Val Muller

This month’s prompt is to write something summery. This week’s tale comes to us from Val Muller. Check out her newest work, the illustrated children’s book Billy the Earthworm Finds His Courage.

Rowdy

By Val Muller

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

Bill remembered years ago when he and Helen used to split two or three of them. Then when they had kids, they would be lucky to split just one, maybe, during a good vacation week when the kids were especially cooperative.

Then the kids grew up. They traded rum buckets for golfing and shopping and sightseeing. Then Helen got sick, and Bill was too sad to drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, old man!” the rowdiest of the boys shouted. Robbie didn’t move. He just took another sip. Bill shifted his weight in the beach chair.

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

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

Before he or Robbie could respond, a security guard arrived. He beelined to the pool and said something to the footballers. Bill looked around, trying to guess which parent had texted the front desk to report the teens.

The boys groaned and cursed, but they got out. The angry one pulled himself out of the pool effortlessly, with muscles he took for granted, with ligaments that knew no fatigue. No aches or pains or groans.

“Keep the ball, old man,” the boy told Robbie. “It wasn’t even mine.”

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

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

“He’s who we always complained about,” Bill said to Robbie after the security guy moved on. “Now he is us.”

Robbie picked up the football. “Years ago, we WERE those boys.” He reached with his spare hand for his drink but then stopped. He took the football in both hands. He tossed it to Bill. They were only a few feet away, and instinctively, Bill caught it and tossed it back. Made eye contact.

“No ball play,” he said, half joking.”We’re just two old men,” he said. Then he stood up. Tossed the ball again to Bill.Bill caught it and stood up. Tossed it back to Robbie, who also stood.

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

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

I played linebacker in high school,” the man said. Bill tossed the ball back to Robbie. The security guy had disappeared, likely making his rounds elsewhere. Robbie tossed the ball back to Bill and nodded to the man in the pool. Bill chucked the ball at him. It was the perfect catch.

Bill hurried to the edge of the pool and jumped in. The old man in the pool snapped the ball to him just as Robbie did a cannonball to join them. #

The Spot Writers:

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

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

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

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

I’m pleased to announce that a 100 word story I wrote, “Goodbye, Sorry for My Faults, and Thanks for the Lessons,” was published by Rat Bag Lit. I came upon the prompt a while ago and figured I’d give it a try. You can read it for free here until August 23, and after that time, I’ll try to post it here on my website. Hope you enjoy!

https://ratbaglit.substack.com/p/goodbye-sorry-for-my-faults-and-thanks

I’m sharing a 100 word story I wrote that is now live at Rat Bag Lit.

When I saw the chance to write a 100 word story involving an alien 👽 , I jumped at the chance.

It will be live here for the next 4 weeks: https://ratbaglit.substack.com/p/goodbye-sorry-for-my-faults-and-thanks . Enjoy!

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
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.ca/

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.ca/