Saturday, September 1, 2012

3... 2... 1... Lift Off!

By Michael Seese

Happily, super agent Janet Reid is accepting "Chum Bucket" submissions tonight. (She had said it would run "through August.") Despite the fact that we were at my Mom's for dinner, I managed to send it at 7:04. ( thought I would wait until 8:00?)

So, as I said in a previous, post,  cross your fingers, burn some incense, and lob some good karma my way.

I really would appreciate it. 

In the meantime, I ran No String Attached through the random number generator, and came up with the following page. It's the first page from the final story, "Pulling Strings."


Twelve peals from the bell of the tower of the church of the town. 12 o’clock. Neither a.m., nor p.m., because there is no 12 a.m. nor 12 p.m. Only noon and midnight. So it was midnight. A new day. It was time to rest.
    The puppet master stared at the mangled marionettes at his feet, and sighed. He couldn’t help himself. He loved to throw his little wooden actors together in his little theater, and see what happened. But sometimes he played too hard. And the results were always the same. Broken puppets. He wanted to fix them. He always wanted to fix them, and make them as good as new, complete and whole again. But more often than not, they were too broken to fix. So he would sweep then into the fireplace, bid them farewell, and give them to the flames. Then he made more.
    He gazed down at the mess below, and vowed not to give up on these ones, but rather, to fix them this time. In due time. But for now, it was time to rest. It had been a busy week. The puppet master put down his tools, and turned to look out the window. He loved his view.
    From his aerie, he could behold the majestic mountains, their winter blankets of snow just starting to expand. Above them, the endless, wondrous firmament twinkled with stars of so many subtly different hues. Closer lay the river which feeds into the lake, both now black with night, and slightly rippling with the light breeze. Though in his mind, it would always be the bucolic blue of the first time he witnessed it. He loved the view from his window.
    It was paradise.
    The puppet master put down his tools and contemplated the collection of empty wine glasses and coffee cups scattered across his work area. Wine glasses. Coffee cups. But no plates. No food. It apparently had been some time since he had last eaten. It was time to eat. It was time to eat, and rest. And drink more…more wine, he thought. Perhaps I should clean up. No, the apprentice will be in later today. He can take care of it. Now, it was time to reflect. Reflect on the day’s work, his life’s work…

Feel free to comment on "Pulling Strings."


  1. Naturally I assumed it was God. Then there came the wine glasses and coffee cups, so I'm thinking writer. Writers are just people wanting to play God anyway. Even more so than doctors--none of the mess or responsibility.

  2. You'll have to read the book and see...

    Thanks for your insights.