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/

 

Caught in the Act

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

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.

 

***

 Caught in the Act 

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

I was caught unawares when Fred suddenly appeared at the desk and shrieked, “What are you doing?”

I felt my face go hot. My arms fell to my sides like limp noodles—though I was unaware they’d fallen until I snapped them up into a defensive cross to protect my face.

Fred slammed one hand on the desk, leaning over me like a boxer waiting for the bell. No, he was my husband; he wouldn’t actually strike me. But he sure looked like he wanted to.

Still, I’d been caught in the act. And by my husband, the one person I always wanted to impress.

“What are you doing?” he barked again, towering over me.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, surprised I could even speak through the thick dough in my throat.

He glared at me, his jaw working as he scanned the desk, his eyes locking onto the evidence. “Nothing? You call tearing through a dozen donuts like a starved dog ‘nothing’?” He pointed at the open box.

Funny, though. Hearing his booming, combative voice echo through the room, my guilt suddenly vanished. I had been on a diet for three weeks. I hadn’t eaten dinner the previous evening, nor had I eaten breakfast that morning. I was starving; I had to eat, and there was nothing else but those donuts. I couldn’t leave the office, not when I was manning the premises. And the boss’s wife couldn’t starve, could she?

He didn’t wait for an answer. He threw up his hands in disgust and marched down the hall to his office.

I slumped into the chair, swallowed the mush in my mouth, and licked my fingers, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I was filling in at Fred’s company while the receptionist was ill, something I did on occasion. I didn’t do much besides answer the phone and offer greetings when someone entered the building. Quite boring, actually. I’d much sooner be home doing my own thing, but I felt it was my wifely duty to help in his time of need.

And this was how he thanked me?

I was devastated he’d caught me in the act. I almost cried but then reconsidered. What good would tears accomplish except to run my mascara and ruin my foundation? And what had I done, really? I hadn’t stolen company funds, nor had I snooped into financials. No, I had simply been caught—literally—with my hands in the cookie jar, to use a cliché.

But it was Fred’s fault! He had practically dared me by leaving the box of confectionary goodness with me at the front desk earlier that morning. “Help yourself,” he had said, dropping the box on the desk. He snickered, leaning in close. “Smell good, don’t they?” he’d taunted before disappearing, quite aware I possessed no willpower.

We’d been married for almost forty years. Shouldn’t he have clued in to my faults by now? Or was he just looking for an excuse to pick a fight?

Yep, you guessed it. I didn’t take those luscious, mouth-watering globs of goodness out back to the guys in the warehouse as I’d been instructed. Fred wasn’t supposed to have returned until early afternoon when he was going to take me to lunch. He’d never have known had he stuck to his schedule. While pigging out, I’d rationalized I’d order a diet soda and salad.

 Minutes later, he returned. “I can’t believe it,” he hissed. “You ate ten of them? Those were for the warehouse crew! Do you have any idea how hard those guys work?”

I looked inside the box, truly stunned to see two lonely donuts. Had I eaten ten? How many calories had I consumed?

I knew I was wrong, but his bullying crossed the line. If he wanted to treat me like an adversary, I might as well act like one.

While he watched, I reached into the box, grabbed the jelly-filled one instead of the old-fashioned plain, looked him dead in the eyes, and took a massive, defiant bite.

“Too late for the box to go to the warehouse now,” I said through a mouthful of filling. “Ten hulking guys couldn’t share two anyway. And now there’s only one.”

His face turned a deep crimson, but the sweet mixture instantly soothed any feelings of inadequacy. Gah, they were so good! Lunch was damned; I’d take donuts over a salad any day.

Fred would eventually calm down. He always did.

 

***

 

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/

 

 

Pugnacious

 Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story using the word/concept “pugnacious.” This week’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit Corgi Capers series, and it’s three days late due to a combination of Val’s wedding anniversary, the Fourth of July, and a real-life toddler, a 24/7 inspiration for this tale. 

 

Pugnacious

by Val Muller

 

The car idled in the garage while Geoff ran in for the juice. 

“Blue cup,” the terror chanted from the back seat. “Blue cup.” 

“Yes,” Mel said. “Daddy’s getting the blue cup.” 

“Apple juicy, apple juicy, in a blue cuppy, in a blue cuppy,” the toddler sang. 

Mel went through the list – they had the bag of magnatiles, the bunny—the gray one with the blue socks, not the white one, not like last time—they had the sneakers packed away for whenever the dinosaur slippers proved to be a bad choice of footwear, they had diapers, they had pull-ups, they had underwear. They had forgotten juice, but Geoff was remedying that right now. 

What worried her, though, was that the morning had been peaceful. Much too peaceful. Potty training that day with a 100% success rate. No accidents, no demands for pullups instead of underwear. The only issue had been the wearing of the dinosaur slippers instead of sneakers, and that was a battle Geoff and Mel quickly conceded, one not worth fighting. Other than that—peace. Usually there would be three meltdowns by now.  

The pugnacious one was saving her meltdown for later – possibly during Billy’s concert. 

The K-2 showcase would last maybe 25 minutes, tops. But Mel had a bad feeling the toddler was waiting for those exact 25 minutes to be her worst. And of course, Mel’s sister would wonder why Mel’s kid could not behave for a mere 25 minutes to see her cousin sing in the end-of-the-year chorus concert. Mel’s parents would think the toddler was a terror for ruining her cousin’s concert. It would end, like it always did, with Mel or Geoff outside at the playground, entertaining the toddler while the rest of the humans stayed inside and did civilized human things.

Mel sighed just as Geoff came back with the cup. 

“That’s the teal cup,” Mel said in a whisper. “She said blue.” 

Geoff said, “It’s blue.” 

Darn men’s inability to distinguish the color palette, Mel thought. In the rear-view mirror, Mel caught the toddler’s eye reflecting in her baby mirror, looking through the rear-view mirror at the cup in question. Hers was like the great seeing eye of Mordor. It saw all, and it judged—oh, did it judge. 

“That’s teal, dad,” the toddler said matter-of-factly. 

“Oh,” Geoff said. “I guess daddy still doesn’t know his colors.” He paused. This could go south quickly. 

The toddler shrugged. “You’ll be a big kid one day, daddy,” she said, then reached out for the cup. “Teal’s fine.”

Mel and Geoff exchanged looks of worry, then surprise, as the toddler took the cup and drank from it without so much as a glance at its color. 

“Maybe she’s outgrowing the terrible twos,” Geoff said. 

Mel doubted it. The terrible twos were a misnomer. They started before two, that was for sure, and they often went up to three, sometimes four years old. She had researched it. Something about brain development and small problems having the same impact as big ones. Something about asking for a hot dog, then crying because you are brought…a hot dog. Something about melting down if your dad brings you a teal cup instead of a blue one. 

Only this time it didn’t matter. 

Geoff backed the car out of the drive, and Mel turned on the radio. She immediately braced herself for an onslaught of toddler pouting. Usually, Mel couldn’t get the proper songs loaded in time to avert a barrage of squeals and demands. 

Sting was playing on the radio. 

The car was silent. There were no protests. Mel enjoyed the refrains of a grown-up song for once. She and Geoff exchanged glances. “Maybe she’s outgrowing—” 

“Shhh,” Mel insisted. “Don’t jinx it!” 

The drive to the elementary school was uneventful, all 45 minutes of it. Normally, there were numerous complaints, from screaming at Geoff to drive while stopped at a red light to demands to stop and watch birds. 

But today—not a peep. She remained engaged with her teal-colored apple juice cup and her baby mirror. 

By the time they pulled into the school, Mel let her guard down. “Maybe she is outgrowing the terrible twos,” she whispered. “Now let’s go watch Billy.” 

*

An hour later, Mel, frazzled, pressed the toddler’s rigid body enough to bend it into the car seat. “No, momeeeeeeeeeeey!” the pugnacious one screamed. “Ball! Ball!” A dinosaur slipper hit Mel in the shoulder as the buckle snapped into place. 

As predicted, she had melted down just as the elementary school chorus teacher was introducing the show. Geoff tried to grab her and rock her, but it was too late. She had been napless, teal-cupped, and quiet for too long. She was bottled-up seltzer water, and she was heavily shaken. 

Outside at the playground, a group of middle school boys had been playing basketball. They had never seen an angry toddler before, but her demands were no match for their preteen angst, and they did not give her the ball as requested.

The toddler went nuclear. 

Her explosion sent her to the small kid playground, terrorizing the small children there. It took everything Mel had to keep her away from other humans and keep her away from self destruction. 

The buckles snapped, Mel worked to put the dinosaur slipper back on the restrained toddler. 

“You sure you don’t want to come for ice cream?” Mel’s sister asked from the parking lot, patting Billy on the head. “We told Billy we’d take him out for doing such a good job. He’s so well behaved,” she added.  

“No, I don’t think she could handle ice cream just now—” The words had barely escaped Mel’s lips when the toddler went quiet. 

She turned to Mel with a pugnacious look, all rage stifled for the moment. “I do want ice cream, and if I don’t have some, I will scream.” As if to punctuate her intent, she pushed her foot all the way into the dinosaur slipper and smiled like the epitome of innocence. 

Mel looked at Geoff, and Geoff looked at Mel. 

“Terrible twos,” they sighed and got into the car, hoping for a peaceful round of ice cream. 

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/

 

The Lighthouse Love Potion

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt: your character looks outside the window and sees something strange.

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 Lighthouse Love Potion

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

Created with Mistral

Elsa Mon was questioning the wisdom of spending the night at an abandoned lighthouse for inspiration for her current work-in-progress, a romance set on a little island whose male lead was a lighthouse keeper.

The Stranger had convinced her. She’d appointed herself Elsa’s literary tutor and insisted a night at a lighthouse would be perfect for inspiration. Only, she hadn’t mentioned it was abandoned. She’d actually told her she’d booked one!

Anyway, now they were there, and Elsa was determined to make the most of it. Night was falling, and a soft, nice breeze was blowing as they sat together on the gallery, watching the darkening sea and sky behind the rusty railing and chatting about possible plots.

When the sky and sea had darkened into one, and the breeze turned too cold, they decided to head inside for the night. But as they stepped through the door, they heard a rustling.

That’s when they noticed two evanescent figures floating mid-air just beyond the gallery railing. Elsa should’ve been used to ghostly sights by now, but she still jumped whenever a supernatural creature materialized out of thin air. The Stranger, instead, warmly welcomed the newcomers.

“It’s so nice to meet some locals!” she chirped. “Why don’t you tell us about yourselves? I bet this’ll be gold for your novel,” she whispered to Elsa, tugging her cardigan sleeve.

That’s how they ended up sitting on the floor, chatting with Marina, the dead mermaid, and Rob, the dead lighthouse keeper, and learning how they had become best buddies instead of stepping into the light and moving on to the Afterlife.

“If I moved on to my Afterlife,” Marina explained, “I’d never, ever have learned how to smoke a pipe, and it’s so much fun! Look!”

She pulled a pipe out of nowhere and popped it into her mouth. Immediately, smoke rings shaped like fish started rising from it, following the breeze and slowly dissolving into the night sky.

Rob laughed and slapped his hand on his thigh. “I’d never have believed it, but it’s more fun to watch her play with that pipe than it ever was to actually smoke it when I was alive! And, by the way, she taught me how to sing. Want to hear?” And he proceeded to sing an opera piece with a booming baritone voice.

Elsa was speechless, but the Stranger was delighted, clapping her hands and laughing. She elbowed Elsa.

“Come on, ask them questions! You know,” she added, turning to the ghosts, “she’s a writer, and her next novel is going to be set on a little island with a pretty lighthouse, just like this one!”

Marina and Rob made delighted noises and offered to share their stories on one condition: Elsa had to include their names in the acknowledgments.

“Would you like to know how I died?” Marina asked. “It’s quite the funny story,” she said, chuckling.

“It really is,” whispered Rob, winking, “but wait until you hear how I died... that’s even better!”

“Tell us, tell us!” cried the Stranger, excited. Her enthusiasm finally reached Elsa, who shook herself and pulled a pad and pencil out of her pockets to take notes.

“I used to lurk around the island because I knew that sometimes lighthouse keepers forget to turn the light on. When that happened, boats usually crashed on the rocks, and I’d be able to pick one or two sailors for myself. You know, to enchant them with my singing and lure them to the bottom of the sea. Mermaid things. One night, I found a sailor I really liked, so I decided to keep him alive.” She sighed, a sweet smile stretching her lips. “My one and only love, Rudy. I brought him to the bottom of the sea to live with me, enchanting his lungs so he wouldn’t need to breathe. I could never leave his side, though, because he kept trying to get away.” She chuckled at the memory and shook her head. “Such a playful fellow! I’d run and I’d chase him until I caught him. It was our love game, I adored him so much! One day, he managed to trick me and I ended up on the shore without realizing it, where I promptly turned into foam. He was such a clever guy! I’m still impressed by his wit every time I think of it.”

Elsa cleared her throat. “But... he killed you.”

Marina’s eyes brightened. “Yes, he did! My clever, clever Rudy! Not a day goes by without me thinking about his incredible intellect. It’s no easy feat to outsmart a mermaid, especially for a sailor! Wasn’t I the luckiest of them all? My sweet Rudy...”

“Well, if you’re happy and have happy memories, this clearly worked for you,” the Stranger said, nudging Elsa.

Elsa snapped out of her daze and smiled. Marina’s story had left her a little stunned, but her mind was already racing with ideas for her novel. A novel where death couldn’t crush true love: of course she could use that trope! It was, after all, one of her favorites.

“And you?” she asked Rob, now leaning in.

“Ah, I have a love story to tell you, too!” he said, closing his eyes for a moment. “The lady I wanted to impress was called Sally. I met her in the village and noticed she was intrigued by me working at the lighthouse, so I invited her over for dinner one night. Marina and I were already friends, and I told her about my date. I was a bit nervous, as I’ve never been a great cook... so Marina taught me a recipe that was guaranteed to make my lady fall for me.”

He glanced sideways at Marina, and they both chuckled.

“What happened?” Elsa asked, planning to ask for the recipe before they parted. You never know when something like this might come in handy.

Rob sighed and shook his head. “Well... we both ‘fell,’ you could say. That fabulous dish turned out to be poisonous, and we both died after just a few bites.”

“Oh.” Elsa wouldn’t ask for the recipe, after all.

“The lady was quite angry,” he went on.

“She was positively pissed off,” Marina laughed.

“Yeah,” confirmed Rob, smiling broadly. “She threw a fit, then stomped into the light. And that was it.”

“Why did you stay? You could have gone with her,” Elsa objected.

“She wouldn’t have anything to do with me, even if I did,” Rob pointed out. “I like to stay at the lighthouse. They didn’t hire a replacement after I died, so it’s very quiet and pleasant. And I like spending time with Marina, talking about things, and reminiscing about the past. Love is a great topic, you know?”

Elsa smiled broadly. “Oh, I do, believe me!”

Dawn broke, and Marina and Rob yawned, their forms turning translucent. “We’re going to sleep now. Thanks for the company!” They disappeared like fog, leaving behind a few sparks that vanished with the sun’s first rays.

Elsa stretched and looked at the Stranger with a mischievous smile and a bright light in her eyes. “Come on, let’s go home. I have a story to write! And the tile will be The Lighthouse Love Potion!”

 

 

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/

Reunion

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt: your character looks outside the window and sees something strange. 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/.

 

Reunion

by Phil Yeats

 

David Clarke glanced out his living room window as he savoured the last of his morning coffee. A young man with a small dog attracted his attention. It was his son, Davey.

David had seen or heard from Davey since he stormed from the family home ten years earlier when he was eighteen. Should he go out and greet his wayward son? Or hold off and gather more data?

He chose the latter, locked the front door, and avoided looking across the street as he got into his car and drove away. He parked around the bend and walked back.

His front door was ajar. The white dog with tightly curled fur was tied to the porch railing. And Davey? He must be inside.

David found his son standing on a kitchen chair and reaching a small plastic box down from on top of the upper cabinets. It was little-used space, and things tucked to the back were invisible to anyone standing on the floor. Davey stepped off the chair and stood with it between him and his father. Did he view this meeting as an encounter, not a reunion?

“So, Davey, or should I call you David, what brings you home?”

“I’m going by my stage name, Arthur Cochrane, so Art or Arthur.”

“Arthur, after your maternal grandfather, and Cochrane, your mother’s maiden name. Does that mean you blame me for the disintegration of our family?”

“No, Celia and I know the way Mother had to have her way on everything was the reason.”

“But I could have tried harder to support your efforts. But I repeat my question. What brings you home now?”

“Passport. I need it for our upcoming tour.”

David furrowed his brow. “But that passport would be thirteen years old. Long since expired.”

“When I left, I had no clear path. Thought I’d be living rough. Mother offered to keep stuff like my passport and birth certificate safe for me. I came back and retrieved it before our first tour, and renewed it since, but left it here for safekeeping.”

“Why?”

Davey looked at the floor, unwilling to make eye contact. “I took her offer as an attempt to make peace without admitting she drove me away, but after I returned and she insisted I leave my new passport with her for safekeeping, I realized it was an attempt to maintain control of my life. I had a key, and I knew where she kept my stuff. It let her imagine she was still in control.”

“You didn’t come to Cecelia’s wedding, or attend your mother’s funeral?”

“I didn’t attend Celia’s wedding because we were on tour, but I avoided Mother’s funeral. I would have caused a ruckus and probably regretted it.”

“And you’re in contact with Cecelia?”

“She’s fine. Two children, cute little guys who are full of mischief. And a side hustle, an influencer with a podcast about dealing with difficult family relationships.”

“And you. Was this visit your effort to mend relations with me?” When Davey nodded, David continued. “Then why did you wait until I left for work?”

“Fear you’d reject my attempt,” Davey said as he pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket. “Two tickets to our send-off concert before we start our tour. Celia will be there, and I hope you’ll come.”

 

Davey, or should he now call him Arthur, left a few minutes later, taking the box with him. David stared at the two VIP tickets for a concert on Friday night at the city’s premier concert hall.

He thought about his life and the way he’d let his children down. He couldn’t blame his wife, at least not entirely. His parents had pushed him away from his interest in art to a living as an investment banker who dabbled in painting on the side. Long hours at work meant time spent on his side interest withered.

When he married and they had children, his long hours meant insufficient time with his kids. She was partly to blame, being attracted to the up-and-coming business executive and confident she could manage the kids. That was a cop-out. The only time he insisted on anything related to their high-society lifestyle. He insisted on the architectural gem he still lived in, when she would have preferred one of the six thousand square foot mausoleums others in their social set lived in. They had swimming pools and tennis courts and acres of manicured lawns and gardens tended by hired staff. David had a small lot and gardens designed to complement his unique house.

A little later than his usual unbusinesslike hours, he ambled into the commercial art gallery where he had studio space and showed Jenn Jefferson, his business partner, the tickets. “Know anything about this band?”

“Jesus, David, get your head out of your paint pots. Kaleidoscope is the biggest thing since April Wine left Halifax in 1970. And VIP tickets. You must have a connection to get these.”

“My son, he goes by the name Arthur Cochrane, gave them to me.”

“The keyboardist. Yeah, I see the resemblance, and he’s good. Well, they’re all good, but you can tell he had classical training.”

She returned the tickets. Did he detect a whimsical look as she passed them over? “You seem to know a lot about this band.” He held up a ticket. “You want to attend the concert?”

 

***

 

The Spot Writers:

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

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

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

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

 

The Umbrella Man

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story in which someone looks out the window and sees something unusual. This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn.

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

 ***

 The Umbrella Man

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Ellen stared at her bowl of soup, her early dinner. Chicken noodle soup, but it was more like broth with a shit-load of smushed noodles. She had yet, in all her years of eating chicken noodle soup, to find a smidgen of anything that remotely resembled or tasted like chicken. Now that she was eighty-one, she decided soup issues weren’t really worth distressing over. She pushed the bowl aside and looked out the window instead.

That was when she saw him.

A man stood perfectly still on the sidewalk across the street, directly beneath the large oak in front of the Ryder house. He wore a purple suit and a hat—the old-fashioned kind with a proper brim—and he was holding an open umbrella above his head despite the sky being a flawless ocean of blue. Not one cloud, rain or otherwise. Perhaps he was protecting himself from the sun’s rays, Ellen thought, not that much of his flesh was exposed.

She leaned forward in her chair, watching more intently.

But he wasn’t doing anything. Not even looking at a cellphone as mostly everyone seemed to do in this day and age. Perhaps he didn’t own one; she didn’t and was quite aware she was in the minority. The nearest bus stop was two blocks away. He was alone, simply standing straight-backed and motionless, the bright red umbrella casting a perfect circle of shade around him.

He reminded her of the man in Peter Max’s famous The Umbrella Man, the recurring figure in that painting and others: a Felliniesque figure, with coat, hat, and umbrella rendered in a bevy of colours. (She had taken note of the word Felliniesque from Max’s website, rather liking the unique word.) His rendition of the man never had a head, however, and the bowler hat would magically sit on air, above the figure and below the tell-tale umbrella. When her husband George had been alive, they’d cruised often, and she’d attend the onboard art exhibits and talks. When Max’s works were displayed, they were always the centre of attention. He was among her favourite painters, and the vibrant colours of his paintings never ceased to amaze her.

Of course, the man across the street wasn’t the Umbrella Man, as colourful as he was. She wasn’t that senile to think he’d come to visit her.

She watched him for a few moments. Then she got up, dumped her soup into the sink, and made herself a cup of tea.

She glanced out the window. He was still there.

Ellen considered possibilities. He could be waiting for someone. He could be slightly unwell—a dementia patient having lost his way? He could be one of those performance artists her granddaughter Madison was always going on about, the ones who stood still in public places, silently waiting for their hats on the ground to fill with coins and bills.

At 4:05, Ellen slipped into her shoes. Walking carefully (must not tumble and break a bone), she crossed the street. The man watched her approach without surprise. She wasn’t certain if that was reassuring or unsettling.

Up close, he was younger than she’d expected. In his fifties, perhaps; it was getting harder and harder for her to discern ages. He sported a neatly groomed grey moustache and hair—what she could see beneath his bowler hat. His kind eyes reminded her of her late husband.

“You’ve been standing there a long time,” Ellen said.

“I have,” he agreed pleasantly.

“In this heat.”

“Yes.”

She looked up at the umbrella, then back at him. “Is it going to rain?”

He smiled. “Not today, no. Not that I’m aware.”

Ellen turned when she heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the street. A sparrow landed on the oak branch above them, regarded the umbrella as if with suspicion, and flew off.

“My name is Ellen,” she said.

“Edward,” he said, with a slight nod.

“Are you waiting for someone, Edward?”

He seemed to consider the question before answering. “In a manner of speaking. I’m waiting for the light.”

Ellen looked up and down the street, knowing what wasn’t there before she spoke. “There are no traffic lights here.”

“No.” He tilted his head upward. “The light. It comes through that gap in the oak at precisely four-fifteen. My wife used to sit on that bench—” he motioned toward a cast-iron bench Ellen had walked past hundreds of times without stopping to sit on—” in the summer. She said the light came through the leaves at four-fifteen and turned everything gold for about three minutes. She called it her daily miracle.” He paused. “She died in February.”

Ellen stood quietly for a moment, pondering his words. The bench was visible from her kitchen window. How had she never noticed anyone sitting on it? Where did he live? And why would his late wife be in her part of town? She was quite certain she’d never seen this man before now. And she didn’t recall anyone having died recently in her neighbourhood.

“I never saw it myself,” he continued. “I was always working. Always somewhere else.” He adjusted his grip on the umbrella handle. “I thought I’d come and see what she meant.”

Oh, Ellen thought, the wife was likely out for her daily walk. Still, though, odd she’d never seen the woman. Or the man; she’d never have forgotten him.

She glanced at her wristwatch. Twelve minutes past four. She sat on the bench.

At 4:15, the light came through the gap in the oak exactly as promised. It fell across the pavement in long shafts, catching the dust in the air, turning the grey street briefly into gold. It lasted, as he’d said, about three minutes.

Neither of them spoke.

When the light show faded, Edward lowered his umbrella and looked at her.

“She was right,” he said simply.

“She was,” Ellen agreed. She wanted to ask questions but decided the time wasn’t right.

He folded his umbrella, tucked it under his arm, and gave her another small nod. Then he walked up the street, turned the corner, and was gone.

Ellen remained on the bench a little longer. The street had returned to its ordinary self—the dull pavement, the unremarkable sky, the oak tree casting its usual shade.

She thought about George. She thought about chicken noodle soup. She thought about all the four-fifteens she had spent looking at nothing in particular when the light, apparently, had been performing a spectacle across the street. Were similar light shows happening on other streets?

Sighing, she got up, crossed the street, and went inside her house for another cup of tea.

The next afternoon at 4:10, she was back on the bench.

And the afternoon after that…

Edward never returned. By the time she realized he’d never reappear, she had already vowed to never again have another bowl of chicken noodle soup.

 

***

 

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/