by Michael Seese
I didn't get a chance to submit anything to Cracked Flash this week. I had to wrap up a submission for MASH Stories on Friday. Then Saturday, I worked on my latest Janet Reid piece. This week, we had to use the words.
The words we had to work with were:
Scat
Bob
Diddy
Cool
Snap
I did something different. Knowing that "diddy" would be tough -- but that the rules allow us to divide the letters consecutively across words -- I came up with the sentence for that. (It's tough... you'll have to look for it.) Then for some reason my mind changed "snap" to "snag." So I built a sentence on that word. (When I realized my error, I was able to alter the sentence to make it work.) With the idea for the story in mind, I wrote the other three sentences and connected them.
Naturally, the result was too long by about 50 words. So I had to cut an entire paragraph that I loved. Oh well. I think it still works.
Below is "A New Life."
After a year, they'd given up hope. The search went from methodical to scattershot to cold case. Then one day Crazy Jake snapped his rod while fishing in Lake Bobbitt.
It made the national news.
At the funeral my parents cried like nothing I'd ever seen. Not counting my father's tears of remorse after yet another of his unspeakable acts.
I know.
I was there.
I'd gotten her passed-out drunk. Before the body had cooled, I put her in my favorite sweatshirt. And I'd dyed her hair to match mine.
Once they buried that hitchhiker girl, I was finally free.
Please share your thoughts.
Showing posts with label cracked flash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cracked flash. Show all posts
Sunday, January 17, 2016
Monday, January 11, 2016
Cracked Flash: A House Divided
by Michael Seese
So on Saturday I popped over to Cracked Flash to see what the prompt would be. I went a little outside the box by taking the prompt line, "I can't answer that--you'll beat me up," and making it the second sentence. (Though I haven't seen it written, I think the implication is it's supposed to be the first.)
Well, if I was wrong, I'm sure the Cracked folks will tell me. In the meantime, here is the creepy "A House Divided."
“It's a simple question, really. Just tell me where you hid the body.”
"I can't answer that. You'll beat me up."
Another stalemate. At times like these I could never tell if he truly was psychotic, or merely toying with me.
“And it's plural.”
“Pardon?”
“Bodies. You should have used the plural,” he said, grinning deliciously.
Toying it is.
We'd been playing this game -- he and I -- for so long that we'd become like an old married couple, carrying out conversations for which we already knew the endings. Though I suppose a better analogy would be two aged chess masters, who had squared off so many times over the years that they merely flipped through their mental Rolodexes and referenced the appropriate match.
December 12, 2011. Pawn to Bishop 4. How pedestrian.
Perhaps this time I could elicit an error in his game.
“Let’s talk about you. Have you done anything interesting of late?” I asked.
“No. Other than trolling the brothels down in the East End.”
“You enjoy frequenting establishments such as those.”
“You would know as well as I.”
I grew weary of the conversation, and punched the mirror, superstition be damned. Shards of glass rained to the floor in advance of several drops of my blood. I bandaged my knuckles with the pair of woman's panties that just happened to be in my pocket.
I sighed.
Now I guess we'll never know where the bodies are.
The clock on the mantel chimed. It was time to go to work.
As I slithered into my vestments, I prayed that one day he would come to the confessional. It would end so much pain. So much suffering.
But he never did. And so, I remained relegated to levying “Hail Marys” on the true sinners.
As always, I welcome your comments.
So on Saturday I popped over to Cracked Flash to see what the prompt would be. I went a little outside the box by taking the prompt line, "I can't answer that--you'll beat me up," and making it the second sentence. (Though I haven't seen it written, I think the implication is it's supposed to be the first.)
Well, if I was wrong, I'm sure the Cracked folks will tell me. In the meantime, here is the creepy "A House Divided."
“It's a simple question, really. Just tell me where you hid the body.”
"I can't answer that. You'll beat me up."
Another stalemate. At times like these I could never tell if he truly was psychotic, or merely toying with me.
“And it's plural.”
“Pardon?”
“Bodies. You should have used the plural,” he said, grinning deliciously.
Toying it is.
We'd been playing this game -- he and I -- for so long that we'd become like an old married couple, carrying out conversations for which we already knew the endings. Though I suppose a better analogy would be two aged chess masters, who had squared off so many times over the years that they merely flipped through their mental Rolodexes and referenced the appropriate match.
December 12, 2011. Pawn to Bishop 4. How pedestrian.
Perhaps this time I could elicit an error in his game.
“Let’s talk about you. Have you done anything interesting of late?” I asked.
“No. Other than trolling the brothels down in the East End.”
“You enjoy frequenting establishments such as those.”
“You would know as well as I.”
I grew weary of the conversation, and punched the mirror, superstition be damned. Shards of glass rained to the floor in advance of several drops of my blood. I bandaged my knuckles with the pair of woman's panties that just happened to be in my pocket.
I sighed.
Now I guess we'll never know where the bodies are.
The clock on the mantel chimed. It was time to go to work.
As I slithered into my vestments, I prayed that one day he would come to the confessional. It would end so much pain. So much suffering.
But he never did. And so, I remained relegated to levying “Hail Marys” on the true sinners.
As always, I welcome your comments.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Janet Flash: Driven To Lie
by Michael Seese
After an absence of several weeks, Janet Reid is back with another flash fiction contest. This week, we had to incorporate the words:
absorb
execute
bold
shim
chill
I started with the derivation of "shim," and came up with "Driven To Lie."
It was a lot to absorb, given my present state. The bright lights. The harsh hardness of the chair. The chilling blast from two fronts: the open window, and their reproachful glares.
The document before me bore no signature.
Yet.
I tried to execute a bold plan of escape. My tongue stumbled over the words.
“I shimply can't shine anything now,” I said as the pen hit the floor.
“Let's wait until morning. Sunlight brings out the truth.”
But the truth would remain buried. Just like that poor girl on the bicycle.
That I was sober as a judge. And that it was my wife driving.
We'll find out Monday what Janet thinks. And please come back tomorrow. I have a wicked story for Cracked Flash that I just posted.
After an absence of several weeks, Janet Reid is back with another flash fiction contest. This week, we had to incorporate the words:
absorb
execute
bold
shim
chill
I started with the derivation of "shim," and came up with "Driven To Lie."
It was a lot to absorb, given my present state. The bright lights. The harsh hardness of the chair. The chilling blast from two fronts: the open window, and their reproachful glares.
The document before me bore no signature.
Yet.
I tried to execute a bold plan of escape. My tongue stumbled over the words.
“I shimply can't shine anything now,” I said as the pen hit the floor.
“Let's wait until morning. Sunlight brings out the truth.”
But the truth would remain buried. Just like that poor girl on the bicycle.
That I was sober as a judge. And that it was my wife driving.
We'll find out Monday what Janet thinks. And please come back tomorrow. I have a wicked story for Cracked Flash that I just posted.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Flash: Safe Words
by Michael Seese
In my continuing quest for flash, somehow or other I learned of the Cracked Flash Fiction Competition. I decided to give it a try. This week, we were asked write a 300-word story that opened with the line (more or less) "I'm not sure we have the same definition of safe." The setup in the first paragraph immediately came to mind, and I came up with "Safe Words."
I'm not sure that she and I had the same definition of “safe.” I saw it as an adjective. A synonym for “protected.” She, ever the literalist, preferred the noun. In the sense of “something you drop from a tall building onto someone's head.” Things with her were black and white like that.
At least until Technicolor came along, that is.
We met on the set. She was the star, of course. I was but a lowly “grip.” I wouldn't have expected her to give me the time of day. But somehow she found me in that bustling beehive. Once she locked her emerald orbs on me, I knew the die had been cast. Those glorious gams glided her over. Her come-on had all the fire of her hair.
“My grip has turned many a best boy into a man, honey-bunny.”
How could I resist a line like that?
“Um,” I managed, my inner Romeo failing me.
“Let's go,” she commanded.
We hopped over to her place, a nice spread in The Hills. I should say their place. I knew she was married. Everyone did. Everyone also knew it didn't matter. Still, I asked. The last thing I wanted was to be on the wrong end of an oversized hammer, or a seltzer spray. She said he was away, on location in Albuquerque, or somewhere.
“I hope you’re a better lover than a driver,” she purred, leading me to the bedroom.
It was, in a word… Quick.
Back down on the street, I contemplated her parting words.
“I'm not bad. I’m just drawn that way.”
As the plummeting metal cube eclipsed the sun, the cold, hard (literally) reality hit me.
My affair with the conniving, curvaceous Jessica Rabbit truly was a one-night stand.
When I was about halfway through it, I thought, Meh. But it's started to grow on me. How about you?
In my continuing quest for flash, somehow or other I learned of the Cracked Flash Fiction Competition. I decided to give it a try. This week, we were asked write a 300-word story that opened with the line (more or less) "I'm not sure we have the same definition of safe." The setup in the first paragraph immediately came to mind, and I came up with "Safe Words."
I'm not sure that she and I had the same definition of “safe.” I saw it as an adjective. A synonym for “protected.” She, ever the literalist, preferred the noun. In the sense of “something you drop from a tall building onto someone's head.” Things with her were black and white like that.
At least until Technicolor came along, that is.
We met on the set. She was the star, of course. I was but a lowly “grip.” I wouldn't have expected her to give me the time of day. But somehow she found me in that bustling beehive. Once she locked her emerald orbs on me, I knew the die had been cast. Those glorious gams glided her over. Her come-on had all the fire of her hair.
“My grip has turned many a best boy into a man, honey-bunny.”
How could I resist a line like that?
“Um,” I managed, my inner Romeo failing me.
“Let's go,” she commanded.
We hopped over to her place, a nice spread in The Hills. I should say their place. I knew she was married. Everyone did. Everyone also knew it didn't matter. Still, I asked. The last thing I wanted was to be on the wrong end of an oversized hammer, or a seltzer spray. She said he was away, on location in Albuquerque, or somewhere.
“I hope you’re a better lover than a driver,” she purred, leading me to the bedroom.
It was, in a word… Quick.
Back down on the street, I contemplated her parting words.
“I'm not bad. I’m just drawn that way.”
As the plummeting metal cube eclipsed the sun, the cold, hard (literally) reality hit me.
My affair with the conniving, curvaceous Jessica Rabbit truly was a one-night stand.
When I was about halfway through it, I thought, Meh. But it's started to grow on me. How about you?
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