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/

 

 

The Card Everyone Fears

Welcome to the Spot Writers. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit Corgi Capers mystery series. She’ll have some illustrated children’s books out soon!

The prompt is: your character looks outside the window and sees something strange.

The Card Everyone Fears

by Val Muller

Mrs. June flipped through the last folder in her file cabinet. She sorted most of the papers into the recycling bin but kept two worksheets for her successor. Then she took the last item out of the drawer—a cardstock image of Hamlet created as a tarot card years ago by a student.

Mrs. June remembered the student’s face—but never her name. She’d not signed her artwork, and if Mrs. June remembered correctly, she had not been one to remember her name on any assignment. Or to show up for her yearbook photo.

The girl had been a terrible student, but she really stepped it up for this project. She had never picked up the project after it was graded—she had turned it in late and then disappeared after graduation. But the 8x10 was so beautifully created that Mrs. June had kept it all these years. She looked at it at the start of each school year but never had the courage to display it. It was, after all, the tarot card for Death. Not sure her school admin would appreciate that lingering over students every day.

And it was funny, too. Mrs. June always joked she would never retire—she said she would always keep working and would die there at her job. And yet, here she was. She made it through the tears of her final graduation and had only this last teacher workday until she walked out of this building for the last time as an employee.

There was a strange sound outside—it reminded her of the sound of a forest moving. She thought instantly of MacBeth—of Birnam Wood coming to life and approaching the castle. Stranger things had happened in all her decades of teaching. She went to the window to look.

There was indeed a snapped branch—the tree right outside her window. A group of students were hustling to untangle something from the fallen limb.

“She’s there!” they screamed, all eyes snapping to her window.

The crowd re-formed, and the tangled object—a white banner—unfurled, revealing a message:

Mrs. June, we love you!

She looked out over the crowd. There were some of yesterday’s graduates and then—no, it wasn’t their parents, not exactly. It was—students from last year. And the year before. And from a decade ago. Some she’d kept up with on social media. Others, no, but she recognized their faces at once.

They beckoned her.

When she emerged from the building and entered the crowd, she was all tears as they shared stories of the ways she inspired them. At the end, they handed her a book, a written account of what they just shared, from them and many others who had reached over the ether of the internet to share their memories, their stories, their thanks. It was a book she could revisit countless times.

As she clutched the book, she looked out at the crowd. There she was. The girl’s name came back to her in an instant. Girl? No, woman now. Dare she say, middle aged.

Carissa Schaefer, the student artist who had created the Hamlet tarot. They spent time catching up, and she learned that Carissa had gone on to become a therapist, crediting Mrs. June as one of her inspirations.

“I have something for you,” Mrs. June told Carissa and led her up to the classroom where she showed her the carefully-kept tarot card.

“My goodness,” Carissa said. “I barely remember creating that, but it’s all coming back to me now. The final scene in Hamlet and how it’s all just death, death, death.” She smiled. “Back then, I was a morbid teenager.”

“I’ll admit I was afraid to hang this on the wall. I didn’t want students to have the wrong idea about me, or the class.”

Carissa laughed. “I didn’t know much about tarot cards back then. The Death card always scares everyone, but it’s actually an optimistic one.”

“Optimistic.” Mrs. June pondered this as she studied the artwork.

“It’s like a rebirth. Something dies, metaphorically—unless you’re Hamlet, I guess—but then something else begins. Like winter melting to spring. Or the other guy becoming king after Hamlet.”

“Fortinbras,” Mrs. June said.

“Or someone retiring from teaching and going on to open the next chapter.”

Mrs. June smiled.

“You’ve held onto that card so long, I’d like you to keep it,” Carissa said.

Mrs. June smiled. “Only if you sign it.”

As Carissa put her name on her assignment decades after the due date, Mrs. June made plans to stop at the craft store on the way home. She wanted to frame the card, and she had the perfect place to display it at home, right in the kitchen where she could always think about all she’d accomplished in the career she was leaving behind, and about new beginnings.

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 Tartan Sofa

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is an unexpected visitor.

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 Tartan Sofa

by Chiara De Giorgi

Created with Mistral

 

Elsa popped open a small bottle of soda and took a sip, closing her eyes. Cool and fizzy: just what she needed after a long, hot day. It was summer, and with more free time than usual, she had decided to freshen up the house a bit. By day, she scrubbed, scraped, painted walls, and rearranged furniture; by evening, she worked on her novel. She was halfway through Two Hearts and a Scarecrow, which she thought was shaping up rather well. Even the Squatters (the community of spirits residing in the abandoned house on the southern edge of town, who had become something of a second family to her) approved.

She turned toward the half-empty living room (clearing out the old furniture had been that day’s task) when she heard a moan coming from outside the open window. Who was out there in the garden?

Cautiously, she went to look. She was puzzled when she saw an elderly man staring into the room where, just a few hours earlier, the old tartan-patterned sofa she had taken to the dump that very afternoon had stood. The old man gave no sign of having noticed her; he just stood there, motionless, with a sad, fixed gaze and a downturned mouth. He was clearly sad. And he had a… familiar look?

“Uh,” she cleared her throat. “Can I help you?”

The old man barely moved his eyes toward Elsa’s face, then went back to sighing as he stared at the half-empty living room.

Elsa hesitated. She wanted to do something for him, but what? He was a stranger, after all. She couldn’t just invite him inside. She noticed she was still holding the soda bottle.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” she finally asked the old man.

This time, he looked her straight in the face, intentionally.

“You… you can see me?”

“Well, of course I can,” Elsa replied, caught off guard.

“Hmm,” the old man said, suspicious. “Who are you? What are you doing in this house?”

“My name is Elsa Mon,” she answered instinctively. Then, a little annoyed, she added, “I live here. This is my house.”

“Your house!” the man exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “And what happened to Lily Mon?”

“She was my grandmother,” Elsa said softly, a note of nostalgia in her voice. “Did you know her?”

The old man didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied Elsa in silence for a few heartbeats.

“My Lily… She was my wife. So you… you must be my granddaughter!”

Now it was Elsa’s turn to gape, her eyebrows shooting up in shock.

“Grandpa?”

That explained why his face had seemed familiar: even though she had never met him, as he had died before she was even born, she had seen plenty of photos of her grandfather. Of course, she wasn’t exactly known for being good at recognizing faces. And he did have a slightly translucent appearance… he was a ghost, after all!

“Come in, then!” she invited, excited.

“Gladly,” the man replied, vaulting over the windowsill with unexpected agility.

“Since when can you see and talk to spirits?” Grandfather asked once inside. “Do you know where Lily is?”

Elsa’s eyes turned sad. “I don’t know where Grandma is. I’ve never seen her since I gained the Sight,” she answered. “It happened a few months ago, sort of by accident… but it’s not an interesting story. Anyway, from what I understand, not all spirits stick around. Those who find their way move on to the Other Side right away. I think Grandma is Over There. She was a clever woman,” she concluded with a wink at her grandfather.

The man smiled tenderly at the memory of his wife. “Yes, she was,” he commented. Then, after a deep sigh, he changed the subject. “I’ve lived in this house since the day I was born,” he mused, looking around. Then he stared at Elsa. “What have you done to the living room? Where did you put my sofa?”

Elsa immediately felt guilty. She had taken her grandfather’s sofa to the dump! How could she have done that? And how was she going to tell him?

“Well, you see,” she began, stammering a little. “I’m redecorating the house, and I thought I’d, uh… modernize it a bit. Your sofa is… well, the thing is…”

“We took it to the dump this afternoon!" declared a woman who had suddenly appeared in the room, seemingly stepping out of a flower vase.

“Stranger!” Elsa exclaimed. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Her grandfather was speechless, unsure whether to be more annoyed about his sofa being taken to the dump or about the supernatural creature who had just materialized in his living room. Okay, his granddaughter’s living room. And by the way: his granddaughter, apparently, knew said creature, besides being able to see and interact with spirits. He was one of the Departed, he was familiar with the supernatural realm, but Elsa? Oh, why had he passed on so soon? Look at the exciting life his descendant was living!

Elsa, caught between the Stranger’s lively and oblivious honesty and her grandfather’s irritation at losing his beloved sofa, immediately said, “Yes, but we can go get it back!” She rushed to the entrance and grabbed a set of keys. “In fact, let’s go right now. I want to bring that sofa home as soon as possible!”

After some commotion (the Stranger giggled, and every time she did, flower petals spouted from her ears; Grandfather was bewildered but thrilled by how the evening had turned out; Elsa tried to start the car using the pantry key), they finally reached the dump.

It was almost midnight, the sky was dark, and everything around them was silent. They got out of the car and found themselves in front of a tall, locked gate.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow…” Grandfather said sadly. But Elsa wasn’t ready to give up and shot the Stranger a pleading look.

The Stranger had been waiting for this. In an instant, she turned into a key: the perfect one to open the gate, of course. Once inside, she spotted the sofa (luckily, it was easily recognizable and one of the last items to have been dropped off). She then took the form of a burly mover and hoisted the sofa onto her shoulders to carry it down from the pile of old furniture.

“Hey, look at that nice nightstand,” Elsa said, stopping to admire an old piece of furniture. “With a coat of white paint and a bit of sandpaper, it’d make a perfect shabby chic piece…”

The mover scoffed. “I’m only here for the sofa. No extras.”

In a few strides, the Stranger was outside and secured the sofa on the roof of Elsa’s car.

 

Once home and after brushing the sofa clean, Grandfather sat down on it and sighed.

“Lily and I shared our first kiss on this very sofa,” he said. “It’s where we sat together so many times to watch TV. Where I’d read to her while she knitted. When I had a fever, I’d lie here, and she’d bring me a blanket and some hot broth.”

Elsa’s heart melted as she listened to her grandfather recall those moments with her grandmother. Moments she had never witnessed. She was glad she had saved the sofa from the dump. Why had she wanted to get rid of it in the first place? It was a beautiful sofa!

With one last, deep sigh, Grandfather stood up and approached Elsa. He took her face in his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Goodbye, little granddaughter of mine. I’m glad I got to meet you. Now I’m going to find my Lily. I think it’s my time to go Over There too.”

With a big smile, he walked toward the open window. Before he could even think of climbing over the windowsill, a bright white light enveloped him, and he disappeared.

“Wow,” Elsa said, moved.

She looked around for the Stranger but didn’t see her. Who knew what object she had turned into. Maybe it was better this way: to be alone in this moment, to feel it deep in her heart, and to store it in her memory forever. Maybe… while sitting on that beautiful tartan sofa.

 

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/