Finish That Thought: "Fugly"

by Michael Seese

I once read a review of a Lyle Lovett concert, in which the writer noted that he introduced the song "Here I Am" by saying something like, "I wrote this song. I don't know why. I'm going to play it for you. I'm sorry."

I feel the same way about my latest Finish That Thought entry.

The opening line was The entire family had undoubtedly been hit with [the ugly stick], but they had been [blessed] in other ways.

Our special challenge to include four of the following.

A pair of binoculars.

A fur coat.

A stencil.

A potted plant.

A painting.

An aromatherapy candle.

A pair of sunglasses.

A Kindle with a copy of FlashDogs Anthology on it. ;-)

A courgette.

Here is "Fugly"

The entire family undoubtedly had been hit with the ugly stick. And we’re not talking about a Texas leaguer; they were knocked out of the park.

But they had been blessed in other ways. They could move things with their minds. Potted plants. Paintings. Even the occasional Rottweiler. How the Flying Duckman family came to possess this singular talent is the interesting part of the story.

Young Miss Capulet waxed

What's in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet

Our histories are forged by our names. An Eisenhower is destined for military greatness; a Clooney, for dashing good looks and a proclivity to marry a woman 17 years his junior. And if you are a Flying Duckman....

The Flying Duckman family can trace its ancestry back to a small Bavarian village named Unsinn, renowned as the home of the Yoder Yodeling Academy. (“Frightening Sheep Since The Reformation.”) The Fliegend Dückens, as they were know then, and there, were inventors. One of their most controversial devices was das Fliegend Ding, translated literally as “the Flying Thing.”

Unsinn also was home to the Scheiße Brücken family. Brücken, you might have guessed, translates as “brick.” As for Scheiße... let us just say it is a word one should use only in the presence of Herr Proktologist, and leave it at that. The Scheiße Brücken family were the wealth behind Unsinn, owing to their ownership of the only brick factory north of the Alps. Many people wondered how the Scheiße component tied in, but were too afraid—or too disgusted—to ask.

Regardless, the town’s mayor, Bürgermeister Scheiße Brücken, longed to be the first man to soar above the green fields of Unsinn in the Fliegend Dückens’ Fliegend Ding. And seeing as how he personally bankrolled the venture, he had a certain expectation of reciprocation.

What's in a name? For one named Scheiße Brücken, it’s an aversion to heights, along with the attendant rolls, loops, and dives of a prototypical aircraft. One particular dicey maneuver prompted the good mayor to let go of... a personal Brücken, shall we say.

Regrettably, the aerial bombardment inadvertently targeted the walkway in front of the home of the village’s witch, Drusilla Malfoy (and before you ask... yes, she is) just at the moment that a young couple, Hansel and Harry had happened upon her cabin of candy, and were about to be lured in to a lurid life of lollipop lechery.

But the “gift from the sky” frightened the children away, and sullied the witch’s fur coat, a gift from the village’s designated crooner, Liberach. So angry was Drusilla that she cast a spell upon the Fliegend Dückens family, saddling them and their lineage with a “face like a duck, and a nose like a courgette.” But owing to her poor eyesight and poorer command of Bavarian sorcery, instead of concluding the curse with “terrible sneezes,” she uttered “telekinesis.”

And there you have it.

And I am sorry.

Flash! Friday: Long Train Running Away

by Michael Seese

Another creepy entry from me for Flash! Friday. This week's winner in "Finish That Thought" used a second-person POV. (And I've used it once before, in a short story.) So I thought I would try it here, as that perspective can be quite effective.

We needed to work off this picture.

But we've been encouraged to think outside the box and not use the photo literally. So here is "Long Train Running Away."

You look at the train cascading away into infinity and have only one thought. Escape. Escape from life, from this life. Escape from the future, the future you dread, but whose script already has been penned. In blood.

You look at your past. Town to town to town. Mistake to mistake to mistake. You wish you could get on the right track. But that train derailed long ago.

You look at the gallery of faces… radiant, expectant. They beam like suns. You see only an eclipse. Look happy. They came to see a wedding, not a funeral. They’ll see a funeral soon enough.

You look at your maid of honor—your latest maid of honor—with your face of detachment as she gathers your ironically white train and gushes, "You look beautiful." Perhaps, some day, her too.

You look at your next victim, blissfully naive on this, the happiest day of his life, and tell him, “I do.”

Brrrrrr! Agree?

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to write 100 words for Janet Reid.

500 Words: The Hitman

by Michael Seese

First things first: if you read before 8:00 p.m. tonight (Wednesday), please pop over to Indies Unlimited and vote for the best story, which is MINE, of course!

Back to our regularly scheduled blog...

One of my recent discoveries in flash is Alissa Leonard's FINISH THAT THOUGHT.

This week's thought to finish: "It was [his] only job that weekend, and [he still forgot about it]."

Bonus for including "3 of the following: a dog named P-weezy, a cat named Pancho, a left shoe, a yellow #2 pencil, a hubcap, a banana peel."

So here is "The Hitman."

It was his only job that weekend, and he still forgot about it.

“I am the worst hitman EVER!” Mike sighed aloud.

The hushed mumbles and sudden shuffling of feet drew his attention to the line forming at the doors. He pulled out his trusty yellow #2 pencil, and scribbled. Note to self: refrain from saying that on a crowded train. On the plus side, everyone leaves you alone.

(Despite the fact that he frequently wrote notes to self, he always seemed to say them aloud.)

Extraneous conversations eliminated, Mike enjoyed the relative quiet of the now-deserted subway car. For the first time, he really heard the clack on the tracks, and really felt the sway of the subway as it plied along the Lexington Avenue Line. Above the door he spied the yellow-black-white-red placard.

SECURITY NOTICE

CONCEALED HANDGUNS ARE PROHIBITED ON THIS TRAIN

The steady rhythm and 24-point Arial bold words conspired to inspire him. He began singing.

Ridin’ on the train

Got my gun

Goin’ downtown

Gonna have some fun.

That’s perfect, he thought. That would have worked. If I had just remembered.

Mike’s entire life had been a series of near misses—or near hits—depending on how you looked at it. This past weekend was going to be his shot at the big time. He’d scored an appointment with Pancho, a really connected cat. Though Mike was an unknown quantity, he sold Pancho on his ability to knock ’em dead. Pancho took the chance, and offered Mike the gig of a lifetime.

“If you kill them, you’re in,” the “impresario” promised.

“I won’t let you down,” Mike vowed. But he did. He slipped on a proverbial banana peel. Yet again.

Note to self. When you need to be somewhere, on time, ready to rumble, SET AN ALARM.

He continued his musical musing.

Missed my target

Missed my mark

My finger on the trigger

Ready to...

Damn it!

Mike had it all planned out. The club promised to be packed. He figured he could make a modest entrance. Slip in unnoticed. And then BAM-BAM-BAM! They wouldn’t even know what hit them.

After that, everyone would know the name... Mike.

Note to self. Come up with a cool new handle.

Killin’ the past

Put a bullet in that name

Mike is dead

Now I got game

Mike was so involved with his running self-dialogue that he failed to notice the newly arrived occupants of the car.

But they noticed him.

“Yo, P-weezy. You hear that, dawg?”

“Word.”

“We got to tell Mikey.”

“What for? We can just cap this dude ourselves.”

“True that.”

Got no girlfriend

Got no wife

Can’t write a good rap

To save my ...

Simultaneous clicks from two Glocks caught his attention.

“We’ve got a message from Mikey for you.”

Note to self: a wannabe songwriter—someone who wants to write a hit song—is NOT the same thing as a hitman.

What do you think? A hit or not?

"Seeking A Man Who Enjoys The Beach, Seafood..." (oh, and WINNER!)

by Michael Seese

I never get tired of seeing the word "WINNER." Especially in conjunction with my name. But I'm proud to say I've joined one of the few three-time winners over at Flash! Friday. 

And I was really touched by the comments of judge Aria Glazki.

The dialogue that isn’t dialogue is the brilliance of this piece. In retrospect, the initial image sets up the possibility of both murder and suicide, but the following lines appear to be the internal dialogue and uncertainty of someone in desperate straights, contemplating something equally desperate. Only when she decides to say no, to find that inner strength, do we learn her demons aren’t internal but are in fact the physical and very distinct presence of her lover; that this back and forth isn’t her attempt to make a decision but a literal devil’s advocate, who is willing to take more drastic measures when the subtlety of conversation is insufficient. The twist of the ending that nevertheless makes such undeniable sense, conveyed through a risky yet perfect stylistic choice, steals your breath with the final line.

(OK bolding "brilliance" was my idea.)

Wow. Truly, I'm touched.

Then on Monday it was over to FINISH THAT THOUGHT for 500 words. Our first sentence was "The day it all began, the sky [was gray and rainy]."

And the special challenge was to include 2 or more of the following:

1. A map
2. A number
3. An alien (or aliens)
4. A made-up word
5. A question

So here is "Seeking A Man Who Enjoys The Beach, Seafood..."


The day it all began, the sky was gray and rainy.

The perfect metaphor for our relationship. I swear, I am never answering a singles ad again.

Seeking a man who enjoys the beach, seafood, and quiet, cetantary evenings.

“Cetantary?” Is that even a word? That should have been my first clue.

But I ignored it—as well as all sense of reason—and dialed the number.

“Heigh ho!” the voice chirped. That should have been my second clue.

After about two minutes of alien conversation, I realized I’d need a map to find her brain. And yet, I couldn’t hang up. We talked for another few indeterminate number of seconds, then agreed to meet. She asked if I could pick her up at the pier. She said she’d be out front, in all gray. That should have been my third clue.

For our first date, I planned a picnic. Why? I don’t know. I think I read somewhere that chicks like those kinds of things. Probably on the cover of one of those glossy, air-headed, chick magazines.

When I got there, it wasn’t hard to find the “pewter woman.” I honked. She hopped in, and kissed me. On the mouth. Hard. (By this time, I had stopped counting the clues.)

“Where’s the basket with the food?” I asked.

She pulled from her purse a can of sardines.

“That’s it?” I said, “What the F! I said we were going on a picnic. You’re the chick. Food’s a chick thing, right?”

“I’m sorry. Would you have preferred calamari?”

“Never mind,” I grumbled, peeling away from the curb.

We drove in silence. Well, not actual silence. She kept making this weird whistling and clicking noise.

At the park we settled down and (sort of) enjoyed the sardines. I tried to make small talk, something I was never good at.

“So, are you close to your folks?”

“Not really. I haven’t seen them in years. But I hang with my friends from school.”

“That’s nice. So, what do you like to do?”

“Whatever you do. I’m new at this.”

I quickly grew bored with the conversation, which tells you something. Soon, it began to rain. She started making that noise again.

“This is just perfect,” I muttered.

“It is!” she gushed. “Now I don’t have to be back for another hour!”

All things considered, it was one of the best dates I ever had.

OK, so she’s strange. She talks funny. She tends to slide off the bed a lot. And when she lands, you hear it. That’s not surprising, though, considering she weighs 450 pounds.

So why am I with her?

For some reason, or maybe several reasons, women don’t seem to like me all that much. But Delphina does.

On the one hand, she’s been a great wife. On the other hand, our water bills are HUGE. I’ve learned to accept it. But I imagine a lot of people rue the day dolphins learned to walk. And speak English.
 


Please share your thoughts on this story.

Flash Fiction: The Last Wish

By Michael Seese

The other week, I learned of yet another flash fiction adventure. This one is Alissa Leonard's "Finish That Thought." The judge provides an opening sentence, and an optional special challenge.

This week, they were, respectively, "Two wishes wasted; this third and final one was [our] last chance" and "Include at least two of the following: a genie, a magic carpet, a magic lamp, a magic ring, a Grand Vizier, a clever woman named Morgiana, a talking bird, Cerebrus, a Cyclops!"

So here is "The Final Wish."


Two wishes wasted; this third and final one was our last chance. In baseball, two out of three is great. To hear Meatloaf tell it, two out of three ain’t bad.

“Here…” I said, drawing a thumb across my throat. “We need to think of something.”

“I know!” she said. “We could ask for three more wishes.”

“It’s against the genie rules. You saw Aladdin.”

“Yeah. I sure miss Robin Williams.”

“Me too. But irrelevant. And keep your voice down, or they’ll hear us.”

“They” would be our hunters, a menagerie of mythical beasts chosen specifically to pursue us. Chimera, minotaur, and who knows what else, chasing us through this confusing, often shifting, labyrinth. Mazes are the worst, because they have dead ends. In the literal and… well, the other literal sense.

“Which way?” she whispered.

“I’m thinking.”

To the left, utter blackness. To the right, an orange glow.

She spoke the words rattling around in my hopeful mind. “That could be the key vault.”

“It could be. Or, it could be…”

“The dragon.”

“I don’t think we can chance it,” I said. “Their sense of smell is pretty good.”

We felt our way along the carved rock wall. Thick gloves protected our hands from the occasional “surprise” embedded in the stone. Broken glass, razor wire, cobras.

The wall unexpectedly gave way, and we stumbled into a large room, apparently disrupting the nap of a satyr. He grimaced and growled. I took her hand and took off running. Twenty feet ahead was a “T.”

“To the right!” I yelled, dragging her to the left, then into the first alcove. The hoofsteps approached, then faded.

“I think he bought it.”

“I think so. Good thinking.”

“Thanks. We’ve got to find the key, then the exit. We only have 15 minutes,” I said, checking my watch. “We need a plan.”

“Let’s use the last wish for a magic carpet. Fly over the maze, find the vault, get out.”

“It won’t work. It’s got a roof.”

“I don’t see one,” she said, scanning the starry welkin.

“Trust me.”

“Let me test.”

Before I could scream “No!” she pulled an apple from her backpack and tossed it straight up. The electrical grid arced and sparked. A pleasant smell of baked apple wafted down.

“I guess you were--”

The lumbering footsteps stomped through my happy childhood memory of fresh-baked pie. The audio preceded the visual by a scant second. Thundering toward us was the one-eyed giant. He was slow. But his torso filled the passageway. Escape? Impossible. Death? Imminent.

“We have to bail!” I shouted.

“But we’re so close.”

“The Cyclops is closer. I’m getting us out of here. Magic lamp, exit two.”

The avatar’s soft voice cooed the life-altering news, “I’m sorry. You only have enough strength points for one to exit.”

She looked at me. I looked at her, shrugged, and disappeared just in time to avoid hearing the scream which at that very moment was blowing out my speakers.





What do you think?

Here I Go Again

by Michael Seese

Come with me, dear readers, into the WABAC machine. If you'll recall, last October, I undertook a tremendous effort. To submit something, somewhere, every day for the whole month. "Something" could be... well, anything involving words. And "somewhere" could include:

- Contests
- Literary agents
- Magazines
- Online publishers (for example, Readwave)

It did not include blogging or tweeting.

Well, October is just around the corner. And I plan to repeat this asinine and painful challenging and fulfilling effort.

Actually, I think this time around it will be easier. Specifically, because I've found three weekly flash fiction contests:

- Flash! Friday, hosted by Rebecca Postupak
- Indies Unlimited
- (one I just learned of) FINISH THAT THOUGHT, by Alissa Leonard.

So those three alone take care of 13 days. I've already got four existing short stories which I plan to submit to anthologies / contests I found on HorrorTree. I have two other stories in the works, one for another HorrorTree find, and one for MASH stories. So I'm up to 19 days.

** Since I know that I will have some days which might be crazy, I'm "allowed" to submit two "somethings" one day, and then skip the next. But I'll try not to.

To quote James Brown, I feel good.

Who's with me? Who's up for the challenge?