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/

 

Rowdy

This month's prompt is to write something summery. 

This week's tale comes to us from Val Muller. Check out her newest work, the illustrated children's book Billy the Earthworm Finds His Courage. 

Rowdy

by Val Muller

Bill and Robbie sat by the pool, nursing the $22 rum buckets they bought. $19.50 with the senior discount. 

Bill remembered years ago when he and Helen used to split two or three of them. Then when they had kids, they would be lucky to split just one, maybe, during a good vacation week when the kids were especially cooperative. Then the kids grew up. They traded rum buckets for golfing and shopping and sightseeing. Then Helen got sick, and Bill was too sad to drink. 

With Maggie gone now, Robbie was in the same boat, and the two agreed to go on vacation together, a widowers' retreat so to speak. 

It felt strange. Of course without Helen or Maggie, there was no one to meticulously plan the days, to pack for contingencies, to keep Bill well behaved. But there was no reason to misbehave, either. Helen, his reason for all, was gone. 

For the first two days, the men stayed by the pool, went looking for seashells, and went grocery shopping for the room. But they grew more comfortable, and the echo if bachelorhood resounded in their hearts. Hence, the rum buckets. It felt fun. It felt adventurous and irresponsible. 

It felt good. 

In the pool, a group of high schoolers were tossing a football around. They were loud and boisterous. Their play was the definition of horseplay, roughhousing, and ball sports, all actions forbidden according to the set of rules posted on the wall, the ones Bill had read at least three times due to lulls in the conversation. 

Helen would have texted the front desk and reported the boys. They had, after all, taken over the whole pool, and several parents of small children looked terrorized, clinging to the edges of the pool to protect their young ones from a stray football. 

Bill looked at Robbie. He had just taken a sip of his rum, and the football landed a foot from him. Robbie looked at Bill. 

"Come on, old man!" the rowdiest of the boys shouted. 

Robbie didn't move. He just took another sip. 

Bill shifted his weight in the beach chair. 

"Hey, old man, you hard of hearing?" The rowdy teenager crossed his arms and stared from in the pool. Was he mocking the stance of an old man? What did he know about aging?

Bill almost chuckled. It was funny. He knew he was old. He felt old. He looked old every time his reflection stared back at him. But a part of him was still a kid, still a teenager. A part of him would never accept his age.

Before he or Robbie could respond, a security guard arrived. He beelined to the pool and said something to the footballers. Bill looked around, trying to guess which parent had texted the front desk to report the teens. The boys groaned and cursed, but they got out. The angry one pulled himself out of the pool effortlessly, with muscles he took for granted, with ligaments that knew no fatigue. No aches or pains or groans. 

"Keep the ball, old man," the boy told Robbie. "It wasn't even mine."

The security guard walked by. He sighed and looked at Bill and Robbie. "Kids," he said. 

The man looked to be about Bill's age, maybe a few years younger. Maybe this resort security job was his retirement, a way to keep young and active. 

"He's who we always complained about," Bill said to Robbie after the security guy moved on.

Robbie picked up the football. "Years ago, we WERE those boys." He reached with his spare hand for his drink but then stopped. He took the football in both hands. He tossed it to Bill. 

They were only a few feet away, and instinctively, Bill caught it and tossed it back. Made eye contact. "No ball play," he said, half joking.

"We're just two old men," he said. Then he stood up. Tossed the ball again to Bill.

Bill caught it and stood up. Tossed it back to Robbie, who also stood.

He saw Helen look at him with that little wink that was a little judgment but mostly admiration. She would have said, "Bill, no ball play," or maybe, "why don't you two do that on the beach?"

But then he saw her younger. Before kids. She may well have jumped right into the pool and motioned for the ball. His mental image of her was replaced by another--an older man in the pool. And he WAS clapping, motioning for the ball.

"I played linebacker in high school," the man said. 

Bill tossed the ball back to Robbie. The security guy had disappeared, likely making his rounds elsewhere. Robbie tossed the ball back to Bill and nodded to the man in the pool. Bill chucked the ball at him. It was the perfect catch. Bill hurried to the edge of the pool and jumped in. The old man in the pool snapped the ball to him just as Robbie did a cannonball to join them. 

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/

Elsa Mon and the Case of the Impossible Paperwork

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story in which someone pugnacious plays a major role.

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.

Elsa Mon and the Case of the Impossible Paperwork

by Chiara De Giorgi

Created with Mistral AI

Dramatis Personae:

Elsa Mon: young intern at The Willow Gazette; teacher of creative writing; aspiring romance novel author. Can see and interact with ghosts and supernatural creatures. 
The Squatters: a community of ghosts dwelling in the abandoned house at the southern border of town. 
Sister Elena of Cremona: the ghost of an Italian nun who died by tumbling down a stair in the convent after stepping on a buttered slice of bread.
Olga: the ghost of a KGB assassin who died after drinking a poison-laced shot of vodka.
The Stranger: a shapeshifter who can turn into any object or living being.

 ***

Elsa had never seen stacks of paper so tall. Judging by their precarious balance, the only way to keep them from toppling was to never touch them—which explained why the town offices were so slow to process anything.

For months, she’d been juggling her internship at The Willow’s Gazette and the creative writing class she taught at the library. But no matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t keep up with the costs of the old house she’d inherited from her grandmother. That house was the last tie to her family, and the thought of losing it broke her heart. So, she’d decided to apply for every grant and historical preservation fund she could find. There was just one catch: for her house to qualify, it first needed to be officially listed as a historical building. And no one, until Elsa, had ever bothered to do that. Thus, she found herself trapped in the bureaucratic hellscape of endless paperwork.

The list of required documents was absurd. Every time she visited an office, ticking off the items on the latest list provided by some sleepy clerk, she’d be told something new was missing—or, just as maddeningly, that she’d included something unnecessary (though she’d learned by now never to throw anything away, as another clerk might demand it later).

Leaving the county offices with her head spinning and her arms full of even more paperwork, she decided to stop by the Squatters before heading home.

“Hmm.”

This was Sister Elena of Cremona’s comment after Elsa showed her the new list of documents required to classify the house as “historical.”

Elsa sighed and gratefully accepted a shot of vodka from Olga, ex-KGB assassin and Sister Elena’s best friend.

“If you’d like, I could take care of a couple of those clerks,” Olga offered. “You’ll see, the next one will accept whatever you give them, even if it’s just your Mickey Mouse sticker collection.”

Elsa nearly choked on her vodka. “No, no, thank you… I don’t think that’s, uh, necessary.”

“You think it’s too much? I could just rough them up a bit.”

“Olga, come on, you know that’s not right,” Sister Elena interjected. “What if they ask Elsa for more documents to prove she didn’t do it?” She chuckled.

Elsa groaned. “That’s definitely possible.” After a pause, she added, “It’s just that time is slipping through my fingers. I’m behind on payments, and if I don’t get Grandma’s house listed as historical, they’ll take it away before I can even apply for financial support.” Her eyes welled up.

“There, there,” said Sister Elena. “You just need a little… heavenly help.” She looked piously upward and clasped her hands.

“If only!” Elsa sighed, wiping her eyes.

“For starters, this list is ridiculous,” Sister Elena continued. “Listen to this: A 2,000-word essay detailing the house’s cultural and historical significance to the town, with bibliographic references.”

“Well, Elsa works at the library and writes for a newspaper. That shouldn’t be too hard,” Olga objected, cleaning her nails with a dagger at least 4 inches long.

“Whose side are you on?” Elsa protested.

“Sure, Elsa could do it,” Sister Elena said, “but why should she waste her time?”

“Instead of working on my romance novel…”

“Ah, right!” Sister Elena clapped her hands. “Where are you up to? Has the writer protagonist realized his goose quill is actually his muse in love with him?”

“No spoilers!” Olga yelled, covering her ears.

Elsa shook her head slightly at Sister Elena.

“Let’s keep going with the list!” Olga ordered. “What else do these bureaucrats want?”

Sister Elena cleared her throat and read on: “The original architectural blueprints of the house, signed by the builder. And a report from a certified engineer attesting that the house hasn’t collapsed in the last 200 years and isn’t likely to in the future.”

“Don’t you have a real estate agent in your creative writing class?” Olga asked. “I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”

“True!” Elsa said, brightening as she jotted a note on her phone.

“Anything else?”

“Ah, listen to this: The names and addresses of all previous owners.”

Olga burst out laughing. “Imagine how fun it’ll be to discover they all live at the same address: the Willow Cemetery!”

“So, what can I do?” Elsa groaned. “Of all the times for the Stranger to leave! She always knows how to convince people to do what she wants.”

Sister Elena stood up, all five feet of her, and looked Elsa in the eye. “I’ll help you. These absurd requests will disappear, or my name isn’t Sister Elena of Cremona!” She raised her arms to the sky, letting a cascade of documents flutter to the floor.

When Elsa returned to the county offices with her folder stuffed with the previously rejected documents, Sister Elena went with her. She was certain they’d leave victorious, with the paperwork approved and Grandma’s house officially listed as historical.

The clerk who greeted them looked sleepy and uninterested. Elsa flashed a dazzling smile to him and handed over the folder. He began flipping through it with extreme boredom. When he reached the end, he looked up and said, “You’re missing the certification of the original paint used on the exterior walls, verified by a historical color analyst. Oh, and signed statements from at least three neighbors confirming the house’s historical value. Not to mention—”

At that moment, a loud boom made him jump. Sister Elena giggled. Creating noises in people’s heads was a skill she’d recently discovered by accident. Then she whispered in the clerk’s ear, “Let it go. Accept the documents without objection, and nothing bad will happen to you.”

The clerk jumped again and looked around, terrified.

“Everything alright?” Elsa asked sweetly.

“I… The… Uh… Certifi—”

Another boom and the voice in his ear: “Maybe you didn’t understand. We can keep this up forever, or we can end it now.”

The clerk swallowed and looked at Elsa, who continued smiling innocently.

“Now that you mention it,” he said, clearing his throat, “those documents I mentioned…”

“Yes?” Elsa blinked.

“They’re no longer needed,” Sister Elena suggested. “The rules have changed.”

“They’re no longer needed!” the clerk exclaimed, brightening. “The rules have changed!”

He grabbed a stamp and began furiously stamping every page, his sleepiness and boredom vanished.

“So, is everything in order?”

The man nodded, still stamping with energy. Finally, he handed Elsa a gold-embossed certificate declaring her grandmother’s house officially historical.

“Come back anytime!” he said with exaggerated enthusiasm, waving as Elsa left.

“Oh, I will,” she replied, waving back. Then, under her breath to Sister Elena: “That is, never again.”

Sister Elena chuckled.

That evening, the Squatters threw a party. Olga brought the vodka, Sister Elena recited a prayer (or possibly a curse, that was unclear), and for the first time in months, Elsa felt slightly less overwhelmed.

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

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

Doug the Pug

 Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story using the word/concept “pugnacious.” 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/.

 

 Doug the Pug

by Phil Yeats

 Douglas MacAdoo had been labelled ‘Doug the Pug’ by one of his junior high classmates, but no one would address him that way because he was the schoolyard bully. The moniker made sense because pugilistic and pugnacious were words that described his behaviour. I thought it was unfair to pugs. Those funny little dogs with wrinkly flat faces and bulldog shapes were, according to Wikipedia, gentle and friendly creatures. I might have called him ‘Doug the Slug’ if I called him anything, but I tried to avoid him at all costs.

I was always the smallest kid in my class, the proverbial 98-pound weakling, and to make matters worse, I stuttered at the first sign of a stressful situation. The perfect target for the class bully. I withdrew into a shell, focusing on my schoolwork, which I was good at, and avoiding sports or any involvement in the teenage culture of our school.

When I went to college, I thought I could put all that behind me, but it was too ingrained. I continued to be an outsider, afflicted with terminal stuttering, but at the top of my class academically. My goal was medical school, and I had the marks, but I failed miserably at the interviews that were required to gain entry. I blamed Doug the Slug, but it was probably unfair—I was a social misfit before I encountered him.

It all worked out in the end. I got a good job in a small pharmaceutical lab working with doctors and lab personnel who put up with my occasional fits of stuttering. This story came full circle on one hot summer day when the receptionist, a young woman who seemed comfortable with my foibles, phoned.

“Hey Ty, how’s it going?” Hannah said. “I have a bicycle courier here with a package you ordered. He won’t let me sign for it.”

I hurried to the lobby, happy for the opportunity to spend a few minutes talking to Hannah. I immediately recognized the courier. It was Douglas McAdoo, someone I hadn’t seen for ten years. Dirty and sweaty from riding a bike in the chaos of the urban streets on a hot day, he looked thoroughly downtrodden and much more than ten years older than when I’d last seen him.

I signed for my package, and he trudged away with stooped shoulders.

“What’s with that guy?” Hannah asked. “I sign for everyone’s packages. Why should that one be different?”

“I knew that guy in high school. Star athlete, king of the student mountain, but not much of a student. He probably expected me to be a downtrodden techie.”

“And it wasn’t to be. He was facing our up-and-coming star, soon to be manager of our laboratories.”

“Hardly. Managing one scientist’s research project is enough for me.”

She beamed, and I panicked.

“I-I’d b-better get back to the l-lab.” I held up my package. “We’ve been w-waiting for this to arrive.”

Her phone rang, and I scurried away.

 

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/