venerdì 15 marzo 2024

Mom’s Weekend Off

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story that features a springtime ritual.

Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series. Stay tuned for an illustrated re-release of the first three titles and the release of book 4!

 

Mom’s Weekend Off

by Val Muller

 

It was the day that woke the soul. That’s how Patty thought about it, anyway. You know the one: the first spring day after winter when the sun is so warm that it’s dangerously close to feeling too hot, but it isn’t because the cold of winter is still stuck into the inside of your bones, which are saturated with winter’s chill. It’s that time of year where you will feel you will never say too hot again.

Dan and the kids were away til the morning, and Dan told Patty to enjoy herself, a once in a blue moon free weekend day alone, a full 24 hours. She promised she had only one task, and then she might go to the movies or take a bath or just hang out in the hammock and read. She would only eat cereal and would not lift a finger in the kitchen other than that.

Just the one task, then it would be time to relax. It was time for the birdhouse clean-out, her annual harbinger of spring. The last two weekends it had rained, so Patty had done the typical indoor spring cleaning, but it didn’t feel like spring until the birdhouse cleanout, the emptying of last year’s nests to make room for this year.

Of course it required the ladder, so she went to the garage to retrieve it. Several cardboard boxes had piled up since Christmas, too big to fold up into the recycling bin, and now they blocked the ladder. She’d been meaning to take them to the recycling center. She guessed now was just as nice a day as any. So she went to the van to lower the seats, making room for the cardboard.

Of course, that’s when she saw the detritus left by the kids all winter. It was their chore to clean the car weekly, but it had been so cold that everyone had let it slide for weeks, and now the floor of the van was a graveyard of dead French fries, candy wrappers, and Cheerios. She couldn’t just leave that mess until Monday, so she swept out the floor and then took a vacuum to it. Finally, the van was ready, and she stacked the cardboard and left, nodding to the birdhouse as she left the driveway.

“Be right back,” she told it.

On the way back from the recycling center, a group of Boy Scouts were selling mulch at the edge of a parking lot. It had been three years since Patty re-mulched the flower beds, and they were having a “buy three, get one free” deal. They even loaded the mulch into the van for her.

Back home, she unloaded the mulch and scowled at the mess it left in the freshly-vacuumed van, so back into the house, get the vacuum, clean the van, put the seats back up. But then the four bags of mulch were in the middle of the driveway. Dan would not be able to pull through when he returned with the kids. So, into the garage to get the hoe, break open the mulch, and head to the gardens.

Which needed to be weeded.

By the time that was finished, it was nearly dinnertime. Patty stood in the kitchen, trying to decide which cereal to pour, but the warm weather called to her—no, it demanded a barbeque. So into the freezer to look for something to grill. Digging through the shelves, she caused an avalanche of several opened-and-frozen bags of shredded cheese, which of course she insisted on consolidating while the steak thawed long enough for her to grill. She dug through even further to find the oldest of the frozen bagged vegetables to make with the steak. Then she organized the veggies in order of expiration date.

As she heated the grill, she realized the patio furniture was still covered for winter, so she removed the covers, but then there was the half-built wasp’s nest under the table, which she had to clear, and then of course she took a sponge and soap to the table and chairs.

The sun was nearly setting after dinner, and she hurried to store the furniture covers in the garage until next winter. In the garage, she saw the ladder leaning against a wall, now visible since the cardboard had been cleared. The wind kicked up and reminded her of the loose piece of siding on the front of the house, so she moved the ladder, got out the rubber mallet, and hammered the siding back in. While up there, she saw the gutters had pulled loose from melting ice, so she hammered in the nails, moving carefully along the front of the house until it was too dark to see.

She put the ladder back in the garage and scratched her head. It was hard to shake the feeling that she was forgetting something. But the kids were with Dan, she reminded herself. She had no responsibilities for a few more hours. Her muscles were more achy than normal, so she went upstairs to take a bath.

The next morning, no one woke her, and she slept until the pitter-patter of feet traveled through the hall. “Mom! We missed you!” her son was screaming.

“Will you read me the mouse-cookie book?” screamed her daughter.

Patty sat up in bed, discombobulated by the strange feeling of having had a good night’s sleep. She took a moment to process the situation while Dan stood over her.

“Wow,” he said. “Still asleep at ten, and the nest from the bird house still sticking out. You really did take it easy. Good for you—I didn’t think you’d be able to just relax. You always did work too hard. Let me know when you’re awake,” he said. “I’ll get out the ladder for you.”  

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: http://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/

 

giovedì 7 marzo 2024

Relocation

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “when the snow melts”.

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.

 

Relocation

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

Image by Petra from Pixabay

Yuri stared absent-mindedly out the window. Spring was coming.

“I don’t think we should stay here anymore,” he said.

“I know,” Yuki replied. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while myself.”

“But where can we go? It’s not so easy.”

“I don’t know. Let’s watch some documentaries on Discovery Channel. Maybe we’ll have an idea.”

“Ah, Yuki. Always the optimist. Documentaries are where we are dubbed ‘abominable’…”

Yuki made a ferocious face and roared. She made her white fur stand and appeared twice as big.

“What do you mean?” she growled. “Am I not abominable?”

Yuri laughed. “Terribly so, absolutely.”

“Then trust me. The snow is melting at an alarming pace, there’s never been so little. And when there is no snow left, we’ll stand out. Abominable or not, it’s going to be too dangerous; we need to find a solution.”

Yuri and Yuki sat on the sofa in the middle of their cave with a bowl of popcorn between them and turned on their TV. Since they used to be stuck in their cave for weeks at end during winter blizzards, they had invested in a giant screen and a popcorn maker. They proceeded to watch all the documentary programmes they found on the North Pole and Antarctica. Those seemed to be the only real alternatives–and only for a limited time anyway, apparently, if humans didn’t take action quickly.

“Who put humans in charge of the world, by the way?” Yuri asked, pressing the off button on the remote control.

“The matter is not settled yet. Ms. Alpaca next door says it was mammoths.”

Yuri snorted. “Yeah, sure. Mammoths. Which are extinct, so they can’t deny nor corroborate.”

Yuki popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Munching noisily, she replied, “But who cares, anyway! Knowing who put humans in charge won’t change a thing. Let’s talk about where we can move, what we can do.”

Yuri sighed. “Alright. I think we should go to Antarctica. Penguins look soft and funny, and I don’t feel like fighting white bears for territory.”

“That’s a good point. I agree. Let’s go to Antarctica, then. Although…”

“What?”

“There are no caves, as far as I know.”

Yuri shrugged. “We’ll dig one. The rest, we can buy. We’re lucky that yetis have riches stashed away, other creatures may not be able to afford a new place or to make investments like we are. Anyway, the important thing is, in Antarctica it’s cold and white. The perfect habitat for us abominable.”

*

Yuri and Yuki packed their bags and left for Antarctica. They travelled swiftly and at night, careful to stay away from busy routes, until they reached the ocean. Yetis are exceptional swimmers, and they crossed the ocean without any problems, except Yuki lost her toiletry kit and could no longer brush her teeth.

“The penguins will think I am an unkempt yeti,” she complained.

“Nah, they won’t. They’ll think you are abominable, ha ha!”

*

Despite their swimming prowess, they were a bit tired when they reached Antarctica. The sky was dark, and they plopped down on the ice, enjoying the freshness and the breeze in their fur: at 60 miles per hour and a temperature of -100°F, it was just what they needed after their long swim.

When they woke up, they found themselves surrounded by curious penguins, who started shrieking and fled clumsily when the yetis got up and moved a couple of steps, making the ice shake.

For a few weeks, Yuri and Yuki were busy digging their new cave and furnishing it. They placed a huge order and had a few essentials delivered. Finally, Yuki was able to brush her teeth again.

When they were settled, they went looking for penguins. They realized they had not seen any since that first day. Stomping, sliding, and skating, they travelled for miles in every direction, but could not spot any penguins at all.

“I think we scared them too much. Now they’re hiding.” Yuki was disconsolate. “I so wanted to adopt one. You know, like humans do with kittens.”

“Yes, I’m disappointed too. At home, we had at least a few neighbours. Here, we’re all alone. How can one be abominable, if there’s no one around?”

“Maybe we should pick another destination,” suggested Yuki. “What do you say, shall we try somewhere warmer?”

Yuri was surprised. “Why would we go somewhere warm?”

Yuki shrugged. “To try something new. And if the world is going to get warmer anyway, we might as well get used to it.”

“Hmmm. Well, I suppose we could try. Let’s check Discovery Channel.”

*

The Grand Opening of “The Adorable Yeti Amusement Park” in Florida was an unparalleled success.

The sets replicated the mountains and plateaus of Tibet, but also included something unexpected: fully furnished caves where the “adorables” allegedly lived. People dressed as yetis gave autographs and posed for photos with tourists. The two owners, Yuki and Yuri, had their pictures taken wearing gorgeous white fur coats and had never been seen without them–or so the well-informed claimed. It was also rumoured that they used the proceeds to finance solutions to restore the climate, but they never openly confirmed that. They were just heard mumbling something about “fixing mammoths’ mistake” or something.

 

***

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/




giovedì 29 febbraio 2024

First Encounter

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “when the snow melts.” Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.

In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the third volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

***

First Encounter

by Phil Yeats

Amir Fadel was a four-year-old Syrian from a Jordanian refuge camp. Two days earlier, he’d arrived in Halifax with his mother. Her great aunt Hamila and uncle Abdul greeted them on a winter afternoon at the Stanfield International Airport. There was no snow on the groundHalifax had recently experienced one of its periodic snow-melting warm and rainy spells—but the wind was howling and the temperature a frigid -10.

Amir skipped along the broad airport walkway and stopped by a strange stairway, when his mother yelled. She held his hand as he gingerly stepped onto the moving floor that immediately turned into moving stairs. At the top, he broke free and ran onto the enclosed pedway across the departure area’s access road. He stopped in the middle to stare down at the roofs of the cars slowly moving past.

On the other side, his old aunt knelt beside him and pulled two padded garments from her large carrier bag. The first was a pair of padded black pants with white shapes, and the second, a padded green jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. She pushed his legs into the pants, and his arms into the jacket. She then replaced his ragged sandals with fur-lined boots and pushed knitted mittens onto his hands.

When she pulled the hood over the head and snugged it with a string tied under his chin, he felt trapped like a baby wrapped in brightly coloured cloths. And he was far too hot.

“Don’t panic,” Aunt Hamila said. “In a few seconds, we’re going outside, and it is much colder than you’ve ever felt. You’ll like being snug as a bug in your new snowsuit.”

He watched as his mother wrapped an old coat he’d never seen around herself, and Uncle Abdul opened the door. The gust of wind that hit Amir’s face was unbelievably cold.

 

Early on his third morning in Halifax, Amir rushed to the kitchen. He knew Aunt Hamila would be there preparing some new treat for their morning meal. On the first morning, he’d had bran flakes with raisins in milk, and after that a piece of toast with raspberry jam. On day two, a whole boiled egg. He could only once remember eating an egg, and he shared that one with his mother. Today, Aunt Hamila promised another wonderful new breakfast treat. Nothing like the meager helpings of tasteless porridge he’d eaten every day for as long as he could remember.

He stopped when he reached the kitchen. Outside, everything was white. White stuff covered the ground and the deck, and all the tree branches were coated in white.

Aunt Hamila knelt beside him. “Today, I’m making pancakes for breakfast, but I’m not making them until everyone is up. If you put on your boots and snowsuit and mittens, you could go out and play in the snow.”

She always talked to him in a language he understood, but the last word, snow, was in the strange language his mother and his aunt and uncle spoke to each other. He was learning a few words. Snow, the white stuff in the yard, was the newest one.

He ran to get his boots, mittens, and snowsuit. When Aunt Hamila had him suitably bundled up, he charged into the snow on the back deck. Sometime later, when she called him in for breakfast, he said, “I’m bringing some in to play with later.” He gathered up an armload of sticky snow and dumped it on the kitchen floor.

After devouring a glass of milk and two pancakes with sweet syrup on them, he returned to his pile of snow.

“It’s all turned into water,” he wailed.


 ***

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/

venerdì 23 febbraio 2024

The Rain

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “when the snow melts.”

Along with several short story collections, books of poetry, and two novels, Cathy has published three anthologies under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. The latest one is titled NO ONE SHOULD KISS A FROG, available on Amazon and other retailers—300 pages of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry by 75 authors around the world.  She also has a call out for submissions for another anthology to be published in 2024, to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information.

 

Soon, Cathy will lay Melvin to rest—didn’t happen in the last post, but it might now!

 

***

The Rain

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“Can’t believe the rain today, Marie. And tomorrow we’re getting more.”

“I know. What’s up with that? It’s still March.” She glanced at her phone. “March twenty-second, to be exact. When in the world do we get rain in March?”

“I know. Unreal.” He giggled. “Want to go for a walk in the rain, Marie?”

“Not now, Melvin. I’m busy.”

Melvin smiled, secretly happy she said no. Not that she’d ever want to walk in the rain. The scenario reminded him of a couple of weeks ago when he’d asked if she wanted to go for a trek in the snow. And, man, the snow was unbelievable. Today, he had no intention of going out. Not in the rain. He wasn’t Fred Astaire (at least, not today) and Marie would never be Ginger. No dancing in the rain today!

He plopped back into his LazyBoy. Marie traipsed off to wherever it was she traipsed to. He was glad of the quiet. Jimmy was at Adam’s. Seemed he lived at that kid’s house. But Melvin would never complain about that. Was nice to have his son out of the house, even for a few hours.

He didn’t know he dozed until he awoke. And the dream wafted over him.

What the heck?

He closed his eyes. Let the dream waft over him again. How he’d gone down to the lake and found Penny—or was it Sophie?—whatever, whichever, whoever it had been: it was the one who liked pink. He’d found the pink snowsuit. Penny! It was his daughter Penny who favoured pink; Sophie preferred purple. Had they been gone that long that he couldn’t remember their favourite colours? What the hell was wrong with him?

A sudden urgent urge to view the lake came over him. Had to be Kailani, right? She was calling him. Yearning for him...

He lowered the footrest and jumped from the recliner. Duty called! The lake called.

Must not let on to Marie, he thought. No, just go. Don your raincoat and galoshes and go! Perhaps an umbrella? No, he hated umbrellas. They always reminded him of Mary Poppins thrust high into the sky. Dratted umbrellas...

He looked out the window. The rain had lessened. A mere drizzle.

He trudged down the path, slogging through the mush, reached the clearing, and carefully went down the slippery rough-hewn steps. The lake stretched before him. Appeared frozen but, as he was quite aware, the lake’s looks were deceiving, and he had no intention of walking that far out.

He was here in the hopes of finding Kailani.

He might look for Penny in her pink snowsuit, too. She wouldn’t be wearing a pink bikini this soon, that’s for sure. Had he really—REALLY?—found his daughter? At least two feet of snow still remained on the shore. Did he want to tromp through that?

“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost entered his head, just as it had a couple of weeks earlier when he’d gone to the lake. When Marie declined the invite. She should’ve been with him then. Even now. He shouldn’t be here alone. He’d never shared that he’d found Penny. Should he look for her, haul her back to the house as if he were a cat with a mouse, and drop her at Marie’s feet?

He wanted to bash his head in with a hammer. What the heck was he thinking?

Kailani would help his disposition.

“Kailani, where are you?” He shouldn’t be marring the pristine stillness. But where was she?

Only two paths: one toward the lake, one back to the house.

He took the path most travelled...

And then he woke. Again. He rubbed his eyes and massaged his head. His entire body ached as if he’d been in a car crash. What the heck? He felt his clothing. His jeans: wet. Drenched! And he wasn’t in his recliner any longer either; he was prone on the floor. On the cold tile. In the foyer. Had he fallen? Bumped his head and passed out? But he was soaked...

I give up, he thought. “Goodbye, Kailani,” he mumbled. “Goodbye. For the last time, goodbye!” He was sick of dreaming and hoping for the what-ifs. Sick of Kailani and the hold she had on him. He was confident when he woke—truly awoke—he’d be clean and dry and he’d hear his daughters’ laughter. And the world would be a better place.

 

 ***

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/

 

 

giovedì 15 febbraio 2024

Thaw

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month's prompt is to write about a favorite topic of Val's: melting snow.

Today's tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. Keep a lookout for an illustrated re-release of the first three books, followed by the fourth!

 Thaw

by Val Muller

 Mara stared up at the clouds. The air smelled like snow. She knew that in her cold New England heart. Soon the nasty white flakes would blanket the ground and cover the tiny shoots of crocuses and all other signs of life.

Signs of death, too, she thought as she glanced toward the grave. It was nearly a year since she lost Jasper, and she'd promised in the spring to plant a memorial garden over his burial site, complete with a bird bath holding his collar and tags. Looks like that would be delayed. So much for that groundhog predicting an early Spring.

Mara's phone beeped. It was the breeder, one of those friend of a friend deals:

ARE YOU STILL COMING?

The lady had a liter of pups ready to go soon, four of them. A friend had hooked Mara up with the breeder like a matchmaker for the grieving pet parent.

Mara had said no, it was too soon. She only agreed because the puppies' ready-to-go date just happened to coincide with the anniversary of Jasper's death. She promised she would just take a look at the puppies, if for no other reason than to remind herself how annoying puppies were and tell herself for certain that her heart was not ready to be ripped apart once again by unconditional love.

But Mara knew how that would go. Best not to allow temptation. The snow was the universe's way of telling her that. A two-hour drive to the breeder, with snow expected. Best not to go.

IT'S SUPPOSED TO SNOW, Mara typed.

THINK CAREFULLY, the woman typed back, ABOUT WHAT YOU SAY NEXT.

What was that supposed to mean? What was she, some prophet? Some fortune teller, some peddler of witchcraft? What on earth did she mean?

SNOW IS EXPECTED, Mara typed. IF I HAVE TO LIFT A SHOVEL, I WON'T MAKE IT OUT THERE.

She knew what that meant. There was already a list of people to see the puppies, the breeder had said so herself. She was giving Mara first dibs as a favor to their mutual friend, but puppies this cute really sold themselves. If Mara didn't go in the morning, the puppies would be gone.

I WILL HOLD YOU TO IT, the breeder responded.

Mara looked at the sky again and sighed relief. Jasper would remain unique in her heart, and she would push the mistress idea of puppies for a different day.

In the morning, Mara woke with a start, a twinge of excitement knowing it was puppy day. But then like a child living through the first disappointing Christmas, she saw the blue tinge of snow reflected through the window. There had been no miracle from the universe. She would not visit the puppies.

Mara trudged downstairs and donned her boots. She eyed the shovel on the front porch but put it off, opting for cold cereal instead. The last time she held a shovel--poor Jasper. She didn't need to relive that memory this early in the morning.

And in such a way, she flitted about the house wearing her waterproof boots, always meaning to go out and shovel, always finding one chore or the next to occupy her time. All to avoid shoveling that awful snow.

WHAT'S THE FINAL VERDICT? the breeder wanted to know. DID YOU LIFT A SHOVEL?

The text broke Mara out of her cleaning trance. The house looked spotless and warm, not dull and blue like it did on snowy days. Before she responded, she couldn't help but glance out the window. The light was golden and rosy, a warm mix, not a cold one.

Outside, spring had returned as Mara cleaned. The last of the snow was dripping from the roof, and the driveway sparkled in the sun, the last of its watery covering evaporating in the rays. She had been so focused, she hadn't glanced outside. With Jasper gone, what need did she have to ever go outside again? But now, the snow was gone, and she did not, indeed, have to shovel.

As Mara drove off to start her two-hour journey, she only briefly glanced at the winter boots she left strewn next to the snowshovel on the front porch, both unused and out of place in the warm spring air.

 

 

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/

 

giovedì 8 febbraio 2024

Beneath the Deep

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “excessive amounts of snow.”

Along with several short story collections, books of poetry, and two novels, Cathy has published three anthologies under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. The latest one is titled NO ONE SHOULD KISS A FROG, available on Amazon and other retailers—300 pages of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry by 75 authors around the world.  She also has a call out for submissions for another anthology to be published in 2024, to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information.

 

Soon, Cathy will lay Melvin to rest... In fact, this might be the last tale...

 

***

Beneath the Deep

by Cathy MacKenzie

  

“Want to go for a walk in the snow, Marie?”

Not now, Melvin. I’m busy.”

Melvin smiled, secretly happy she said no. They’d been coupled in the house for the past two days. Coupled? He wasn’t sure that was an appropriate word. Reminded him of Gwyneth Paltrow’s quote “conscious uncoupling.” Had that been what he and Marie had been doing? Or was it more like “unconscious uncoupling.” No, more like caged in a chicken pen—chained to the metal fencing. Thankfully, William had been—still was!—at Adam’s, one of his few friends. Melvin wasn’t certain he could’ve remained sane with his son underfoot; bad enough putting up with Marie.

Twenty-five-plus centimetres of snow the previous day; ten the day prior to that. And more in the coming days. He was happy to wake to the sun streaming through the window after the last several bleakish days. He had to escape from the house, no matter if a storm still brewed.

But the afternoon was clear! The sky was blue, the sun still shone. The local meteorologist could be wrong. No one was perfect.

He wasn’t wasting a moment. Marie might change her mind. He hurriedly donned his knee-high rubber boots, jacket, touque, and leather-palmed mittens, slamming the door behind him. He breathed deeply, relishing freedom, and gulped the fresh cool air.

While trudging down the path to the lake, he closed his mind to Kailani—or tried to. Had no interest in her any longer. Plain and simple: she was a flirt. It had taken him long enough to figure that out. He detested fake people, real or imagined, and he still wasn’t certain if she was real or imaginary.

It was hard going. The snow was over three feet deep. His feet were already wet. Or were they just cold? No insulation in rubber boots. He sighed, continued.

The snow-covered lake stretched ahead of him, resembling a white-sand desert without the wind whipping the sand all over Hell’s creation. Not that Porters Lake was hell—well, it was after he took his daughters, he reconsidered. But today? No, today the gods are happy. Hallelujah,” he mumbled.

Despite the snow, he knew approximately where sand met water. Can’t outfox me, he thought. Mr. or Mrs. Porter would never take him as it had his daughters.  He shook his head. Can’t go there. Cannot.

But he couldn’t help it. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the depths of the great big sea, lay his dearly beloved kin. He pictured Sophie and Penny, together for all eternity. Clutching each other’s hand as if trying to thwart death.  They’d been close in life; they’d be close in death. That last thought gave him comfort.

He turned to head back to the house. And fell. Flat on top of the snow. Face-first. His first thought, despite no pain, was that he’d broken his legs as his feet seemed firmly planted in the snow.

No, he was fine.

He hauled himself up and shrugged the snow from his clothing. But—what was that? Something there. Something beneath the snow. A log? The occasional log washed ashore, so that wouldn’t be surprising.

He dug at the snow, thankful he’d worn his heavy mittens. Before long, he glimpsed colour. Pink. He kept at it, digging as if a dog desperate for a buried bone. And then, there it was: a swatch of pink. The fabric appeared to be that of a snowsuit. His youngest daughter’s favourite colour was pink. It was Penny, his deceased daughter. Had to be! Bile rose to his throat. He gripped his stomach, praying not to barf over her.

But then—reality hit him...

Penny had disappeared in the summer. She’d worn her pink bikini (one much too risqué for his liking), not her pink snowsuit.

What the hell...

He stood, albeit clumsily. Swatted at snow clinging to his jacket. Rubbed his mittened hands together to get rid of snow clumps. He wanted to drop to his knees, bow his head, and pray; wanted to stand stall, stretch his arms, scream.

Where was that elusive God or god?

He faced his demon: the hole he’d dug.  

Nothing untoward there except white stuff that had surrounded him since he’d left the house.

He wasn’t cold. But his body quivered. Shivered and shook as if a scary Halloween prank. He must get home. To Marie. To William (whenever he returned from Adam’s).

He must walk away from the imagined Penny. Away from the pink. Away from his other deceased daughter, Sophie, and her favourite colour of purple; he was sure she’d appear next—or the colour purple.

Away from his nightmares... Away from the snow that threatened to smother him as if a bed of fluffy feathers...

He turned and headed home. Carefully trudged through the snow.

He stopped. Turned. Faced the lake.

What the hell—

The sandy beach stretched to the lake, which disappeared into the horizon. No pink. No purple. No bikinis or snowsuits.

“God, where are you? Are you there?” he screeched.

No, there’s no god, he thought. No god. No Sophie or Penny. Just me, Marie, and William.

No Kailani either. “How off my rocker could I have been?” he mumbled.

Did his Blue Origin exist? Oh, it must! Those summers of delight and disaster on the lake couldn’t all be imagined. If so, Sophie and Penny would be in the house waiting for him, along with his wife and son.

He turned and faced the Y in the trail. If he went right, he’d end up at the cabin, where his kayak (if real) was stored (could Kailani be there waiting?). Or he could veer left, up the hill to the house, where his ever-loving Marie and sweet son William (once he returned from Adam’s) waited.

“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost entered his head. How apropos, he thought, remembering back to his youth when the poem had been thrust upon the class.

 

***

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/

 

 

giovedì 1 febbraio 2024

Sun and the snow

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This current prompt is a story about excessive amounts of snow.

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.

 

Sun and the snow

by Chiara De Giorgi

Image by Brandy Umfleet from Pixabay

Sun was a lucky little boy.

He lived with his extended family in a big one-storey wooden house surrounded by a large garden, where he spent many happy hours playing with his cousins. There they had all kinds of adventures, playing make-believe all the time. They were pirates, plundering and fighting, then they were dragons, flying and breathing fire, then they were trains racing madly across the country… The fun never ended! The only thing that bothered Sun was his own name. Not that he didn’t like the sun, mind you. It’s just that he really, really, loved snow. Those who knew of his passion always gave him a snow globe for his birthday, although he was born in the hottest August known to history. He now owned a collection of snow globes: small ones with just a tiny figurine inside, like a penguin or a kid on a sleigh, and big ones with entire villages inside. Some of them were music boxes as well, so he could listen to a nice little tune as he watched the snowflakes descend and settle on the roof of the houses and the treetops.

One morning – it was winter, his favourite season – he woke up to the sound of his aunt clearing the snow from the path that led to their house. Crunch, swish! Crunch, swish!

Excited, he quickly got out of bed and ran to the window.

“Aunt Jasmine! I’m awake! I’m coming out to help you!”

Aunt Jasmine smiled at him and kept shovelling the snow. Crunch, swish!

Sun’s loud voice awakened his sister and his cousins, and soon all five of them were outside, hopping in the snow, throwing snowballs to one another, and making Aunt Jasmine’s work more complicated, especially because snowflakes were still falling down.

She stopped for a moment, thinking, then she called out.

“Hey kids, come over here!”

She set the shovel aside and stepped up to the big snow heap she had just made. Then she threw herself onto it backwards and waved her arms and legs leaving shapes in the snow that made her look like an angel. The children promptly imitated her, screaming with delight.

“This is the most fun I’ve ever had!” Sun was beside himself with joy. The snow got down his neck, his sleeves, into his shoes… snow was in his hair, in his ears, in his eyes and even under his nails. “I am the happiest boy in the world!” he cried, his cheeks red from the cold and his eyes sparkling with happiness.

The snow started falling heavier and his daddy came out, scooped him up, and carried him inside.

“I want to stay out in the snow!” he protested, not happy about it at all. His sister and cousins were also brought in, and all of them kept grumbling the whole time while the grown-ups dried them off with towels and hair dryers.

Later, the kids wanted to go outside and play angels in the snow again, but the grown-ups said no. “There’s a snowstorm, nobody can go outside right now. We need to wait it out.”

Sun thought that it was very unfair that he had to stay in while there was so much snow outside. We were having so much fun, he thought. We were so happy doing snow angels. Then we came inside, and the sadness came, and now look what happened: there’s a storm!

Bored, he sat in his room watching out the window the snow bieng being blown in all directions by the harsh wind. Then turned to the shelves and admired his collection of snow globes. He picked the biggest one and looked inside, shaking it slightly. Snowflakes began to fall on the houses in the village, on the bridge crossing the frozen stream, on the lampposts and… Sun frowned. Had there always been kids ice-skating on the pond and playing in the park? He sighed. “Oh, how I wish I could get inside this snow globe and play with them in the snow!” he said. Then he lay down on the bed holding the globe tightly and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was lying on a snow-covered field. He could hear voices not far away. High-pitched, excited, laughing, calling… He took a look around. His eyes widened in amazement. “I’m inside my snow globe!” he cried excitedly. He didn’t even pause to wonder how it could be. He ran up to the group of kids near the pond and played happily with them for a very long time – probably hours, he thought – and no grown-ups ever called them home!

Suddenly, something changed. The sky darkened and snow started to fall. The children welcomed it with joy and started a snowball fight. After a while, however, Sun noticed that the others had worried looks on their faces. Some grown-ups arrived and they looked worried too.

“It’s the heaviest snowfall I’ve ever seen!”

“What if it doesn’t stop?”

“Where does all this snow come from anyway?”

“It’s impossible to clear the roads!”

“What will we do?”

The fear in the voices of the people around him also infected Sun a little. Had he escaped the snowstorm in his world, only to end up trapped by a snowstorm in the snow globe? There must be something he could do…

“Hey! I know what we should do!” he shouted suddenly. Everyone looked at him.

“Do you know how to stop the storm?”

Sun shook his head. “No. But I know how to make us happy again! We must do snow angels!”

“How will that help?”

“I don’t know, but Aunt Jasmine made us do snow angels and we were all so happy, and then we had to go inside and we were sad and then the storm came…”

“Hey, this idea is not half bad!”

“We may chase the storm away by being happy!”

“Yes! Let’s give it a try!”

They all threw themselves onto the snow and began to wave their arms and legs, drawing angels in the snow. Soon, everyone was feeling incredibly happy, despite the wind and the big snowflakes that were blowing everywhere. And, lo and behold, the storm ran out.

“That was fun”, said an older kid, holding out her hand to Sun to help him up. “Are you coming back to the pond with us? We are going to build a snowman!”

Sun felt a sudden pang of homesickness. He wanted to go home and do snow angels and build snowmen with his sister and his cousins. But how could he do that?

“I suppose you have to wake up”, said the kid.

“What did you say?”

“Wake up!”

Sun opened his eyes. He was on his bed, the snow globe still in his hands. His sister was shaking him.

“Are you awake now?”

“Yes…”

“Great! Come out with us, then. The storm is over, Auntie Jasmine says she needs us to do snow angels again!”

Sun smiled. That was the best day of his life!

 

*****

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/