One Globe, Many Worlds

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write something that features a globe. 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.

 

One Globe, Many Worlds

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

created with Canva

In hindsight, my adventures could be placed somewhere between Alice Through the Looking-Glass and Jumanji. It all started when I found a small globe in a thrift store, while looking for an old dress to wear for Halloween.

The globe wasn’t very big; let’s say it was about the width of my palm. What captivated me were the colors: the blue of the oceans shimmered as though it were made of waves; the satin gold of the deserts made the sand seem to glisten in the sun; the green of the forests was so vivid I could almost smell the vegetation; and the polar ice caps looked so white I could have sworn they were made of real ice.

I couldn’t leave the shop without the globe, and I didn’t. The shop assistant wrapped it in tissue paper and put it in a bag. I paid and left. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I’d forgotten to pick up the costume for the Halloween party.

Oh, well. I’d just stay home and enjoy my globe.

I carefully unwrapped it and placed it on the table beside the couch, then sat and stared at it. Holding it steady with one hand resting on its axis, I gently spun it with the other.

The shimmering colors blurred, and I was mesmerized. I’d never seen an object that could hold my attention like that. I simply couldn’t look away…

Trying to snap out of my trance, I placed my hand on the globe to stop it. That’s when I was sucked inside.

 

I landed softly in the sand. The sky above me was an intense blue, the sun a merciless white-hot circle, and golden-red sand stretched endlessly in every direction. I was still trying to make sense of what had happened. My first instinct was to assume I’d fallen asleep while staring at the globe and was now dreaming. Then, a human silhouette appeared in the shimmering distance.

The man, wrapped from head to toe in a tan-colored robe, was leading a dromedary. He approached me and stopped a few steps away. Then he uncorked a water bottle and handed it to me.

Grateful and speechless, I accepted it and took a few sips.

“Have you just arrived?” he asked.

I nodded, still confused about where, exactly, I’d arrived, and how I’d got there.

“Good,” he said. “Then you can help me.” He pointed towards the horizon. “See the oasis?”

I squinted. Yes, I could make out something, far off in the distance, that broke up the uniformity of the sand’s color. I nodded.

“I’ve been trying to reach it for a hundred years. According to legend, only a stranger from afar can make it possible to reach the oasis.”

“A hundred years?” I asked, skeptical.

He gave me a look that suggested I wasn’t the first stranger to ask that question.

“Come. We don’t have much time.”

I followed him across the dunes for what felt like hours. The blue line never seemed to get any closer.

Then the wind rose, the sky turned the color of copper, and a sandstorm was suddenly upon us. The dromedary bolted. The man grabbed my arm and dragged me toward a dark shape emerging from the dunes: the ruins of a stone building, half buried in the sand. We barely made it inside before the storm swallowed everything around us.

When the wind finally died, I crawled out into a landscape that had been completely rearranged. The dunes were gone. Before us lay a valley filled with palm trees, and at its center, a pool of water.

The man fell to his knees. For a moment, I felt I ought to say something profound. Instead, I said, “Well. That’s rather lovely.”

He laughed, and the sound seemed to release a hundred years of longing.

“Why was it so important for you to reach this pond?” I asked.

The man pointed at the pool of crystal-clear water. The surface was still, except for a small circular ripple at its center. Within it, a familiar blue-and-gold sphere emerged.

“Is that… my globe?”

The man just stared silently at it.

“Wait…” I said, a scenario forming inside my head, at the same time totally crazy and yet somehow plausible. “Did you arrive here a hundred years ago and get stuck because you needed the globe to go back?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do I need to stay here to allow you to go back?” I whispered.

This time, he burst out laughing.

“Not at all! It’s not a Charon’s kind of situation,” he said, still amused. “I wanted to stay. I just didn’t expect it would take so long to be able to go back.”

I smiled. “What about your dromedary?”

The man removed harness and saddle from the dromedary, stroked its muzzle, and whispered a few words in its ear. The dromedary nudged his arm, then set off on its own, marching slowly across the dunes toward the horizon.

“Shall we?” he asked.

We both reached toward the globe and touched it. A moment later, we were in my living room.

 

That was my first adventure. There were many, many others. Some I shared with the man from the desert; some were lonely enterprises, and one involved a very irritable serpent, if you can believe it.

Stories for another time.

Now it’s time for me to let the globe go. I’ve wrapped it carefully, just as the shop assistant did, and taken it to a thrift store across town. Perhaps someone will find it while looking for an old dress to wear for Halloween. I do hope they like adventures.

  

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 Beautiful Blue Planet

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write something that features a globe. This week’s story, a poem, comes from the pen of Phil Yeats.

In September 2026, Phil published Follow the Hearse, the fourth book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore, Nova Scotia town. For information about this book and all his others, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/.

 

Our Beautiful Blue Planet

by Phil Yeats

 

Since spacemen first breached gravity’s embrace,

we’ve imagined a blue sphere

with wisps of white and green

suspended in an inky black void.

 

It’s a chimera—

an impossible dream we’ll never achieve.

 

Our reality is a world mired in chaos,

heading for a tipping point we may not survive.

Keep that picture of our beautiful blue globe in mind—

it may soon be nothing more than a whispered memory.

 

 

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/

 

Anti-anxiety things I’ve been doing

 

 ANTI-ANXIETY THINGS I'VE BEEN DOING 

·         Open my physical mail 1-2 days after I get it.

It’s all bills, bureaucratic, or administrative stuff anyway, and it doesn’t make a difference whether I know right now or tomorrow. This trick gives me power over my time back. It gives me the chance to learn what the matter is when I’m mentally prepared to address the issue. It says to the “thing”: my time and my peace of mind are more important than you. And it removes me from the “rush” mentality, where everything must be dealt with NOW. The fact is, there will ALWAYS be something demanding my attention. It’s never, “let’s get this over with so I can focus on myself later.” It doesn’t work like that because by the time I’m done dealing with this thing and the ones that inevitably follow, I have no energy left to focus on myself. The truth is, no one is dying if I don’t open this letter right here right now. So, the letter will wait until I decide it’s time to open it.

·         Set my phone on “do not disturb” when I’m doing something and I don’t want to be interrupted.

A couple very selected numbers can “disturb” me any time (and they usually don’t!). Everyone else can and will wait. Wait until this work is finished, wait until my reading time is over, wait until I get out of the gym, wait until my time with this friend is over, when I’m finished eating, done with the laundry… there is no hierarchy of activities, and what I wholeheartedly devote my time to is my business and mine alone; no one gets to judge whether something is too trivial for me to postpone replying to a text. If and when I want to focus on something or someone, it’s my choice and I am going to protect it. It’s NEVER a matter of life and death anyway. And honestly, no one is entitled to my time; I really don’t have to drop everything at any given time to reply to texts or phone calls. I’ll get to it when it suits me (just as the sender/caller texted or called me when it suited them, by the way). The “urgent” things that need to be done “by yesterday” are not real.

·         Spend my time on something that is not profitable.

Not everything must be a commodity, not everything must be converted into money. Time is NOT money. I can take time to just be in nature, read a novel, crochet silly things, play with my cats, sleep.

 

What has all this accomplished?

I feel more in charge of my time and my life. I don’t feel guilty anymore for “wasting time” doing “unaccountable” stuff. My attention is not split over several different things/people at the same time, so when I focus on something or someone, I can give it or them my full attention. My mind feels more relaxed and peaceful. I enjoy things on a deeper level because there’s no expectation attached that they should profit me somehow. And guess what? No one has died in the meantime, especially not because I replied to a text after 3 hours. Shocking, huh?

I’m so sick and tired of this “hustle” and “fast-paced” mentality. It adds nothing to my life and actually robs it of the chance to truly enjoy it. I am the kind of person who stops walking when she sees a nice flower, a duck in the pond, a funny-looking cloud in the sky, a butterfly zigzagging through my potted plants. The kind of person who steps onto the balcony in a freezing winter night to look at the moon because it is so beautiful. The kind of person who walks farther than she needs to because there’s a wonderful sunset and she wants to find a spot where she can admire it better. I reclaim my right to spend my time on these activities without feeling guilty about not being “efficient.”

Have my problems and my worries magically disappeared since I’ve started doing all the above?

Sadly, no. But they don’t own me anymore, and it’s best to approach these things with serenity rather than with anxiety, isn’t it? As Marcus Aurelius said: The nearer a man comes to a calm mind, the closer he is to strength. And if that’s not enough, there’s a Zen proverb that says: To be calm is the highest achievement of the self.

A Flash of Magic

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write something that features a globe. This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn.

Cathy’s writings have been published in over four hundred print and online publications. Check out her website (www.writingwicket.wordpress.com) for more information.

 

***

 A Flash of Magic

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“I saw it,” I say, looking up, positive I had—if only for an instant.

“Don’t be foolish, Melissa,” Jeff says. “Stuff like that only happens in movies.”

I sigh, wanting to scream to anyone who will listen. My nearly eighteen-year-old brother doesn’t believe in anything. Not God. Not wishes or dreams. Definitely nothing make-believe. I’m skeptical at times, too, yet I’m lured in. I want to believe in miracles and magic—the things that keep us young and alive. I’ve watched our mother stare into her bedroom mirror, mourning years that passed too fast. “Don’t wish your life away, Melissa,” she tells me. “It creeps up on you, and before you know it, you’re old.” She thinks she’s starting to look like Grandma though, to me, she’s still beautiful—they both are.

The next night, I return to the woods alone, retracing my steps as I’ve done every evening since Mike died. Last night was the first time Jeff had come along. He’s hurting as much as I am, and I’d hoped he might find a sliver of the comfort I’ve found here.

The woods smell faintly of pine as if Christmas has just passed instead of my twin brother. But it’s April. Cool, but spring’s in the air, and the early evening is refreshing. The moon hangs low, illuminating the path.

Ten minutes later, I reach my destination. I sit on one of the two rounded humps on the large rock that I’d dubbed “the heart rock.” Feet away from the edge of the cliff, it’s almost as if I’m at the edge of the world. The Atlantic Ocean stretches in front of me and disappears into the horizon. Far below, waves crash violently against the rugged shoreline. Despite the roar of the surf, I’m at ease on that rock, where I’ve always felt comfortable. Even before Mike died.

This is where Mike and I used to sit and talk. It feels like another lifetime, but it’s really just one: Mike’s. A life ended in an instant. Car crashes are like that. Little warning when someone rams head-on.

“Killed instantly,” the police told our parents.

But how did they know? Who’s to say Mike didn’t linger, panting for breath, wishing for life? Did he know he was going to die?

We were close. As close as twins are: finishing sentences, reading thoughts, sharing secret smiles.

Brian, Mike’s best friend, had invited me to tag along that fateful night. Mike had told me months before that Brian had a crush on me, but I already knew.

Usually, I would’ve accepted the invite in a second. But that night? I had a bad vibe. While I tried to convince Mike to stay home, he tried to convince me to go.

“Let’s go sit on our rock instead,” I said.

He squinted at me in an odd way. I hated when he made expressions like that, as if he knew more than I did—and he didn’t. His eyes squished into narrow slits and his forehead furrowed.

“Nah, I feel like going for a drive. We’re going to grab a bite to eat. I wish you’d come with us.”

For several moments, I hesitated, wavering: should I? Mike thought I was going to back down.

I almost did. I clenched and unclenched my hands, wanting to grab him close to my chest as if he were my child even though he was inches taller than I.

Then his mood shifted. His eyes softened back to their usual blue-green.

“Never mind. You stay here. Gotta go. Brian’s waiting.” He took my hand, raised it to his lips, and pretended to kiss it as if he were a prince charming a hesitant future princess. “Love you, Mel.”

“Love you, too.”

“See ya later. We won’t be gone long.” He stayed for a few more seconds, swaying from foot to foot, almost as hesitant as that imaginary princess-to-be.

Did he know the night was doomed? Did he know he was going to die? Had he protected me in that last split second?

What would have happened had I gone? Could I have saved them? Were they busy chattering in the front seat, neither paying attention to the road? Would I have been alert in the backseat? Would I have seen the advancing semi? I like to think I would’ve screeched, “Look out! Look out!” and Brian would have veered away from the oncoming horror. Brian, at seventeen, was a year older than Mike and me. Had just gotten his driver’s license.

I wonder, too, belted in the backseat, could I have been the lone survivor? Could I have ducked? Protected my head from danger?

Pondering what-ifs is torture. Who can travel back in time to change the future or know if an outcome could have been prevented?

That night he died—before the police ever rang our doorbell—I had been sitting on our rock. At eight minutes past eight, the low moon seemed to give birth when a smaller, luminous globe emerged from its light. It drifted toward me, glowing so brightly I had to shield my eyes. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. A sudden ache of homesickness swept over me.

I had looked down at my watch: 8:08 p.m.

I sauntered home around eight-thirty. An hour later, the news came.

I’ve returned to the heart rock every night since. I arrive by 7:45, needing those few quiet minutes. Precisely at 8:08, that same shining globe appears, hovering near the ocean’s edge before veering softly toward me.

Jeff didn’t see it last night because he doesn’t believe. Besides, Mike doesn’t return for Jeff. He returns for me.

I’m the older twin. Mike was born eight minutes after me, at precisely 8:08 p.m. It was the exact time his heart stopped, too; I feel that in my heart. No one—not Mom, not Dad—realizes the significance, and I’ll never share my globe with anyone again.

I still have regrets. That night, three months ago, I should’ve donned my big-sister bonnet. I should’ve gripped my brother to my chest. I should never have let go.

 

***

 

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/

 

Backsies

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write something involving a globe. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers and the newly-released illustrated kids book Billy the Earthworm Finds His Courage.

Backsies

by Val Muller

Jillian stood at the front door, already able to hear the little devil without even trying. Glancing through the window, she could see that he was riding a tricycle through the house, screaming and flailing a pool noodle. She rang the doorbell and waited. At her feet, a twisted metal contraption. It looked like it might have once been a metal music stand, but now it was destined for the trash.

It reaffirmed her mission. Save the globe. Grandma would agree. She was sure of it.

She peeked in the front window again. Blink was there, staring at her. Why not let her in? Could he read her intent?

Finally, Audrey came to the front door, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Jilly?” she said, opening the door and greeting her sister with a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry for the unannounced visit. I was here for a work thing. It was supposed to run late and I didn’t think there’d be time, but the last presenter ended early, and I thought, why not stop by?” She made the briefest eye contact. Just enough to see if Audrey would buy the story. Just in case, Jillian had a fake agenda she’d made up, a list of sessions and topics. Audrey was not in the pharmaceutical industry, so hopefully little elaboration would be needed. The was best with lies. Keep them simple.

“Well come in. The house is a little messy.”

Jillian stepped in, and immediately, a pool noodle hit her on the back of the head. Blink stood there, next to the potted plant at the front door, holding the weapon.

“Blink, say hi to Aunt Jilly,” Audrey said.

Blink responded with another pool noodle whack to the head. But Jillian didn’t have time to worry about meting out justice. Not today. Her eyes already started scanning. The globe was here somewhere.

Last time she’s seen it, Blink had been using it as a golf ball. The apple-sized globe had looked dented, and when Jillian brought it up, Audrey had been quite dismissive. “Grandma would want it to be used, not sit on a shelf somewhere.” That’s what she’d said.

But the globe was old, a thin metal casing—a coin bank. It was meant to be used, but not as a ball.

Jillian did not have kids of her own, but she would someday. Well, someday less than nine months from now. She hadn’t told Audrey yet, but she was prepared to play that card if needed.

“Blink, if you want to hit me with a pool noodle, you’d better give me a weapon to fight back,” Jillian said. Both Audrey and Blink looked at her, puzzled. “What? Can’t Aunt Jilly do something fun?”

“What weapon?” Blink asked.

Jillian shrugged. “Let me choose one. Can you show me your toys? I’ll find the perfect one.”

Blink nodded and took her to the closet in the den. He pulled open the double barn doors. The closet was filled with dozens of drawers and shelves that, if used correctly, seemed like a parents’ pipe dream. But Blink seemed to shove everything everywhere haphazardly. Stuffed animals hung out of drawers, mixed with building blocks and water guns and even what appeared to be dirty socks.

The globe could be anywhere.

“Where are your toy weapons?” Jillian asked.

Blink shrugged. “Around.” He gestured to the closet, then bopped her on the head once more. “I’m gonna play video games til you’re ready.”

He skipped off, leaving the pool noodle at his feet. Jillian quickly shifted through several drawers, knowing Audrey would soon appear. The search was quick and expedient. The drawers were relatively shallow. The uniquely-shaped object would be easy to feel.

“Find a weapon yet?” Audrey said.

Jillian startled.

“Why not use that pool noodle? Blink’s done with it. He’s in video game land. He could play for hours.” Audrey shrugged. “Anyway, how about I make a pizza?”

“Sure, thanks,” Jillian said. “Can I help?”

She wrote off the toy closet as they walked to the kitchen. Of course, it could have fallen somewhere. Behind a couch, under something. It could also be in his room.

In the kitchen, she took off her jacket and draped it over the chair that held her bag. She’d chosen her messenger bag today. It went well with the story about the symposium she’d attended, but it was also large enough to contain the globe without suspicion.

If she found it.

The kitchen was relatively tidy, though Jillian searched the counters and the top of the refrigerator for the item. She almost brought it up, but that would raise suspicion. If she didn’t mention it and it disappeared, it might never be brought up again. As Jillian helped roll out the pizza dough, she thought of her own daughter—she could feel it in her bones that this was a girl—years in the future, sitting in her room, gently placing pennies into the globe coin bank. She would sing songs her great-grandmother used to sing, songs Jillian would teach her, and the globe would be a treasured object, a memory from past generations. Jillian wasn’t usually sentimental, and maybe it was the hormones, but she just couldn’t stand the idea of such a family heirloom being subjected to the carelessness of Rigley “Blink” Malloy.

But dinner prep was expedient, and the conversation focused on Audrey’s troubles at work. Jillian felt bad for interrupting. Blink was hardly a discussion companion, and Audrey’s husband was usually at work. She needed to vent, and that’s what sisters were for, right?

When the pizza was nearly ready, Jillian announced she was running to the bathroom.

“No, me first!” Blink shouted, out of nowhere. His video game stowed, he had somehow resecured possession of the pool noodle and used it as a prod to push Jillian away from the door.

Audrey offered a sorry smile. “Why don’t you go use the hallway bathroom upstairs?”

Jillian nodded.

The hallway bathroom was clearly Blink’s. Scattered towels and clothing littered the floor. Jillian sat to use the toilet and scanned the mess. Shoes, clothes, toys. No globe. She was about to give up when she searched the bath basket. There at the bottom, under a bar of soap and some rubber ducks, was the globe.

She stuck the globe in the beltline of her pants and covered it with her shirt. Her clothes were baggy, but you could definitely see a bulge. Would Audrey?

She hurried down the stairs, hands covering her stomach. She had to make it to her bag, but now Audrey and Blink were both seated at the table, watching her.

“You okay, Jilly?” her sister asked.

“Yes, I, um—” She didn’t know what to say.

“Your stomach hurt or something?”

“Um, not exactly.”

She turned her back to her sister and fumbled with her jacket on the chair.

“Are you cold? It’s so hot from the oven,” Audrey said.

“No, I just—”

Audrey stood to open a window, and Jillian took full advantage, untucking the globe from her belt and shoving it in her bag. She turned around just in time to meet Audrey’s gaze.

“What are you hiding?” Audrey asked, glancing at Jillian’s stomach.

Well, it was her trump card, after all. The globe was secure, and the truth would excuse the odd behavior. Jillian smiled and shaped her hands into the image of a heart, placed right there on her abdomen, right where the globe had just been hiding. “Audrey,” she said, “I have a secret to share.”

And she told her sister her news, knowing grandma would approve of the entire evening.

*** 

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

 

Extemporize

 

This month’s prompt is to write something summery. 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/.

 

Extemporize

by Phil Yeats

 

Their group leader and all but one participant perched on wooden chairs arrayed in a circle.

“… and in summary, that’s it,” said the lone standing participant with a grin, before nodding toward the group leader and reclaiming his chair.

“No, no, no!” said their leader. “I asked you to extemporize on summery, s-u-m-m-E-r-y, not summary. Try again.”

The participant’s chair legs scraped on the wooden floor as he regained his feet.

“Hot, sticky, so bright it makes me sneeze. You may like that summery feel, but I can do without it.”

“Perfect! Describes summery with a personal perspective and gives your reaction in twenty words. Who’s next?”

 

The session ended an hour later, and our hero, an involuntary participant who enjoyed baiting the group leader, hurried away. Most of the others remained to consume the tea and cookies provided by the social welfare department.

Outside the building in the bright sun, he sneezed six times. About average, he thought, as his eyes adjusted to the sun’s intense glare. A young woman stepped in front of him. He blinked four times as he tried to bring her image into focus.

“William Burke, don’t you recognize me?”

He blinked three more times. “Do now. I helped you get through your Math 100 course in first year. I hardly saw you in later years and never since.”

“Exactly, and we need to catch up. Can we, like, go to the Tim’s that’s just up the street for a coffee?”

“I guess. Or we could go back inside and drink the social welfare department’s tea.”

“Coffee at Tim’s would be better.”

 

“What can I do for you?” William asked when she placed two coffees on the small plastic table. “Not help with another math course.”

She laughed. “Your help with my program’s math requirement got me through first year. After that, I stumbled along, doing too much partying and too little studying. With my undistinguished BA, I got an entry-level government job in the social welfare department. I’ve moved up one rung in their world in seven years and been thrown over by two guys who I thought were the loves of my life.”

William held up his hand to interrupt her sob story. Mention of the social welfare depart made him wary. Telling him about being thrown over by lovers made him ready to flee. He was a loner, by choice, not by necessity, with a well-paid job, one that was interesting and occasionally challenging. Two side-hustles occupied his limited free time. The last thing he needed was a ‘commitment’.

“Where do I come into this story?” he asked.

“One of my jobs was to compile attendance records for our various sessions.”

“Including access to the ‘client’ files?”

She shook her head. “Just names, addresses, phone numbers, and whether they are voluntary or involuntary participants…”

Her hesitation meant she had something else to say, something she was reluctant to mention. “But?”

“I overheard your group leader calling you antisocial, uncooperative, and aggressive.”

“Asocial rather than antisocial, but their lexicon doesn’t appear to include that word. I enjoy baiting that fool of a social worker, so I suppose that could lead to calling me uncooperative, but aggressive? No way, I’m aggressive. I live my life my way and I always avoid causing anyone any trouble.”

“But your file says no fixed address, but you’re obviously not a homeless person. How do you explain that?”

He sighed after finishing the coffee she’d bought him. “An aspect of my desire to live a simple life alone, without complications. I can’t explain it in a few minutes.”

“Then tonight, after I get off work. You choose the place and I’ll pay.”

He shook his head. “Tonight at seven would work for me, but you choose and I’ll pay.”

 

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/

 

My New Kona

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write something “summery.” This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. And, alas, she’s three days late! That’s summer for you!

Cathy’s writings have been published in over four hundred print and online publications.

Check out her website (www.writingwicket.wordpress.com) for more information.

 

*** 

My New Kona

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Gleaming bright in the afternoon sun,

I want to protect it—my new car—

as I would one of my babes,

for the sun fades colours, leaving

them not-so-gleaming.

 

It won’t happen immediately. No, it

takes time. How much, I do not know.

But the couch and bedspreads in my house

have faded, and fade is something you

don’t realize until long after it happens,

and then it’s too late.

 

I loved the unique orangey comforter in the

guest room, the two once-matching shams

now a different shade than the rest.

I loved my blue-grey couch in the TV room.

I still do—love them both—but both bear the

unforgiving intrusion of sunlight through glass.

 

I need low-E glass with a high block against

UV rays and infrared light.

Who knew?

Not me.

Not that I built this house or had a choice.

But next time—

if enough summers are sent my way.

 

So… I worry about my new car, about “mirage

green” morphing into something I won’t like,

for I waited forever for this particular colour.

Didn’t matter the model or specs; it was the

shade that drew me across the car lots.

 

Originally, I told Hubby I’d leave the car out

for the summer, put it away daily in winter

against the weather. But who knew about the

insidious work of the sun?

Not I.

The car is a week old. How long before

the sun wreaks its havoc on the paint?

 

I’ve been treating it carefully, parking a

mile away from stores and racing through

rain to keep a stray door from banging against

it; forbidding snacks inside; admonishing

grands to keep grubby, inquisitive fingers

on their laps and dirty-souled feet flat and

unmoving on the rubber mat.

 

Yesterday, I suggested—discreetly—that if

Hubs ever needed to buy me a gift, he could

get me a dash cam.

Why? he asked.

To protect my car against irrational drivers,

I said.

He looked at me, bewildered, uncomprehending.

It’ll help our insurance, I added. We’ll have those

losers on camera. We can prove we weren’t at fault.

His face glowed at those words, bright as the sun

high above.

 

Oh, the summer sun. We crave it all winter, pray

for it through the rain, and then spend all

summer searching for a spot in the shade.

***

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/ 

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com

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

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