Night at the Art Gallery

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “someone falls in love at a museum”. (Does an art gallery qualify?)

Cathy’s writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She writes all genres but invariably veers toward the dark—so much so her late mother once asked, “Can’t you write anything happy?” (She can!) Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on her works.

 

Melvin is still alive and well—as you can fathom from this next episode...

 

***

Night at the Art Gallery

by Cathy McKenzie

 

“Melvin, we should go down to the Art Gallery tomorrow. I think it’s still free on the weekends.”

“Art? What do I know about art?”

Marie laughed. “Not much, Melvin. But perhaps that’s why we should go.”

“I’m busy this weekend, Marie. I told you that. Andrew wants me to help him with his basement tomorrow. And don’t we have to take Jimmy down to the Valley on Sunday?”

“Darn, I forgot about that.”

He hated the look on her face. Felt sorry for her as if he’d let her down. She’d been nattering about that dratted Art Gallery for weeks.

A lightbulb went off. “Marie, turn to Channel 10. There’s supposed to be some sort of art documentary on at nine o’clock.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only eight fifty-two.” The last thing he wanted to do was watch an art documentary, but it was preferable to traipsing through a gallery in person.

He loved seeing her perk up. Felt vindicated.

“Yeah, okay. Might be good.” She switched the channel.

They waited...

And then it started.

He couldn’t fathom half of what the narrator was saying. All gobbly-gook to him. What the heck did any normal person know of the Renaissance period or the—

Marie jumped.

“Look at that, Mel. That van Gogh. The colours are amazing.”

He peered at the screen. A blur of yellows and blues. He prayed his eyesight wasn’t going.

He glanced at his wife.

“I see, Marie. Interesting.”

He stared intently at the TV. As intently as she stared at the TV. Heck, they were in their living room—alone. Jimmy was upstairs (or was he at a friend’s?—he could never keep track of his son; thank goodness for Marie). Whatever, they were alone in the room. She should be fixated on him—Melvin. But, nope—it was all about this Van guy. Van Morrison? Hmm...

Then—

A flash on the screen: a woman.

His breath was sucked out of him. He froze...

“Who’s that, Marie?”

“Who’s who?”

“That woman. She’s gone now, though.”

“That woman who was in the painting a bit ago?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Mona Lisa,” Marie said. “Perhaps the best-known painting of all time.”

“And what era would that one be in?”

“Mel, shh. If you’d listen to the narrator, you would know these answers.”

“Mona? That her name? Can you scroll back? You have us on TiVo, right?

“Oh, Mel, what in the world...”

He held his breath.

Yes! TiVo. She fiddled with the remote. And—voila! There she was!

“Stop!” He gasped. “Her name is Mona?”

“Yes, that’s Mona Lisa.”

“Lisa? Weird last name.”

“I think it’s probably her middle name.” She paused. “I wonder if she does have a last name. She’s only ever been known by Mona Lisa.”

He couldn’t answer. He was enthralled. It wasn’t her beauty, for was she that beautiful? No, it was the package: long dark hair, the smug smile as if she concealed some deep dark revelation—even her eyes seemed to say “I know what you did.” What did she know? Was she married with a lover, pulling a fast one over her husband?

“Melvin, what’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

“I’m fine, Marie.”

He was fine. But, even though not in a gallery, not looking at the “real thing”—though he definitely felt as if he were—he was in love.

“Can you buy reprints of these famous paintings, Marie? Reprints aren’t expensive, are they?”

“You mean prints?”

“Prints. Reprints. What’s the diff?”

Marie sighed. “Not much.”

“I think we should have one. What do you think?”

“Of Mona Lisa?”

“Mona, yes. Mona Lisa.”

“Melvin, we don’t need that in our house. No!”

Goodbye, Kailani, goodbye. “I think I’m in love,” he mumbled.

“What did you say, Mel?”

“Nothing, Marie. Nothing at all. Still think we should get a reprint, though...”

 

***

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/

 

 

Puppy Love at the Folk Art Museum

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write about falling in love in a museum. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. 

Puppy Love at the Folk Art Museum

Val Muller

It had been a year since his father died, yet Melvin still felt lost. From the outside, things were the same, but to him, life felt like a shell only. If something funny happened at work, he still thought about calling his dad on the way home. Dad was always one for—well, Dad jokes, stupid puns, and goofy misunderstandings. But as quickly as the instinct hit, so did the remembrance. 
There was no one to call on the way home. It was almost like Dad’s absence made all the humorous anecdotes lose all meaning. He found himself on this cloudy Saturday heading to the Apple Valley Folk Art Museum, a favorite of Dad’s. He had gone many times with his father, and lately he hadn’t been able to get the museum out of his mind. 

*

The museum was folk art, naïve art, just the kind James had loved and painted. Rose could barely believe he was gone—from breathing to buried in a matter of weeks. The whirlwind of death and paperwork and funeral and well wishes had settled, and now things were too quiet. 
Well, except for Beamer. 
Beamer was not quiet. James’s service dog, Beamer made his presence known through soft but insistent communication. James had a zillion tasks for the service animal. Rose had none, and the dog was languishing under her care. 
“Care.” 
She was just as much a dog person as the artistic James had been an accountant. It’s true that opposites attract, but it’s not true that your opposite wants to take care of your emotional support dog after you die. If only she could find someone to take the dog. 

*

Melvin found the painting, the one his father loved. It was a folk art piece depicting an unidentifiable planet—it wasn’t Earth, since Earth was visible far away in the space backdrop—and dandelion seeds were floating in the air. 
Dad loved the painting because of the irony. The nuisance plant on Earth was thriving on the planet, and the painting implied that the seeds were helping to terraform it. Folk art and sci-fi, a mix Dad chuckled at. 
There was something hopeful about the idea of continuing on. Life after Earth. That sort of thing. Mel stared at the painting and sighed. Despite the familiar and hopeful message, Mel felt no closer to closure than he had for the past year. 
Behind him, something whimpered softly. It was an older woman and a dog—the dog wore a bright vest labeled “service animal.” 
“Oh, pardon us,” she said. 
Mel looked from the woman to the painting, then back to the dog. “Oh, I’m soryr,” he said. “Were you waiting for a turn at this painting?” 
The woman dismissed the idea with the wave of her hand. “Yes, but you looked so lost in thought, we wanted you to take your time.” 
“We?”
The woman laughed sadly. “Me and—well, I guess me and the dog. I’m Rose. This is Beamer.” 
“Beamer,” Mel said. “Like the car.”
Rose laughed. “That’s exactly the joke. James used to tell people he always travels with his Beamer.” 
“A dad joke.” Mel smile-frowned. “My dad would’ve loved it.” 
Rose’s eyes understood immediately. “I’m sorry—when?” 
“He loved this painting.” 
Beamer whimpered and pulled toward Mel. 
“Sorry.” Rose pulled back, but Mel reached out and pet the pup. “I know it says he’s a service dog, but James stretched that certification as far as it would go. He wanted to bring this dog everywhere. Now—”
But she stopped short. Here, in front of her husband’s painting, this young man was gazing into Beamer’s eyes as lovingly as only one man had done before. 
“Hey,” Rose said. “There’s this nice little coffee shop down the street. Why don’t we—”
And they did.   

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/
 

Spring Ritual

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

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.

 

Spring Ritual

by Chiara De Giorgi

(An Elsa Mon story)

Image by JL G from Pixabay

 

Elsa Mon, the beloved paranormal romance author, was not having a good day.

She had been going out with Dr. Victor Thorn, her dentist, for a few weeks, and although she had not exactly been swept off her feet–as it usually happened to her heroines when they met the love of their life–she was having a good time. They both were, as far as she could tell. Until, one night last week, she talked about the romance she was working on. She told Victor that the love interest of her protagonist, Inés, was a dentist, and since Victor was a dentist himself–Elsa’s dentist, to be precise–he smiled sweetly at her and asked her to read an excerpt. 

“I know writers can be quite particular about not having anyone check their writings before they’re done,” he said, “but I’m so curious! Can you make an exception and let me read just a few lines, maybe?”

Flattered by his request (as a matter of fact, she had no problem having others read her writings before she was done, the truth was, no one ever asked her to), Elsa replied that she would be honored to let him read a few pages of her draft of Love is like candies but the dentist is waiting (that was a temporary title, she informed him). They left the restaurant where they just had dinner and went to Elsa’s.

Elsa opened her laptop in the living room and let Victor take a look at Inés’ story file while she went and boiled some water for tea.

When she came back carrying a tray with tea and biscuits, Victor was staring at the screen with a deep frown on his face. 

An unpleasant conversation followed, as Victor had realized how much the character of Dr. Toothpick was based on him and wasn’t sure he liked the fact that Dr. Toothpick was a green goblin with flapping ears and orange eyes. Nor did he appreciate that Dr. Toothpick’s assistant, a frog-boy named Joey Jumpey, was clearly based on his own real assistant, his sister’s step-son.  

He had left soon after, his cup of tea untouched, and Elsa had not heard from him for days. Today was the spring equinox, and she had hoped that he would go into the woods with her for her own personal spring ritual.

Elsa took the ritual very seriously; she was sure it granted her good luck for the year to come. 

Every year, at sunrise on spring equinox, she would drive to the woods that surrounded the little town where she lived, find a nice, clear spot, and played the violin until her arms were too tired to hold the bow. Her music was supposed to wake nature. She would close her eyes and imagine the trees reaching with their limbs towards the sky; the flowers shaking off the dew; the little birds stretching their wings; the squirrels, badgers, and foxes coming out of their winter dens and smelling the fresh air… all thanks to her music. 

She had never told anyone about this ritual of hers, it was a secret she had only told Victor because she wished him to be there with her, something she had never wished about anyone before. And now, she was feeling sad because she had shared this precious secret with him and he had rejected her over a fictional character. 

“And people say I am the one who can’t tell the difference between real life and fiction…” she murmured. 

She shook her head, chasing the thought of Victor away, then picked her violin case and went to the woods.

She found her spot just as the first sunrays were making their way between the tree branches, she tuned her instrument, and she started to play. 

She soon forgot everything, lost in the music and images forming in her mind of Nature awakening. Fairies joined the ritual, touched every grass blade with their tiny fingertips and turned them bright green. With her eyes closed, Elsa could hear the soft rustling of dead leaves, the faint creaking of displaced or snapped twigs, the first, shy chirps of birds who started to sing along with her violin; she could smell the damp soil, the mushrooms, the resin that dropped from the broken branches… Elsa focused. What was that smell? It was somehow familiar, but she couldn’t place it. 

She slowly opened her eyes, her hands still playing the music. In front of her, a faint ray of the first sun of March 21st shone on Victor’s face. A smile was on his face and a gentleness in his eyes.

No words were needed. She smiled back at him and kept playing. 

The chords of Elsa’s violin filled the forest, and Victor surrendered to the music. He thought that Elsa must truly be a bit magical, because suddenly his heart felt soft and light…

*****

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/

More Winter than Spring

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

 

More Winter than Spring

by Phil Yeats

 On the first Saturday in March, I put on my winter boots, my winter coat, my toque, and worn winter gloves that had been delegated to snow shovelling activities. I grabbed my snow shovel and my lawn rake from our mudroom and turned toward the outside door. A blast of cold winter air greeted me when I opened it.

“Seems a bit early for springtime activities,” Susan, my long-suffering wife, said as she retreated to the warmth of the kitchen.

Could be, but I began removing the piles of ice and snow that accumulated against the foundation on the north side of our house on the first weekend in March decades ago, when I was a working stiff. I’d been retired for years, but I’d maintained the tradition. More an end of winter than a beginning of spring ritual, but a longstanding one, nevertheless.

It was my time for liberating our row of hostas from their wintertime hibernation. The accumulation of snow always disappeared from everywhere else by the beginning of March, but in this one area against our foundation in the narrow canyon between our house and the neighbours, it could persist until April.

I was about halfway along the wall when I discovered the purse buried in the snow. It was a woman’s brown leather purse with a long leather strap for over-the-shoulder deployment. I freed it from its ice-bound resting place, carried it inside, dumped it in the kitchen sink, and returned to my task.

When I finished shovelling the snow and clearing the other debris on and around the dormant crowns of the hostas, I returned to the mudroom and shed my winter attire.

Inside the kitchen, I found the purse and its contents laid out on towels spread on the counter.

“I’ve solved the mystery,” Susan said from the table where she was sipping a cup of tea. She loved reading mysteries, and obviously gained some enjoyment from solving our little one. “A game the girls next door were playing. They forgot the purse, and it became covered with snow.”

“But it’s obviously a woman’s purse, not a child’s toy, and it looks to like quite an expensive one.”

“Perhaps, but it’s old and been repaired several times. Check out my other evidence. You’ll agree, the purse is a forgotten prop from a child’s game.”

I glanced at the three forlorn-looking artifacts beside the purse. “That’s it? Nothing else?”

Susan nodded. “The purse contained nothing but that child’s wallet and the paper map. And the wallet had nothing but the ownership sticker for a kid’s book.”

“A ten-by-ten-centimetre square of paper with ‘This book belongs to:’ inside a border of flowers. And in the empty space ‘Mary Sutherland’ in childish printing. Do we know who she is?”

Susan shook her head, and I shifted my gaze to the map. It was hand drawn on a piece of paper that was only slightly damaged by exposure to the elements. It had three rectangular shapes that presumably indicated houses, several lines that were probably paths, seven crudely drawn trees, and in one corner, a large X.

“I have one additional piece of evidence. I found the purse near the bottom of the snowbank. That means they lost it in early winter, but I don’t think that alters your assessment. Looks like you solved our mystery. Do you think the treasure was hidden in the corner of our lot, or one of the neighbours?”

“That,” Susan said, beaming, “would depend on where Mary Sutherland lives.”

 

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/

Chiara e il gatto di Schrödinger

Di che colore è la vernice chiusa dentro a una latta?

E cosa fa un gatto chiuso dentro a una scatola?

La piccola Chiara è molto curiosa e si fa un sacco di domande.

Trovare le risposte giuste, però, non è sempre facile…

Torna la prima avventura di ‘Chiara nel tempo’ in italiano

“Chiara e il gatto di Schrödinger”

sarà disponibile in formato cartaceo e in eBook

dal 4 aprile✨

All Spring Things

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is "a writing that features a springtime ritual."

 

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 this year to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information.

 

 

***

All Spring Things

by Catherine A. MacKenzie

 

All spring things

Glow brightly,

Precious like diamond rings.

 

Fit for queens and kings,

Regular folk too,

All spring things.

 

A lonely bird sings

On leaves glistening,

Precious like diamond rings.

 

Birds spread wings,

Flying home to be part of

All spring things.

 

Fibers of gold strings

Woven in nests,

Precious like diamond rings.

 

Winter clings,

Wanting to share in

All spring things,

Precious like diamond rings.

 

***

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/

 

 

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/