Flash Friday: Water Dance

by Michael Seese

The Flash Friday contests always present us with interesting photos to work with, though in some instances they don't "speak" to me, and I can't think of anything to write. But this week, the photo gave me an immediate opening line.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We also had to include a stolen identity or a mistaken identity. I'm not sure how well I did so, but I sorta used the latter.   Word count: between 140-150 words.  

So here is "Water Dance." 

From my vantage point, just beyond the tree line, I would watch her creating her watery art.  With each graceful sweep of her arms, she would bend the waves to her will, forming delicate sculptures, temporary monuments to the sea. 

Then she would turn and dive away, her massive tail waving goodbye to dry land.

One day I ventured closer, out to water's edge. She pretended not to see me. But her waltz with Neptune took on a decidedly sexy tenor, a dance of seven shells, as it were. 

The joyous joust between us continued for several weeks. Each day I would draw closer. Ankle deep. Knee deep. Thigh deep. I hoped she'd take the bait. 

She did. 

And I yanked the line.

The hook snagged her jaw.

She fought, but quickly tired. 

I'm sure I'll miss her supernatural performances. But I won't miss my empty belly.

I guess I was in a wicked mood last week.

 

Flash Friday: Hidden

by Michael Seese

As promised, here is my entry for the 11/20 Flash Friday competition. Below is our prompt photo which, though hard to see. are termite mounds in Australia. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And we had to include something/someone unseen OR include something/someone foreseen, with a word count between  180 and 190 words.

I wanted to work off the idea of termites eroding the foundation of something, and settled on the metaphorical "Hidden."

We toil in darkness, deep below the surface. 

We search for softness in the sturdy, then attack it.

We gnaw away— silently, relentlessly, indiscriminately— decaying from within the forgotten foundations upon which you built your home, the erstwhile reliable structure you long ago erected in oblivion, then neglected. 

And the beautiful irony is, we co-opt the detritus of your overtaxed architecture, and use it to establish our base. 

You, meanwhile, remain above, oblivious to the creeping rot which endlessly undermines your happy, stable existence.

You luxuriate in the material bliss you've convinced yourself is "a life." 

You ignore the growing sway beneath your feet, convincing yourself it's just a gentle zephyr, rather than a gale force of change.

You titter-teeter, all the while unaware that the entire house of cards you've spent a lifetime arranging "just so" is about to come crashing down upon your allegedly open mind. 

We are hate. We are invisible, yet ubiquitous. We are patient, recognizing that eternity is on our side. And once the time arrives, the moment for us to reveal ourselves, we know it will be forever.  

For we will not be stopped.

 

For the record, it's not really a story, as it doesn't have a beginning, a middle, and an ending.

Oh well. I guess the muse is allowed to take a day off here and there. 

We'll see how this Friday goes.

 

Flash Friday: Pitfalls

by Michael Seese

So there was a new Flash Friday this week. But I never got around to sharing last week's entry. I think I'll circle back to last Friday, then catch up sometime in the next few days.

The 11/13 Flash Friday presented us with this picture

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 and gave us the following parameters.

- Include a statistician OR include an optimist
- Today’s word count: 103 exactly

Trying to include both the statistician and the optimist, I came up with the original first line, "Gathered around the murky pit, we three: the optimist, the statistician, and me."

Enjoying the rhythm and the rhyme, I decided to write a a story in verse, something that has intrigued me of late. In short order I had "Pitfalls." 

 

Two days wandering in the desert.
Exhausted.
Low on supplies.
Thirsty.
Gathered around the murky pit, we three:
the optimist,
the statistician,
and me.

The optimist peered into the abyss.
"I'll bet there's water down there. If I jump just right, I'll miss
those rocks, and land with a graceful splash."

The statistician looked at him askance.
"Are you crazy? Do you really think you can chance
a foolhardy dive?
I calculate your odds of staying alive at—"

Two shoves with my boot.
One bone-crunching crash.
I now stood, alone.
"Oh look!
Two abandoned backpacks. 
Enough food and water to see me home."



Though it didn't win, it did earn a shout out: "Also to Michael Seese‘s “Pitfalls“ for an amusing story with its fun use of both dragon elements." (The "dragon elements" are including the statistician or the optimist.") 

Next: "Hidden."

Flash Friday: A Whale Of A Tale

by Michael Seese

Writing is magic. Case in point: this week's Flash Friday contest.

We were given this picture

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and asked to incorporate either a non-human character OR  include a phrase in a non-English language. My first thought was a throwaway line, like "It had a certain je ne sais quoi." But that would have been cheap.  Then I considered something from the whale's perspective, which would have allowed me to use some made-up whale language.

But as the day wore on, nothing came to me.

Dinner.  Nothing.

Then, as I was walking the dog, the idea hit! I pulled out my phone and dictated about half of it, wrapping up when I got back.

So here is "A Whale Of A Tale."

 

The grainy image flickered to life across the flat screen. 

"This is Malcolm Dalton, BBC News. I am standing outside the Natural History Museum, where scientists have made a startling discovery."
 

The focus shifted to a bushy-eyebrowed scientist, who absolutely deserved black and white coverage.
 

"Though marine biologists made every effort to save the beached whale, their labors ultimately were for naught. Pity. When we articulated the carcass, inside her belly we made a startling discovery. The skeletal remains of a human. Further examination determined that he was a male, perhaps 50 years old when he died. We can only speculate as to his identity."
 

Back outside, the intrepid hairpiece now stood before a phalanx of rabidly waving signs. The most prominent read simply, "Jonah 2:1-10."
 

"As you can see, the identity of 'belly man’ has inspired countless—"
 

Pinocchio switched off the telly.
 

"Good old Geppetto.  I'll sure miss him," he said, his nose gaining an inch.

 

If memory serves, I have not submitted any humorous stories for this go-around of Flash Friday. We'll see Monday how it goes.

Flash Friday: Real Life

by Michael Seese

Another dual-flash week. Tonight, I will share my latest Flash Friday story, and tomorrow, 100 words for Janet Reid. (Actually, 98, think.)

And I seem to recall I'm missing one or the other from last week.

This week's Flash Friday asked us to use this picture,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and write at most 200 words that also included a dollmaker or a fugitive. I kicked around a bunch of ideas, but nothing came of it. 

Then around 11:15, in the middle of watching reruns of the "Big Bang Theory," It hit me. Dead tired, I forged ahead, and posted it at 11:53, seven minutes before the deadline. Then, I rushed the dog out for her evening walk so I could get my 10,000 steps.

The result is "Real Life."

The curator's request seemed simple enough.

"Make them lifelike."

To the layman, it might sound straightforward.  But delve into the specifics…

The skin has to mix flexibility and resilience.  It needs to be thick enough to withstand the slings and arrows the battles of life hurls at it, yet respond kindly to the touch of a loved one.
 
The eyes must be able to focus, laser-like, on the task at hand, yet have the foresight to gaze into the distance, searching the horizon for unseen traces of the future.   

Now let's talk about the gut for a minute.  The gut needs to digest both critical nutrients and the truth, all the while serving as the ultimate arbiter of life's greatest decisions.

And the heart.  It has to remain a closed loop, efficiently delivering blood to the critical organs, yet be open enough to allow entrance to all who need a piece of it.

Quite the challenge.

In the end, I just decided it would be easier to just "borrow" a few of the specimens from our last foray to Earth, encase them in acrylic,  and put them on display.

So far, I've gotten two nice comments from fellow bloggers. Results will be available tomorrow morning.

Now, I wonder if I have the energy to complete a 350-word Weird Christmas story, due at midnight. 

Flash Friday: Con Dolore

by Michael Seese

Some days the words just flow. As has been the case on a couple of recent Fridays, there was both a Flash Friday and a Janet Reid flash fiction contest. And I managed to wrap up both before dinner. 

For the Flash Friday contest, we were to work off this image

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and include a either student or include a road worker. And, exactly 89 words.

I really don't remember what gave me the idea, but pretty quickly I had "Con Dolore" wrapped up and in the books.

I'd paused to wipe the sweat from my brow when a chill, defying the heat, traversed my spine. A siren song—close in distance, distant in memory—bade me to drop my pick-axe and pursue the fluid notes to their fountainhead, despite the entreaties behind me, begging me not to wander.

In a clearing sat a group of musicians, playing as one. Their faces conveyed the serenity I lost the day the soldiers came.
 

I sang, momentarily happy.
 

A sharp rifle retort punctuated the final note of our symphony.

Early tomorrow, I will post the Janet entry, "Where There's A Will...."

Flash Friday: The Pursuit

by Michael Seese

With life just being so crazy of late, it's hard to find the time to write. (Or at least, as much time as I'd like to write.)  The Flash Friday contests are a double-edged sword. Posted at midnight (when I should be in bed) the stories are due 24 hours later. So you've got to write quickly, and get it done; you can't linger. But with work, and dinner, and the dog, and relaxing....

So this week's entry made it in just under the wire, with me dead tired.  We were given this picture:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and told to "write a genre that’s new to you). For example, but not limited to: fantasy, scifi, romance, mystery, western, comedy, crime, horror, or thriller (or any general audience subgenres of these examples)."

Hmmm. I've pretty much much all of those. So I settled on something I call "The Pursuit," which I think I decided is "Paranormal fantasy." And for good measure, I wrote the story in verse.

I laid
on my back and prayed
to Callisto above:
"Please, dear goddess. Please help requite my love.
I have spent my life pursuing her grace,
worshiping from afar, never witnessing her face.
I wish no more than to savor her skin.
Pay no heed to those calling it sin."
Fingers crossed, did she see my lie?
The goddess, crossed, her icy reply:
"It is not love of which you wax poetic.
No! You are a liar! Pathetic.
Were your goal to feed your family,
I might find a dram of sympathy.
But you hunt only for the thrill,
bloodlust satisfied by the kill."
I felt the need
to answer her charge of basic greed.
"No!" I protested, "my intentions are sincere.  
I want no more than the chance to be near."
Her smile dripped of irony.
"Very well. You shall have your destiny."
And thus my pursuit of the elusive gazelle, alone
captured for eternity, forever etched in stone.

In hindsight, I wish I had written the last two lines more like:

And thus captured for eternity, forever etched in stone
my pursuit of the elusive gazelle, alone.

And perhaps, even using "unknown" as the final word.

Oh well, I can always change it if I submit it elsewhere.

Flash Friday: Life 2.0

by Michael Seese

(Somehow I forgot to hit the "publish" button on Saturday. So this post SHOULD have been before yesterday's.) 

As I mentioned in my post on Thursday, I knew a busy week of flash was forthcoming. So, I'm please to say "one down, and two to go." (Actually, it's two down, since I've already written my Janet Reid piece, and will post it tomorrow.)

In this week's Flash Friday! our mission was to build on this picture:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and write up to 200 words about an inventor, or a conspiracy theorist. I contemplated the image of a weathered boat on a beach, and thought about what an inventor would do to get there. My mind began tumbling over big ideas, which led me to "Life 2.0." 

They said it couldn't be done. I proved them wrong.

A simple carpenter, I'd never asked for more than an opportunity to earn a living. Then I heard the call.

I labored, day and night, beneath the sun's might and the torches’ light.

The naysayers gathered outside my home to enjoy the spectacle. Mocking me became a sport, of sorts.

"Not a cloud in the sky."

"Two of each? Do us a favor. Leave the skunks behind."

The ark finished, my family and I gathered our wards, huddling in the dark for seven nights, the unrelenting jeers outside our lullabies. The torrent, on the seventeenth day of the second month, drowned out their vitriol.

Afloat, asea, we rode the whims of the currents for one week, two weeks…

On the 28th day, one of the animals took sick. The plague spread throughout the ship. The animals overcame it. My family did not.

Two days later, we made landfall.

Now, sitting on the unforgiving beach, I watch nature reduce my ark, and me, to our bare bones. Yet I find a small measure of comfort knowing that animals will some day reclaim the Earth. Alas, not so the human animal.

I like it. It's fun in an overbearing, bombastic sort of way. 

Flash Friday: Afire

by Michael Seese

I wanted to catch up on last week's Flash Friday, as there will be another tomorrow. And perhaps there will be a Janet flash contest as well. (And just today I learned of an Australian flash fiction contest which posts its prompt on the first Friday of every month. So I'm gearing up for that one as well.) 

For this week's contest, we were given this photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

to use in a story, between 190 and 199 words, and include an act of justice or an act of mercy. 

I had a REALLY busy day last Friday. But...

My son asked me to drive him to a friend's house, about 15-20 minutes away. Heading home, I brain-wrote nearly 300 words. So then I had to severely edit it down. But the end result was "Afire."

 

The men with the guns and the iron chains came and raped my village. My wife, my children, me. They threw us on filthy ships and stole us to America, then tore all I had left away from me. In the still of night, amidst the others’ sobs, I would light a fire to honor their memory, and pray that some day there would be justice in the world.
 

The Nazis came and dragged us from our beds. In the camps, we spent four years starving, suffering, dying. My mother, my father, my sister didn't make it out. I did. And every year, on the anniversary, I lit a fire to honor their memory, and prayed that some day there would be justice in the world.
 

One sunny afternoon, I stood, helpless, as the police officer pressed his knee into the back of a man's neck, and held it there until he died. The opportunists hijacked our righteous anger to burn and plunder. In the privacy of my home, I lit a fire to honor his memory, and prayed that some day there would be justice in the world.
 

There is no justice yet.
 

Just a world ablaze.

Though it didn't win, one judge noted, "Mark King‘s 'Where Her Soul Goes to Walk' was an important, excellent, and moving commentary on race relations and the lives of marginalised people, as was 'Afire' by Michael Seese – powerful and meaningful work, a privilege to read."

I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm thrilled by each and every kudo.

Let's see what happens tomorrow.

Flash Friday: Hom(p)eless

by Michael Seese

I'm happy to report I was able to get a Flash Friday! entry posted this week, despite being dead tired. (Life is hard.) 

We were given this picture

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and asked to write an exactly 93-word story that included either an animal or a plant. I considered something like "Ficus and I rode the train home..." about a man who had gotten fired, and was taking his possessions home from the office. Then I morphed into thinking about a literal animal, like a seeing-eye dog. But then I hit on the idea of a figurative dog, and from that idea came "Hom(p)eless."

My "bed" smells like their asses. The designer soap scented weekday warriors in Armani armor, riding the iron steed into battle against their corporate dragons.

But the gentle rhythmic sway allows me the luxury of dreaming I'm floating free, a capricious sailboat navigating gentle seas. The lingering Chanel n°5, I imagine are hibiscus blossoms adorning the head of a tropical beauty.

Alas, my blissful dream withers under morning's glare. I gather my tattered things and take refuge in a dark corner, like a whipped cur which, in their unforgiving eyes, I truly am.

Kinda sad. But I do like the imagery. Tomorrow, we'll learn what the judges thought.

And, I hope neither I, nor any of my friends, find myself in his position. 

Flash Friday: The Tree Of Life

by Michael Seese

So, it PAINS me to say that I missed the previous two Flash Friday contests. I had ideas. But life intruded, and I didn't have the time to see them  through.

I vowed to NOT let that happen again. And I delivered.

This week's contest gave us this picture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And tasked us with writing a story between 150 and 16o words. The basic idea came pretty quickly, and I fleshed it out while making dinner. Below is "The Tree Of Life."

The best-kept secrets are those we bury deep. Preferably, on a moonless night, under the watchful eye of the Priestess.

And just as she predicted, fortune delivered to us salvation.

We fed him.

We swaddled him in silk.

We sang for him.

Near nightfall, he asked the question we knew was forthcoming.

"By the way, where are the men?"

"The men?"

"Yes. I've not seen one yet."

The Priestess explained. 

"Years ago, one of our elders angered a warlock. He cursed this village, fating every male child born here to die at the next new moon. He thought he'd won. I cast a spell upon his body. Then we buried him. From his soul sprang a tree. That tree over there. Its fruit, upon ripening, yields babies. Female babies. That's why you see no men." 

"Fascinating. Though I'm afraid the tree appears to have died."

"Yes, it has. So the time for us has come to plant a new seedling."

The results will be shared tomorrow. 

Flash Friday: A Quiet Revolution

by Michael Seese

Week 2 of the return of Flash Friday. This week, our prompt photo was this striking image.

 

Our story had to be exactly 75 words, and incorporate either a revolutionary, or a droid. (Yeah, we had a lot of sci-fi this time around.)

But I liked the quiet calm of the photo and wrote -- in one sitting -- and wrote “A Quiet Revolution”

Narrow minds believe revolutions must begin with a BANG. Khao Tom knew they could arise from a hush.

Sssh.
 

Sssh.
 

Sssh.
 

The sound of rice sifting into paper bags filled the silence of his shop. One by one they accepted his grace, nodded their respect, and hurried home to feed hungry families.
When the last had left, Khao Tom stared at the few grains remaining for his dinner.
 

"The war is just beginning," he said.

Judges' decisions on Monday. 

Flash Friday: Just Beneath The Surface

by Michael Seese

Years ago (back in 2015; I looked it up) I used to regularly take part in a flash fiction contest called "Flash Friday." The sponsor, Rebekah Postupak, would prompt us with an image, or a phrase, and gives a targeted word count range. Said another way, Janet Reid's contests are 100 or fewer; Flash Friday would say, "170 - 180."

Then it went on hiatus. But now it's back, for 19 weeks, she says.

Week 1 of 19 gave us this picture:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and asked us to use the "idea" of either something in the air, or in the water.

The opening line immediately came to me, but at first, I was going to apply the story to the folks in the boat. And then...

Please enjoy "Just Beneath The Surface."

Cannibalism is a measure of last resort. But desperation drives the unthinkable.

"What kind of monster would even consider it?" I mumbled, swimming in the darkest depths of self-loathing.
 

A mother's love is fraught with peril. My babies' empty bellies and sunken eyes cut me far more deeply than their silent tears, tears which disappeared in the chilly brine. I found myself teetering unsteadily between unfathomable hope and abject realism. Without food, the three of us would not live much longer. Altruism demanded I sacrifice myself to the future. To their future. But they were so young. Could they survive without me?
 

Their pain...
My hunger...
 

Perhaps I could kill two birds with one stone, as it were.
 

Then came manna from above. A boat of tourists, happily chatting, cameras snapping, exploring the wilds of Antarctica.
 

Oh, they'll see the wild all right. Up close and personal.
 

"Come children," I said. "It's feeding time. To the surface."

I'm pretty happy with it. Results will be published tomorrow. 

And ALSO tomorrow, I will post my entry for this weekend's Janet Reid contest.

Janet Flash: Colin In Heaven

by Michael Seese

The author community, though naturally HUGE, still manages to find small pockets of intimacy here and there. So it was with the group of writers to took part in Rebekah Postupak's now-defunct weekly Flash! Friday. And so it is with the folks who haunt contribute to Janet Reid's blog. Even though I've never met any of my literary brethren face to face, I do feel as though I know many of them.

One fellow devotee of Janet The Wonder Agent is Colin Smith, a fine writer and a good cat overall. Check out his work here.  

He recently paid a visit to Janet's office -- aka The Shark's Reef -- the other day. Janet, of course, decided to memorialize the event with a contest. Examine the pictures below, then in 50 words say what happened next. 

 
 



Focusing on the second, I wrote "Colin In Paradise."


A chipper BING BING signalled his arrival in Eden.

Like all prophecies, Janet's message had been cryptic.

"I want to discuss a book deal."

Spying the agente provocatrice, Colin's heart raced ahead to greet her.

"Yes, Janet?" he stammered.

"I’ll pay you $20 to shelve these books. Alphabetically, by author." 


What do you think happened?

Flash! Friday: Three Lives + Trinity

by Michael Seese
 
Sigh.

Below are my final two Flash! Friday entries.

Our charge this week was to start with the sentence On Friday everything changed, and use the picture

 







if we so chose. Oh, and the stories had to be exactly 100 words.

First, I wrote "Three Lives."


On Friday everything changed. And three lives found themselves irrevocably intertwined.

I remember driving, driving so fast. The oncoming headlights melded into a continuous blinding streak. I heard her screams. But they just fell into a queue labeled "sensory overload."

I awoke in the hospital, by my wife’s side. I was holding her hand. She lay still, as a nurse cleaned her up.

That day was a blur. In fact, the first two years were a blur. But on that Friday morning, after I heard my daughter cry for the first time, I knew everything had changed.

For the better.


Then I wrote "Trinity."


On Friday everything changed.

A primrose breeze carried the call of a cactus wren to our ears, as the warm sand  lovingly cradled my body. I closed my eyes, and opened them on a beach in Cancun.

Our honeymoon. Sweet, innocent times.

The loudspeaker brought me back.

When the voice reached, "Zero," a second sun arose. Yellow, then red, and then beautiful purple. At first it had a translucent character, but shortly turned to a tinted or colored white smoke appearance.

Seventeen days later, a second sun rose over Hiroshima. I doubt the people living there appreciated its deadly beauty.

And there is a Janet Reid contest underway. So check back tomorrow.

Flash! Friday: A Beautiful Girl Lived Here + Feeding The Imagination

by Michael Seese

I like the word "penultimate." But not when it comes to Flash! Friday contests. I'm still going for that elusive win #6, which would put me in some pretty select company with the great writers who practice their craft there.

This week, we were given this photo:

 

and asked to include a dragon. (For some reason, Rebekah has an abnormal obsession with the big green critters.

I started first on "A Beautiful Girl Lived Here," but actually finished it second.

The plaintive words painted on the sidewalk never faded in the sun, never ran in the rain. 

A beautiful girl lived here.

Abigail always hated the past tense; it came burdened with an inescapable sense of finality.

She read yet again the stark white letters and thought about all the "finals" associated with that day, so long ago.

"I’m going out!" The final time she screamed at her father.

"No you’re not!" The final words he would ever say to her, practically breathing fire as he spat them out.

"I am!" Her final act of defiance.

The backhand across her face. The final time he hit her.

The sickening sound the bones in her neck made when they snapped. That was a first.

Her father’s anguished wail. Another first. 

A beautiful girl lived here.

"I still live here," she whispered, bringing another flood of tears from the eyes of a man wracked with guilt. "You just can’t see me, Daddy."

Then I wrote "Feeding The Imagination."

"Mommy? Are dragons good or bad?"

Amanda’s mother smiled, seeing the spark once again in her daughter’s beautiful eyes. For too long they’d swirled with dark storm clouds. Petey’s death hit her hard. The melancholia lasted months. Perhaps she was breaking free of the fugue.

"Both, I suppose. Dragons, like people, can be either good or bad."

"Don’t dragons kill people?"

"Some do, I imagine. Maybe they’re bad. Or just scared. I know I would be scared if I were resting comfortably in my nest, and—"

"Cave," Amanda broke in.

"Pardon?"

"Cave. Dragons live in dark places, like caves or—"

"Amanda," her father finally huffed. "I’ve had enough of this nonsense. This fantasy world. The swords and sorcery. Dragons are not real. Say it with me. Say it!"

"Dragons are not real," Amanda repeatedly obediently. 

Tell that to Timothy’s parents, she thought. They’re probably still looking for him. But they won’t find him. After all, dragons do have to eat.

 
Not to boast, but I'm pretty happy with both. But as always, it's the judges' call.

Now on to my Janet piece...

Flash! Friday: Fear

by Michael Seese

A busy day yesterday. You see, in Chagrin Falls on the day after Thanksgiving they light the big Christmas tree in the center of town. We always have friends over for the event, which means we spent the day...

CLEANING.

As a result, I only managed to come up with one story for Flash! Friday, despite the (short) word count of 150 +/- 10.

Harking back to previous years, Rebekah chose to have us incorporate one specific story element -- in this case the character of a hunter -- and his picture.

   









(It's Stockholm, BTW.) 

My story is called "Fear." 

I own the night.

In truth, I own the day as well. But with the sun riding high overhead, you lose me in the hustle and bustle, the grit and grind of your harried and hurried existence.

Once darkness falls, I seep into your psyche by hissing in your ear two simple words. 

I'm here.

You then see me in every shadow, my minatory smile more unsettling than a snarling tiger. You laugh at me, only because your quivering lips are too dry to whistle past yet another graveyard.

When you were a babe, safe and secure in your mother's arms, you knew me not. But I crept into your consciousness through the creak of floorboard, the wail of the wind, the screech of an owl.

As you grew older, I found new ways to infuse myself in your very fiber, so that now I inhabit your life.

I own the night. And in time I will own you.


There is no Janet contest this week.

Sigh.

Flash! Friday: In Here

by Michael Seese

It is with heavy heart that I write this. In this week's post, Rebekah announced that Flash! Friday would end this December. So this is the third-last entry. (As you can imagine, there were a lot of sad comments posted; but we all wish Rebekah the best.)

This week, our prompt was the Gabriel García Márquez work One Hundred Years of Solitude, which spans the colorful, tumultuous, convention-and-reality-defying generations of the Buendía family in their fantastic town of Macondo. (Full disclosure: never heard of it.)

The story elements were:

* Conflict: man v man (not gender specific)
* Character (choose at least one): a child born with a pig’s tail, a son returning from sailing around the world, a father who named all his sons after himself, twins fated to die at the same instant, a paranoid beauty contest winner, an iron-fisted matriarch, a man who figures out an ancient cypher, a musician, a mechanic, an author who wins a trip to Paris
* Theme (choose one): solitude, the inescapability of family, magical realism, language, time, fate
* Setting (choose one): an village cut off from the outside world, a banana plantation

And this picture.

I came up with the first and final lines pretty quickly, then had a good time filling in the gaps.

The result is "In Here."


Sometimes when the mists would clear, I’d stand at the border and peer over to the other side. It seemed so beautiful. And tantalizingly close, though in reality miles away from my tentative fingertips.

"I'd like to go out there sometime, Mother."

"Why, dear child, when everything you need is in here," she said as an elephant alighted on her shoulder.

"I just think it’s time."

"Come," she said, leading me away from the edge, and deeper into the jungle. "Let’s have some lunch." The elephant trumpeted joyfully as she handed him a gumdrop. “Hurry. A storm is coming.”

I looked up. Clouds that sounded (and tasted) like Rice Krispies consumed the sky. A symphonic cyclone swirled down to the forest floor, uprooting the Pixie Stix trees. Priests in prehistoric garb prayed aloud for pestilence, only to be rewarded with marionettes mocking their words and rhythmic dances. Then all fell calm. The sun returned, a kaleidoscope in Crayola colors.

As lovely as it was in here, I’d grown weary of it. I thought often of escape. But I knew it’s not possible. Mother has been very clear.

"You can never leave this place, dear child. Insanity is your home."

And as has been the case of late, there will be a Janet flash fiction post tomorrow.

Flash! Friday: Sacrifices + One And One

by Michael Seese

Hoping to build off last week's Flash! Friday win (I did mention I WON, right??) I tried to come up with two strong entries for this week's contest. (As if I don't always.) You can decide if I succeeded.

Our prompt was Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan's allegory that follows the adventures of eager, oft-stumbling but good-hearted Christian as he leaves his doomed native land in a quest to reach the glorious golden shores of the Celestial City.

The story elements to use were:
* Conflict: man v man, man v self (not gender specific)
* Character (choose at least one): a pilgrim; Beelzebub; a man whose mission is to help others; someone who talks too much; someone who loses his/her life for standing up for what is right; a corrupt mayor; someone whose primary purpose in life is avoiding hardship; a cheat
* Theme (choose one): salvation; good v evil; the value of true friendship; the dangers of temptation
* Setting (choose one): a doomed city; a corrupt and wealthy city; a long road; a palace guarded by lions 

And this photo:

 













The idea for "Sacrifices" came to me while getting the kids ready for school.  I pretty much brain-wrote it on the way to work.

"You take it, Mike. Save yourself. I'm a goner anyway."

Jacob was right. I just hoped my face wouldn't betray my concurrence.

At 10, we played war. Fifteen years removed, this was no game. Our enemy treated prisoners like shit. Wounded prisoners worse. He'd last a week if he was lucky. Two if he wasn't.

"Hell, I was hurt worse that time you winged me hunting in Harper's Woods. We'll make it."

Above us, gravel crunched under foot.

"Take it!"

"No. I'm not leaving you."

I kissed my best friend's forehead, aimed through the tears, and gave him our last bullet.

Then I set out to do something fun, using Beelzebub as the character. At the gym I wrote "One And One." I came up with the second line first, and the rest flowed pretty easily.

"Come on, lucky sevens!"

Einstein’s opinion notwithstanding, God does play dice. And at the moment, He was losing.

Badly.

Satan smiled. Satan always smiled.

The Creator rolled. The Prince Of Darkness waved his hand, freezing the bones in mid-air.

"I’ll make you a deal. You’ve already lost love, music, art. And now you’re wagering the animals. I’ll give all that back. In exchange for one thing."

"What?"

"Man, of course."

"You’re on!"

The dice resumed their rendezvous with destiny.

"Snake eyes. You lose, old friend. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go for a stroll in my Garden."

 
I am SO going to burn.

Until then, there is a Janet contest, which I have not yet begun. But I have 24 hours.