Instant Gratification

By Michael Seese

One of the things I like about writing songs (which I don't do so much these days) and poems (which I do) is that you often can create a piece rather quickly. Certainly, I have some which have been in the works for literally years. But I also have written songs and poems in 30 minutes. And they didn't suck! I have to say, it's really neat to put down the guitar or pen and think, Wow. Yesterday, this didn't exist. An hour ago, it didn't exist. Now it does.

Writing a novel is not an exercise in instant gratification.

So that's why they invented short stories. Case in point...

Last Saturday, Jim Lewis, owner of the best bookstore in the world, sent me an email titled "thought this might be interesting for you." It contained only a link. I followed the link to the NPR website, specifically, a page called "Three Minute Fiction."

This election season, Three-Minute Fiction is getting political. Weekends on All Things Considered has a new judge, a new challenge and a new prize for Round 9. For this contest, submit original, short fiction that can be read in about three minutes, which means no more than 600 words.

If I'm on a roll, I can knock out 600 words in less than an hour. The challenge is coming up with the idea. So I thought and thought and thought. I kept coming back to a vague idea about time travel, and it stuck. Wednesday night, while walking on the treadmill, I fleshed it out. The next day, after less than an hour, I had 700 words on the page. 

For what it's worth, if you've never had to do it, cutting 100 words is murder! But I did. And the result is "Past / President / Future."

POP POP POP POP POP POP.

      Six rapid retorts rose above the city sounds as President Reagan walked 30 paces from the Washington Hilton to his limousine. Press Secretary James Brady dropped to the pavement, a bullet in his brain. DC police officer Thomas Delahanty took a shot to the neck. The fourth bullet struck Secret Service agent Timothy McCarthy in the abdomen. The fifth hit the limousine’s shatterproof glass. The sixth ricocheted off the vehicle and into the President’s chest.

      One, two, four, five, six. But what about the third bullet? Apparently, it hit a nearby building. I say “apparently,” because the bullet was never found. Actually, that statement is not 100% true. The bullet was found...elsewhere. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

      On March 30, 1981, I watched the news stream in. Initial reports said the President escaped injury. Later, we learned he had been shot. After 105 minutes of surgery, Reagan was in recovery.

      Addressing the press, chief of thoracic surgery Benjamin Aaron acknowledged that Reagan was, in fact, lucky to be alive. Had John Hinckley used a larger caliber gun, rather than a .22, the damage would have been extensive. Further, Hinckley fired “Devastator” bullets containing a small explosive charge. The slug which hit Reagan failed to detonate.

      Small bullet? Explosive! I nearly tripped over the ottoman as I raced to the bookshelf, grabbing the red leather-bound journal and flipping to the page I’d read the day before.

      On April 11, 1865—exactly 116 years to the day after Reagan left GWUH—President Abraham Lincoln delivered a speech favoring voting rights for blacks. So offended was John Wilkes Booth that he saw assassination as the only solution.

      The plot was well planned. Booth knew the play, and timed his attack to coincide with a humorous moment, so that the audience’s laughter would muffle the sound. Witnesses reported hearing no shot, so Booth’s ploy would appear to have worked.

      Or was there something else...

      Robert Stone, Lincoln’s personal physician, later performed a secret autopsy. What he found surprised and confused him. He wrote in his diary, a red leather-bound journal, which I happened to find behind several old texts in the George Washington University medical library:

Though nothing was to be gained by the enterprise, I nonetheless decided to extract the bullet. Employing the largest pair of forceps in my possession, I reached into the wound behind the President’s left ear.

I immediately took note of the bullet's size. A Deringer shell is large, and lead. The object I removed from President Lincoln’s brain was small, and composed of a different metal.

I examined the bullet for a moment before tossing it into the basin. I was startled by a slight “pop.” Peering in, I saw it had disintegrated into tiny metal shards, and that only because of the bowl’s depth did I escape injury.

Several days later, I casually inquired of Secretary Stanton as to whether the Army employed any type of miniature explosive ordnance. He affirmed they do not.

Stanton then commented, “It is strange you mention ordnance.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I personally examined Booth’s pistol. The bullet was lodged in the barrel. It never exited the gun. So I cannot say with certainty who, or what, killed the President.”

I told him of my findings, then said, “You and I must take this to our graves.”

      How a bullet traveled 2.4 miles southeast and 42,352 days back in time, I’ll never know. But I am absolutely convinced that is what happened.

      By the way...Reagan was shot at 2:27; Lincoln died at 7:22.

It has been signed, sealed, and delivered NPR. 

Feel free to share your thoughts. And wish me luck.

PS: Sorry for the late hint, but if you're feeling inspired, the contest is open until 11:59 p.m., Sunday September 23.

Hats Off To David Pogue

By Michael Seese

I don't often write blog entries which sing the praises of other people's "stuff." But when it's deserved, I make an exception. This is just such an exception...

You may or may not have heard of David Pogue. He's a New York Times columnist who writes about tech: email, iPads, cameras, The Cloud, you name it.

One of his recent posts was titled "How to Propose the Pogue Way." 

You can read the whole description by clicking on the above link. But in a nutshell, he created fake movie trailer that started out like any other romantic-comedy preview, but gradually revealed itself to be a thinly veiled version of their love story. He then persuaded the movie theater at a summer resort to slip it in among the real movie previews, on a night when both his and her families were in the audience.

It's amazing. You have to watch it!

Funny Foto #31

By Michael Seese

In a previous post or two, I have talked about targeted advertising, and how they can be hit or miss. A while back, on two consecutive days I got two I would definitely say were off target.

I will stress again that these ads absolutely missed their mark, and I say that for several reasons. (And none of those reasons is even remotely connected to the fact that my wife reads this blog.)

1.  These ads were attached to a daily e-newsletter which comes to my work email account. We can't access dating sites. We can't even access Facebook from work. So I certainly was not doing any "singles surfing" at the office.
2. I don't engage in "singles surfing" at home.

Also, apropos of nothing, I would bet my mortgage that the top row left, and bottom row middle are nowhere near 50.

If you want further proof that the marketing strategy of the folks at "LiveIntent" is off base, check out the ad from yesterday's email.

What do you think? Are they me?

Flash! Horror!

By Michael Seese

In a previous post, I mentioned a "small victory." In my relentless search for places to publish novels, short stories, poetry, and recipes (just kidding on the last one) I came across the Apocryphile Press, which is putting together an anthology of short horror fiction. Per the website:

It will contain 101 stories, each of 1000 words or less. Stories may be fantasy, sci-fi, monster, gore, comedy, or anything else, but above all they must be scary.   

Back in June, I submitted "Night Of The Laughing Dead," which was accepted.

The other day, I got an email from John at Apocryphile. "We are only halfway to our goal," he said. "If you have others you'd like to submit, please do. Also, if you have friends who write, won't you please tell them about the project, and invite them to contribute?" I already have sent in another short piece, "Take Me Out To The Ballgame." But...

I know that several of you, dear followers, are writers. And I'm sure every one of you knows a writer. So if you could point them to this post, they can follow this link to the Apocryphile page which has the details.

Thanks.

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. (What...you 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."

Enjoy.

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."