It's Official... I'm A Misfit

by Michael Seese

Or I will be later this year. Allow me to explain...

A long time ago I wrote a short story titled "The Other Brother: Scandal." 

The concept: The great "consulting detective" Sherlock Holmes has an unknown (to him) twin brother. (Long story short, Mr. & Mrs. Holmes didn't want two brothers to compete with their beloved Mycroft, so they condemned one to an orphanage.) Possessing the renowned Holmes acumen and physical prowess, yet lacking any sense of morality, he turns to a life of crime -- specifically murder -- eavesdropping on his brother's exploits in order to join the game. "Scandal" recasts A Scandal In Bohemia (Doyle's first short story) from the other brother's point of view.

Flash forward to last October. On horrortree.com (to repeat, a great site for authors) I found a call from Bards and Sages Publishing for "The Society Of Misfit Stories." I submitted, and voilà!

The story will appear on their website in December, and in print sometime next year.

Please spread the word. And if you feel like ponying up 99¢ to buy a copy.... that would be OK, too.

Never Give Up! Never Surrender!

by Michael Seese

A while back, I wrote a story called "Watching" for MASH stories. MASH stories, if you'll recall, gives writers three keywords to incorporate in a at-most 500 word story.

Last July, the three keywords were "jealousy," "congress," and "art." You have to use the words EXACTLY as shown. Unfortunately, I looked up the keywords on my cell phone, and the "y" was cut off from "jealousy." So they rejected it. Rules are rules.

(As an aside, I REALLY quickly wrote another story, submitted it, and it garnered many favorable comments.)

Flash forward to mid-February. I read on Cathy's Comps & Calls about The Little Acorns and their flash fiction contest. I tweaked "Watching" (because for them it had to be exactly 500 words), and submitted it.

I have to say, I never grow weary of seeing the words, "And the winner is..." followed by my name.

Boothworld Industries Initiation Kit

by Michael Seese

Way back in July 2014 (yes, I had to look that up) I submitted a story to a submission call looking for stories about the fictitious "Boothworld Industries." In their own words.

Boothworld Industries is an anthology of short stories with a shared premise. All stories in the book start with the idea of a global corporation engaged in various nefarious activities. If you can imagine it, Boothworld Industries is probably doing it.

My story was titled "The Hardest Job In The World." About a month after sending it in, I heard back... ACCEPTED! Today, dear readers, the "Boothworld Industries Initiation Kit" is available.

And mine appears FIRST, after the "Welcome." But it's more than a book...

Also lurking within these pages:

- A secret phone number.
- The Official Boothworld Industries Death Override.
- A hypnotizing Connect-the-Dots.
- A completely nonsubliminal Color-by-Number.
 
There's much more, but it's up to you to find the rest.

So check it out, either here, or on Amazon. (At the time I wrote this, it was ranked about #4,000 on Amazon.)

And, it NEVER gets old.

Flash! Friday: Two Girl's Names

by Michael Seese

I didn't set out to write two Flash! Friday stories with girl's names as titles. It just happened. Though I suppose it's not surprising considering that the character prompt was the "girl next door." Then we were given this picture.

Oi!

Remember, though, the photo only has to serve as an inspiration. I came up with the first two lines of the story below, and originally titled it "She Is Guilty." By the time I finished, though, it was "Eve."

She is guilty.

                 She is just a child.

She is amoral. Loose. Wild.

                 She is free.

She is a temptress. A harlot. A whore.

                 She is giving. Nothing more.

She is evil in the flesh.

                 She is wholesome. Apple pie. Pure.

The serpent used the apple as a lure.

                 What about her scares you so?

Wisdom does not fall from a tree. Wisdom must be earned.

                 And so you cast aside all she has learned?

She is Purgatory. Or worse.

                 She is the Heartland. Cornfields. A white picket fence.

Beware of implicating yourself through her defense.

                 Are you now putting me on trial?

A trial suggests a jury.

                 I don't understand your concern. Your worry.

We are not afraid of a naif.

                 Yes. She strikes fear in you. She threatens your ivory tower.

You'd be wise to realize who holds the seat of power.

                 Censor!

Traitor!

                 Bigot. Hater.

Lies! Lies! LIES!

                 Honesty is her only vice.

Hold your tongue! You're dancing on thin ice.

                 Open your eyes. You'll see the light.

Revolutions begin with a spark.

                 You cannot live forever in the dark.

Playing with fire is never safe.

                 She holds the key to untold riches.

Guilty by association. We will burn two witches.

Then came (fairly quickly) "Molly."

Molly's the best babysitter. EVER! When she comes over, she always brings M&Ms.

"Ssh!" she says. "Our little secret."

We play checkers. But she's so bad at it. I ALWAYS beat her. We play superhero. I get to be the superhero. She's just the President, calling me for help. Molly says she'd like to be the President some day. She also lets me watch anything I want on TV and play games on her phone when she's upstairs. When she kisses her boyfriend goodbye, that's our little secret, too.

Last night, Molly told me she has to go away soon.

"Are you going to learn how to be the President?" I asked.

"Something like that," she said. She was crying when she said it.

I'll miss Molly.

I wanted to see her before she left. I wanted to ask her what a whore is. I'm not sure. But it didn't sound like something good, the way her Dad yelled it at her. I also wanted to ask her what pregnant means.

But I won't be able to ask Molly anything. Ever.

Superman is faster than a speeding bullet. I wish I was Superman. That way, I could have flown over there in time to stop her Dad.

Originally, the narrator was going to be a grown man waxing poetic about the neighbor girl as he watched her grow from an infant to a young woman. (Don't worry... it was going to be completely non-creepy.) Then the final line would have been something like, "All I could do was dial 911 after I heard the shot."

But I came up with the line "Superman is faster than a speeding bullet," and immediately I started writing from a child's POV.

What do you think?

Flash! Friday: Red

by Michael Seese

This one is kind of dark folks. Don't read it if you're depressed.

For this week's Flash! Friday we were asked to build upon this picture

 














And include the concept of "coming of age." So I came up with "Red."

Life comes in many colors. Death comes in but one.

Red.

The sky bled with one thousand screams. The landscape crawled with War Of The World invaders, each blast from their laser eyes burning fury.

I tried to find some refuge, some sanctuary, but found only paralysis in black words like “no future.”

At the facility, we all tried to blend into the sterile gray walls. But there was no avoiding it. Just holding it off until your courage could find you.

When they inserted the probe, my brain exploded in a reverse Marcia Brady first kiss fireworks display, a perfect bookend to our own awkward pyrotechnics.

After it was all over, my boyfriend kissed my forehead and said how brave I was for making the right decision for us. We drove home, the weight of his world dropped on my shoulders. I went upstairs, cut myself, and asked Him to forgive me for spilling the blood of a child.

What do you think, dear friends and readers?
 

Finish That Thought: Contortions

by Michael Seese

I'll spoil the surprise. Between the time I wrote and posted this blog entry, I learned that I won.

YAAAY!

Back to my regularly scheduled entry....

This week's "Finish That Thought" asked us to build upon the sentence, "How did you get in [there]?" And the SPECIAL CHALLENGE from the judge was "include a strange addiction AND the names of at least two games (but not as games)."

“How did you get in there?” As a professional contortionist, I get asked that a lot. The truth is, contortionism (which is not a word, but should be) is a lot like life. More often than not, getting into the box isn’t the challenge. Getting out of it is.

“What are the qualifications?” others ask. Loose ligaments. Oily skin. Anti-claustrophobia. And a sense of humor. Maybe the latter isn’t a requirement. But it sure helps.

Think about it. Consider the inherent absurdity of the profession. Looking at an impossibly small and unforgiving contained volume, and thinking, Yeah, I can fit in there. As a card-carrying member of the International Brotherhood of Extraordinarily Nimble Daredevils, I’ve spent a lifetime getting into and (so far, always) out of some tight squeezes. The strangest? A vacuum cleaner. OK, so, it was an industrial model. But still... And yes, Steve Martin got that one from me.

Quick joke: What’s a contortionist’s favorite movie? Twister! Another quick joke: What’s a contortionist’s favorite rock band? Twisted Sister! On a roll, so: Favorite food? Pretzels! I know. They suck. They’d never fly on Fallon. One more: Favorite car? Mercedes Bends! But it’s not like I have a monopoly on bad humor.

A third question I get asked a lot is, “Why?” Sometimes I wonder myself. The pay isn’t great, though I do appreciate the flexible hours, especially as a single…

What’s that expression? “If I weren’t laughing I’d be crying.”

Well, I should be crying. But I can’t. Not right now.

For right now, I’m wedged inside of a safe deposit box, with a flashlight clenched between my teeth, trying to jimmy the lock from the inside.

Back to question number 3. “Why?”

Because they insisted that I do it. They said it would be the perfect crime. Rent a safe deposit box. (Thankfully, the largest one at the bank.) Right around closing time, two people go into the room. And only one comes out. The other one uses her unique skill set to hide away in one of the cold metal coffins. Wait a few hours, until the cleaning crew has left. Emerge. Start drilling out the locks of others. Collect as much loot as possible. Climb back in. Then wait until morning.

When I woke up today, I had no intention of starting a second career as a criminal.

But if some very determined, very dangerous men kidnapped your daughter, you too would bend over backwards to save her. And that’s no joke.

 
What do you think of "Contortions?"

Indies Flash! Letting Go

by Michael Seese

First things first: my latest story for Janet Reid's flash fiction was named a finalist. It didn't take the prize, but I did think the winner was a pretty good tale.

And it's Monday, so it must be Indies Unlimited. Here is the photo of the week.

This was a funny one to write. The verbal cue talked about a "trans-harmonic camera." I decided to go with something like that. But it seemed as though my "brain-writing" efforts only generated about 100 words. But I sat down to type, and out came about 240. Voila! "Letting Go."

 

I hate these newfangled digital cameras. About the only good thing I can say about them is that when I take a picture of my thumb, I know it right away, which allows me to delete it and take another. Of my thumb, that is.

In fact, so pervasive was my photographic futility that it became a running joke around the house.

“How can you tell it’s winter?”

“Because Dad’s pictures show his glove, instead of his finger.”

For my entire life I’d had aspirations of being a great photographer. Unfortunately, now, I’m forced to admit that anyone associating my name with the name Adams would choose the creepy / kooky / mysterious / spooky television show family (not to mention upwards of a hundred others) before the great Ansel.

But hovering there on the periphery, seeing my family happy again, I wanted to capture the moment. Though try as I might, I could not get a clear picture. And for once in my... life, I needed to.

“Damn!” I muttered. “Why can’t I get this thing to focus?”

“Because you’re on a different plane,” came the answer from no one, from nowhere.

“But I need to. I want to remember them the way they are. I want to remember.”

“Of course you do. Everyone does. But it’s against the rules. You’re not supposed to remember them exactly. Your memory is supposed to fade. It’s how you let go.”

“But I don’t want to. I want… Who are those people?”

Kind of fun... yes / no?

Flash Fiction: "Undercurrents"

By Michael Seese

As I mentioned when I posted my most recent Flash! Friday, I needed to turn my attention to the latest Janet Reid contest.

Our mission was to use the words

long

beach

sand

bill

max

Originally, I wanted to try using them all as names. Long and Beach as surnames, then Bill, Max, and Sandy. (The Janet rules say you can "expand" words like that.)  But nothing was coming. 

With time running out, I pondered, pondered, pondered, and came up with "Undercurrents."

I have so many good memories of this place. Building sandcastles with my brothers. Chasing seagulls. My Dad’s white nose. Sometimes, seeing dolphins dancing above the waves. And eating ice cream ALL DAY LONG!

So many good memories.

And one horrible memory. Hearing my Mom’s screams when she looked out into the ocean and saw that Bill and Max were gone.

We come back to this beach every year. I think my parents hope they’ll see them again.

Why don’t they? I wonder.

I do.

I tell them. But they don’t believe me.

“Maybe when they’re in heaven,” Max says.

What do you think... a winner or no?

Now, on to Indies Unlimited....

Indies Flash: Og Hunt Alone

by Michael Seese

Sometimes I really enjoy this writing thing. Take, for instance, this week's Indies Unlimited. Win or (more likely) not, I had fun with this story.

Here was the photo to work with.

As I've mentioned before, the Indies folks provide 50 or so words that you can use as your starting point. I rarely do. This time, I had to. The written prompt was:

Og hunts alone. The others drove Og away because they believed he was bad luck. Always, Og would make a mistake on the hunt that would anger the others.

Og sees the thorn-heads and wonders how he could bring one down alone. As they graze, Og creeps forward.

Long before he comes close enough to throw his spear, his foot gets stuck in the mud. Og struggles, but that only makes it worse.

Og hears something that makes his heart thump big. It is the howl of the sharpfangs. They have seen him. Not a good day for Og…

And here is "Og Hunt Alone."

Og hunt alone. Og good hunter. Og get many hunt-things. Og no share.

Og once hunt with tribe. But Og tribe leave Og. Og tribe say Og make much noise. Scare hunt-things.

Og tribe stupid.

Og hunt at night. Og eyes good. See in dark. Og good hunter.

Og sneak past stone-face-god. Og good sneaker. Og see many stags. Stags strong. Fight Og. Og no like stags. Og see two white-tails. Og like white-tails. Og hold beat-stick. Og hold tie-vines.

Og ready. Og no need tribe. Og lone wolf.

“AAAAHHHHOOOO!” Og make wolf call. White-tails run away.

Maybe Og tribe right.

Og have bad luck in loud-beat-land. Og try red-moons-land.

Og see she-wolf. Maybe fox. Og move slow. Fox turn head. Og hide. Og crawl along sticky grass.

Og crawl close. Og ready.

Og jump!

Og grab leg of fox. Fox kick. Og not care. Og strong. Og used to it.

Fox spray hot in Og eyes. Og not used to that. Og eyes hurt. Og scream. Og let go. Og crawl to man cave. Find water. Og wash eyes in round white whoosh lake. Og eyes feel better. Og get drink at lake too.

Og ready to try again. Then moons go away. Suns come up.

“Closing time!” drink-god yell.

Og put away beat-stick. Og put away tie-vines. Og put away breath-good. Og sad. Smart-pretty hunt-things not like Og. Smart-pretty hunt-things not like Og caveman approach.

Og go home alone.

Maybe Og try dating website.

My spell-check really hated this one.

Remember... I'll be pestering you to vote here between 5:00 and 8:00 p.m. EST on Wednesday.

Flash Fiction: Opus One

by Michael Seese

Luckily, I checked my RSS feeds this time...

Last week, I completely missed one of Janet Reid's 100-word contests. I was really bummed, because the 100-word stories -- once you get the idea -- are pretty easy to write. I have to say, though, that the winning entry was REALLY good, and would have been hard to beat.

I didn't make the same mistake (forgetting to check my RSS) again.

This time, we had to use the words

beautiful
thing
await
paper
back

And here is "Opus One," which I basically "brain-wrote" while folding laundry.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Finished!

Nearly a year of sweat and tears were poured into this masterpiece. "Masterpiece." Those are some great expectations, pun intended. I prayed it would be good.

Like all writers, I live in a place called "wracked with doubt." What if it’s terrible? What if everyone hates it?

Now came the hard part. Letting go, and awaiting certainly from a fickle future.

I looked at my husband, asleep in the chair, a tattered paperback covering his eyes, then down at the beautiful little thing in my arms.

No, no doubt. She is a masterpiece.

OK, so I'm not a woman. I think it still works. Agree / disagree? 

The Toothbrush House

by Michael Seese

A little something to prepare you for trick-or-treating. This is a story I wrote as part of "Crazy October" and submitted to a (for now) unnamed anthology I found on HorrorTree.

“I dare you. I double dare you.”

“Fine. I’ll do it,” I said coolly, despite the fact that my insides were tumbling like tennis shoes in a clothes dryer.

It was Halloween night, the night every kid dreams of, second only to Christmas. And yet here I was, filled with more dread than even the thought of a lump of coal in my stocking—or worse, a sweater under the tree—could instill.

I, along with my friends, stood before “the haunted house.” Every town has one, as I have learned over the past…nine years and eight moves.

“What are you waiting for?”

Dark, unkempt, and blanketed by a seemingly permanent, localized storm cloud. Of course, it’s never haunted. Just owned by some nice old lady who just can’t keep up with the maintenance since her husband passed.

“Well, are you going to do it?”

“Sure,” I said, anything but sure.

“Watch out for crazy Mrs. Denton. She’s fast!” “Enjoy your toothbrush.”

Something else every town has. The “toothbrush house.” The house with an owner who feels it’s his civic duty to counter the damage inflicted by the rest of the neighborhood’s largess. As if a new toothbrush will override the effects of 20 pounds of sugar consumed in one night. It’s like applying a Band-aid to a severed limb.

I gulped. I wished I hadn’t thought up that analogy, here and now.

After focusing all my energies on stilling the shakes, I placed a hand on the iron gate. It swung open, even though I would have sworn I didn’t actually push it.

I stepped in.

The walkway elongated with an audible whoosh, pushing the dark porch back at least a mile. I began the longest walk of my life. Too soon, I found myself on the porch.

I knocked.

Hearing nothing, I prepared to turn and retreat. Slow and casual. Otherwise, I couldn’t save face. The footsteps within short-circuited my perfect plan of escape. Laborious and slow at first, the pace and volume swiftly increased exponentially.

The door swung open.

She didn’t look like a psycho. But she didn’t look like a regular grandma either. She started at me. My move.

“Trick or treat.”

“Enjoy your toothbrush,” she said, grinning a grin that seemed to feature too many teeth, as she dropped something heavy into my sack.

“Thanks,” I managed. Behind me, I heard my friends’ screams recede into the distance.

What’s the big deal? I wondered.

I reached into the bag, and fished out my prize, a badge of honor which I planned to show off at school tomorrow.

It was a bone. A human bone. (A doctor might have specified, “It’s an ulna.”) Glued to it were teeth of various shapes and sizes. Some still bore the blood of their previous owners.

Not sure of what to say, I looked up at Mrs. Denton. I caught a glimpse of the pliers just before they clamped onto one of my molars and pulled.

What are you hoping to find in your trick-or-treat basket this year?

Flash... The Surgeon

by Michael Seese

To whet your appetite for Halloween, here is a spook tale courtesy of Indies Unlimited. The photo prompt (it's a little hard to see) is a jack-'o-lantern. 

 




















And here is "The Surgeon."

“Shhhh!” I whispered. “Lie still, or he'll hear you.”

No need to say who he was. He was “The Surgeon.” The bogeyman that we as children talked about, and our parents tried to play down, for fear we would find out the truth.

That he is real.

The legends varied, though they contained common threads. Around this time every year, The Surgeon would come, searching for victims to whisk away to his operating theater, where he would…

Footsteps crunched through the leaves. I held my breath, terrified and blind beneath the moonless sky.

Closer...

Closer...

Closer!

“A-ha!” cackled the maniacal voice. “I've found you.”

I didn't feel the blade. But I heard it slice the air.

“Help! Help me!” I screamed as he dragged me away. No one moved.

I must have passed out. When I awoke, bright lights warmed me. I felt good. For a moment. Then...

THUNK!

The knife cut into the top of my head. There was no pain. Just an uncomfortable tug as he began sawing. Up and down, around and around.

Then his hand dove in and began yanking out my insides.

SPLAT!

They landed in a bucket below him.

“Yum! Tasty,” he said.

What kind of sick animal is he? I wondered.

The knife then dug into my face. My eyes. My mouth.

I now had them. It ended when he stuck a lighted candle inside me.

“Kids!” he called out. “All done. Let’s get it on the porch, and then roast some seeds.”

What scares you on Halloween?

And remember, vote HERE tomorrow (Wednesday) between 5:00 - 8:00 p.m. EST.