it must have a very specific meaning. But what?”

“Ah, who knows?” sighed the sugar bowl in the middle of the table. “What was the dream about?”

“Stranger!” Elsa exclaimed, addressing the sugar bowl. The Stranger was a peculiar creature, capable of transforming into any being or object. Lately, she had been spending a great deal of time with Elsa.

“There were lots of frogs in my dream. Nice and chatty, not aggressive at all.”

Immediately, the Stranger transformed into a small, talking plush frog.

“Croak!” was the first thing she said, hopping around the teapot. “You were visited in a dream!”

“By frogs?”

“Certainly not. Why would frogs visit you? No, it was someone… or something pretending to be a multitude of frogs.”

“Huh? And why would someone… or something pretend to be a multitude of frogs?”

“Out of politeness.”

“What are you talking about? Politeness? And who would ever do that, anyway?”

“Ah, that I don’t know. Surely someone… or something that wanted to leave an impression.”

“Well, in that case, they succeeded. But I still can’t understand the meaning of this dream. Or this visit, whatever.”

“Maybe it was someone… or something that didn’t want to frighten you.”

Elsa went pale and set her teacup down on the saucer. “Do you think it could be something frightening?”

The plush frog managed to shrug and turned into a pink clothespin.

“I’ll go talk to the Squatters about the dream,” Elsa decided. “Maybe one of them will have a good idea about it.”

 ***

The Squatters were a small community of spirits who dwelled in the haunted house on the edge of the cheerful village of Willow, where Elsa lived. Elsa had become friends with them after acquiring the Sight… but that is another story.

When she arrived there (accompanied by the Stranger, who had insisted on presenting herself in the form of a bulky cuckoo clock), the Squatters greeted her and wished her a happy New Year.

“Happy New Year to you too, all of you!” she exclaimed happily. She hung the cuckoo clock on a hook in the wall and dropped into an old, shabby green armchair, which raised a small cloud of dust.

“I had a dream last night, and I’d like to know what you think.”

“Oh! A dream to be interpreted!” exclaimed the witch Wilhelmina happily. “Such a magical thing!”

“Such a demonic thing!” grumbled Sister Elena of Cremona.

“Don’t say that,” Wilhelmina scolded her at once. “Dream interpretation is mentioned in the Bible as well.”

Without waiting for any further reaction from Sister Elena, she turned back to Elsa. “So tell us, tell us: what was the dream about? Did you dream of a silver knight with a golden sword?”

“Or a giant squirrel throwing acorns at you?” asked Zinny, the Buddhist monk.

“Were you at sea, with an enemy submarine chasing you?” asked Olga, a retired Russian spy.

“No, no, none of that,” Elsa said, laughing. “I was in the woods, surrounded by… frogs.”

“Frogs?” repeated Sister Elena. “Frogs! That’s an omen of misfortune!”

She stared straight at Wilhelmina. “Speaking of the Bible… a plague!”

Elsa went pale. “You think so?”

“Of course! And obviously, if we absolutely must interpret your dream... you represent Egypt. Or the Pharaoh. Or both. In any case, it’s not a good sign.”

“But… but—”

“Oh, that’s enough. I’m not saying another word about this business,” the nun snapped. “I’m going for a walk around the village, looking for souls to bless.”

Elsa shot a perplexed and slightly frightened look at Wilhelmina. “Wh-what… what do you think?”

“Well then,” replied the witch, tapping a finger against her chin. “A long time ago, tarot cards included a frog, but it was removed because the frog kept jumping out of the deck.”

“Cuckoo!” went the clock.

“Um… are you sure about that?” Elsa asked, doubtful.

“Oh, who cares,” Wilhelmina replied evasively, waving her hands. “Hey, tell me: were the frogs in your dream damp?”

“I… I don’t remember. Why? Is that another omen of misfortune?”

“Why would frogs be damp if they’re far from water?” cut in Tony, Al Capone’s plumber.

“Maybe they sweat,” observed Zinny the Buddhist monk. Then, before anyone else could speak, he added, “I think frogs are a good sign. You see, they don’t ask themselves why they live as frogs. They just do.”

“And what would that mean for me?” Elsa asked.

“Well, obviously... you have to become a frog.”

Elsa frowned. “Eh?”

“You’re all wrong,” Mercy cut in at that point. When she was alive, she was the head cook on a pirate ship. She died defending her stew from the soldiers who boarded the ship she was on. “This isn’t a dream full of omens, neither bad nor good.”

“Really?” Elsa brightened for a moment. All things considered, if the dream had no hidden meaning, she almost preferred it that way.

“No ma’am!” said Mercy firmly. “Quite simply: you were hungry. I’d make you a nice plate of fried frog legs, but… I don’t have any frogs in the pantry at the moment.”

“Sure,” Tony whispered to Zinny. “That’s the only reason.”

Mercy heard them snickering and shot a murderous glance in their direction.

“Don’t you think that… my dream could somehow mean that this year I’ll finally meet true love?”

“Huh? How?”

“Cuckoo? Cuckoo!”

Elsa felt herself blush slightly.

“Well, you see… it’s something I desire deep in my heart. And after all, fairy tales tell of frogs that turn into princes when they’re kissed.”

“Did you kiss a frog in your dream?” Wilhelmina asked.

“No,” Elsa said, shaking her head, “but—”

The Squatters exchanged glances. The Stranger turned into a butterfly and fluttered among them.

“I suppose that—”

“Yes, indeed.”

“It could be.”

“Why not?”

“Frogs transform. They start out as tadpoles and then become something completely different.”

“Like butterflies.”

Everyone followed the Stranger with their eyes.

“Yes, but she dreamed of frogs.”

“So?”

“How do we connect frogs with love?”

“Do we have to?”

“Elsa wants it.”

Elsa cleared her throat. “It’s not that you have to—”

“Silence! Your subconscious guides your dreams, so if you want love and you dream of frogs, there must be a connection.”

Elsa fell silent in the face of such a compelling argument. Everyone fell silent, in fact. At that moment, Sister Elena of Cremona came back in.

“Well hello! I’m back! You’ll never guess what happened while I was out! I blessed a fellow walking his dog near the main square, and my blessing was a bit stronger than expected. Hee hee hee… I stirred up some wind and a business card flew out of his pocket. He didn’t notice at all, and of course he didn’t hear me when I called after him.”

With an exaggerated gesture, Sister Elena pulled a small card out of a fold in her habit and handed it to Elsa.

“Dentist Victor Sweettooth… and?”

Sister Elena hopped and did a little twirl. “Turn the card over!”

Elsa looked at the other side of the dentist’s business card.

“The symbol of his clinic is—”

“A frog!” all the spirits exclaimed together, crowding around her.

Elsa burst out laughing.

“You’ll have to find an excuse to make an appointment with him,” said the Stranger, taking the form of a talking hammer. “Maybe,” she added with a thoughtful expression, “one of these days you’ll break a tooth…”

 

 

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/

Our uncertain future

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story that starts with the phrase ‘He (or she) faced the new year…’. This week’s story comes from the pen of Phil Yeats. It’s a continuation of his last posting on the Spot Writers blog (January 1, 2026).

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/.

 

Our uncertain future

by Phil Yeats

 

He faced the new year with trepidation, maybe even fear. The trepidation part was Glen’s fault. The fear, partly his and partly President Trump’s. It all started when he accepted a neighbour’s invitation to a pre-Christmas cocktail party. He almost never went to parties, but here he was in the early evening escorting prospective tenants, a woman and her five-year-old daughter, to the basement apartment he thought he’d never rent again.

After a brief inspection of the derelict space, she’d it was perfect and offered to e-transfer her first month’s rent. He declined, saying he wasn’t set up to accept e-transfers, a lie, but of course, she didn’t know that. They agreed informally that the apartment was hers if she wanted it, but he was making it as easy as possible for her to change her mind.

On Boxing Day, Lizzy Monroe, her daughter Jenn, and Toby, the Carstairs’ Yorkshire terrier, arrived unannounced to help with the repairs to the apartment. She was wearing coveralls under her winter coat and came with a cheque for their first month’s rent. He was committed. He’d have tenants again, starting on January 15^th.

After his previous tenants trashed the place and skipped out owing him a month’s rent, he was reluctant to take on new residents. She may be more reliable, but she could become a problem for another reason. She was older, much nearer his own age, and so enthusiastic about her new apartment. He could ignore university student tenants, but Lizzie and her adorable daughter were likely to worm their way into his life. He didn’t want new people in his life and didn’t need the rent money. So why was he doing this?

Glen unlocked the apartment door.

“You’ve been busy,” Lizzie said as she skipped into the apartment. Jenn in her snowsuit and Toby the Yorkie in a red doggie coat with a white collar went straight to the backyard to cavort in the snow.

Glen smiled despite his apprehension. Everyone had secrets—at least, he knew he did and figured others must have them. Her behaviour suggested that Lizzie did, and her secrets must involve her enthusiasm about her new apartment. It wasn’t such a wonderful apartment, and it was his problem to make it livable. Why else would she be here, ready to muck in and help?

“Making good progress,” he said, while pointing across the large open space they’d just entered to three separate rooms—a bathroom and two bedrooms, at the back. “I’ve replaced the broken mirror, installed a more powerful ceiling fan, and repainted the entire bathroom. The two bedrooms were in better shape. I’ve filled and sanded gouges and holes in the walls. They’re ready for a little touch-up paint unless, of course, you want to change the colours.”

“Sounds great and the colours are fine. What about this room?” She asked before doing a few pirouettes with her arms extended. “I still can’t believe how huge it is. And so bright!”

“Still working on filling the larger holes. So, more filling, more sanding, and then painting the fresh Pollyfilla.”

“You can fill and sand. I’ll paint. If we make like busy beavers, we’ll be done by evening.”

 

Lizzy, Jenn, and Toby returned on Sunday, January 4, in a van packed with furniture and other stuff. Jenn and Toby disappeared into Glen’s backyard, and Lizzie nodded at the stuff in the van. “All my worldly possessions. Well, almost all. Jenn’s bed at the Carstairs is ours and a few small things, but basically this is it.”

“And the van?” Glen asked.

“Borrowed, and I have to take it right back.”

“Okay. Then unloading this should be job one. Down the path to your front door and then through the apartment to the basement area at the back. After we complete last-minute repairs in each room, we can move the stuff to its final resting place.”

“Last minute repairs? I thought everything was perfect when we left last week.”

“If it meets your approval, we can pass on any more touching up, but there’s dust everywhere, and I’ve been using the big room as a furniture repair shop.”

Half an hour later, when Lizzie left to return the van, Glen thought about the stilted conversation they’d had while they unloaded the van. He lived alone, and he was happiest when he was alone, but he had no trouble engaging in conversations. That he couldn’t conduct an easygoing conversation with his tenant-to-be spoke to his trepidation. It had to be more than his concerns about another tenant-from-hell who’d trash the place before skipping out on the rent. It suggested a desire for friendship, but was he ready to consider that, and what sort of friendship?

So his personal trepidation could have a bright side, but his fear of the broader impact of ‘the great disruptor’ as they moved into 2026 had no light at the end of the tunnel. From the National Security Strategy to the kidnapping of Maduro, to threats about taking over Greenland, to weaponizing tariffs, and the Board of Peace, nothing looked safe.

So, as he waited for Lizzie to return, he reconsidered his ideas about the future he faced at the beginning of the new year, shifting from one centred on his personal trepidations to one focused on his fear of the geopolitical chaos facing everyone, everywhere.

 

***

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/

 

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/