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/

 

 

 

 

 

 

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/