Flash: Payback

by Michael Seese

Now that we're a few weeks removed from Flash! Friday's swansong, I decided to try my hand once again at Indies Unlimited.

We were given this photo prompt

(courtesy of K. S. Brooks; the folks at Indies ask us to attribute), and asked to incorporate the ideas of this text prompt.

Every year, Mabel set out milk and cookies for Santa. Every year, she threw them away the next morning. This year, the milk was still there but the cookies were gone. Her refrigerator door was open, and what was left of her Christmas ham was out on the counter...

My initial pass was 375 words; the limit is 250. So out came the red pen. I do like the longer version more. But I'm sharing the shorter one below, though I did decide to add back three sentences, the ones about the bucket of water.

So here is the not-so-jolly “Payback”


“H- H-”

Weak and worn down, his throat could not muster the strength to push the words past his desiccated lips. His last meal -- a morsel, a trifle -- now was a distant memory.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, casting a pittance of light upon his swollen face. A cold splash blanketed him seconds before the clang of the bucket assaulted his ears. He couldn't care. He lustily lapped the liquid from the floor.

“Finally awake, eh fat man? You just couldn't resist the trap, could you?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I thought you had all the answers, Nick.”

"It's about the horse, isn't it?"

The shadowy figure, now halfway down the steps, said nothing. That had to be it. The details were coming back. The notes. The pleas whispered in his ear.

“I'm right? Aren't I?”

"Of course it's about the horse!" she screamed. "It's the only thing I ever really wanted. Year after year I asked you for a horse And what did you give me? Barbie dolls. Coloring books. Underwear."

"Your mother and father didn't want you to have one." Nick said softly. "You forget. I know what everyone wants. That includes parents. They simply couldn't give you a horse."

"They call it an evergreen tree because it ‘survives’ the winter. But once you cut it down, it's dead. Even if the tree thinks it's still alive,” she said over her shoulder as she ascended the stairs.

"So that's your plan, Mabel? To keep me here until I'm dead."

Mabel stopped, and turned.

"It's December 27th, Santa. Christmas is over. You missed it. You're already dead. To them."


I welcome all comments. And if you like it, PLEASE stop by here to vote, up until 5:00 PM Thursday.

Flash! Friday: Beached & Fury

by Michael Seese

Something old, something new for this week's Flash! Friday. Here is the photo.

 














And our conflict had to involve man vs. nature. Seeing the picture reminded me of something I wrote for Indies Unlimited last March. I tightened it up a bit. So here is the refurbished "Beached."




The police struggled to restrain the grind of onlookers. Oblivious to the din, Dr. Newton’s attention and energy remained focused on the immobile black mass before him.

"Damn it! That’s the third this month. Why do they do it? Why do they beach themselves? Pity. She’s a beautiful specimen," he said as he ran an appreciative hand along the smooth skin.

"How can you tell it's a female?" asked Simone, his assistant.

"When you’ve been doing this for as long as I have, you sense it."

"What if it continues to happen?"

"Worst case, widespread extinction."

"There must be—"

"Shhh!” he hissed. "I feel something!" He placed a sensor against the leviathan, and listened. "She’s still alive!"

An audible buzz surged through the crowd.

"She’s severely dehydrated." Newton called to the crowd. "Everyone! We need your help!"

Without a word, the throng lined up beside the imperiled creature. Taking turns, each plugged a finger into her lubrication port, and delivered a small quantity of oil. Newton checked her levels, then rebooted her.

Propellers churning the sand, she began lurching toward the water. With a titanic splash, she entered the surf.

As she sailed out to sea, a metallic cheer arose from the crowd.




When I first saw the photo and began contemplating, I had an idea of a story told by a sailor whose crazy captain implores them to pull a ship across the desert, because it's a shortcut. I wanted to have the sailor speak in a unique voice, for example, referring to the captain as cap'n. But that just made me think of Cap'n Crunch cereal, which ruined it.

Then I came up with the opening line "I stand in the fury," and the rest flowed. Below is "Fury."


I stand in the fury.

Arms outstretched, I curse Mother Nature, slathering her with every epithet in my vocabulary. She responds with a haughty huff, hoping it will send me scurrying. I refuse to yield.

I am Ahab! "Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me."

She changes tactics. Needles of sleet sting my face. I do not flinch.

I am Lear! "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!"

The sane have long since sought safety. I seek a fight. My defiance only deepens her spite, and fortifies her resolve. She wraps an icy fist around the brine and hurls her watery vengeance at me. She fills the air with a banshee's wail. Roaring rumbles pummel my chest. Blue bolts of electricity turn the sand around me to glass. The battle leaves us both spent. But I am still here.

The clouds retreat. The rains cease. She has ceded.

And I have lost.

I have lost because I could not convince her to take me, as she took my family in a cataclysmic clash of harbor and homestead.

In the end, I am Martin Luther. "Every man must do two things alone; he must do his own believing and his own dying."



Please share your thoughts on either.

Flash Fiction: The Love Of Money

by Michael Seese

It's been a while since I contributed to the Indies Unlimited flash contest. Nothing personal, of course. Either I was busy, or the photo didn't click. But this week, I resolved to come up with something.

Here is the photo prompt.

 














And this is "The Love Of Money."

"The love of money is the root of all evil."

A lot of wisdom was poured into the Bible. Perhaps I should have gone to that well more often.

Five gold eggs rattle in my empty hands. Five gold eggs which have sealed three fates.

Between 1885 and 1917, the House of Fabergé crafted 50 bejeweled eggs, give or take, for Tsars Alexander III and Nicholas II. This, we all know. But Wikipedia won't tell you there once existed five gold eggs as well. Weighing just over three pound each, collectively they're worth just south of $400,000 today. How they came into my possession is largely irrelevant, though the story may involve a Commandment or two.

History managed to forget them. Others did not.

The men who kicked down our door made an offer that was straightforward and succinct. And non-negotiable.

"Give them to us, and we'll let you live."

"It's not that simple," I said. "They're not here."

So they amended the deal.

"Deliver to us the eggs, and we'll deliver back to you your wife and son."

It shouldn't be this hard. But it is.

An announcement comes over the loudspeaker.

"Attention passengers, this is the final boarding call for flight 1678, direct service to Berlin."

I take the photo out of my wallet and lay it on the seat next to me. I won't be needing it any more. I pocket the lucre and board the plane, cursing my love of money with each weighted step.

Remember, you CAN vote for it between the hours of 5:00 and 8:00 p.m. EST tomorrow, Wednesday, right here.

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... 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.

Indies Unlimited: Fall Fire

by Michael Seese

Quick aside... so far my "October Insanity" is going swimmingly. Thank you for asking. As part of that effort, I'm getting contributing weekly (though hopefully not weakly) to three different flash fiction contests. If it's Monday (as I write this) it must be Indies Unlimited.

This week we had to work off a nice fall picture.

This is (the not so nice) "Fall Fire."

Damn those stupid municipal ordinances. Especially those that outlaw perfectly reasonable activities, like burning leaves.

“Fall foliage.” The words roll off the tongue so much more smoothly than “autumn arboriage.” Who among us does not maintain a little alcove in our special warm place for memories of fall, and all the crispy, colorful beauty associated with it?

As we get older, Christmas begins to lose its wondrous and magical appeal. But fall remains pure, unsullied by crass commercialism.

I grew up surrounded by acres of woodlands. So many Saturday mornings were devoted to the ritual of raking leaves. Collect them on a huge blue tarp. Drag it to the back of the lot. Repeat, until the yard was clean. Sprinkle a bit of gasoline. Ignite. And enjoy.

Year after year after year.

My father could have asked the landscapers to do it. But he wanted me to.

“It’s good exercise.”

“It builds character.”

“You have to work for everything in life.” (Even though he didn’t; he inherited his fortune from Grandpa.)

Yes, how ironic that my father believed you had to earn everything.

Even love.

That’s probably why Mom left him, and all that money, behind. I wasn’t willing to do that.

In some ways I miss those days. I suppose I'll miss my father some day, too.

Damn those stupid municipal ordinances. Especially those that outlaw perfectly reasonable activities, like burning leaves.

It sure will take a long time to dispose of a body in the fireplace.

Happy raking!

Finish That Thought: The Game

by Michael Seese

Funny thing....

I've been writing a lot of -- or better said, more regular -- flash fiction lately. With Flash! Friday and Indies Unlimited (both of which use a photo prompt) I tend to write more "serious" pieces. Though for some reason my Flash! Friday stories seem more... poignant, I suppose. 

In contrast, "Finish That Thought," which requires that we finish a sentence, tends to lead to humorous pieces. For example, "The Game."

This week, our first sentence was: "It is time to make the announcement." Our special challenge was to include a beaded necklace, a bridge, a glass of water, and an envelope.

So here it goes.

“It is time to make the announcement,” Mr. Boddy said, clinking a glass of water with his fork. “Someone in this room will die tonight.”

How would one expect an assemblage of six renowned aristocrats to react to said pronouncement?

Gasps? No.

Screams? No.

Panic? No.

The genteel guests erupted in applause, and then scattered to the remote recesses of the deserted manse, leaving Mr.. Boddy and Wadsworth, his trusted butler, alone in the dining room.

“Well,” Mr. Boddy said, “what shall be our weapon of choice?”

“The revolver tends to kill rather effectively, sir,” replied the dignified Brit.

“A fine suggestion, Wadsworth. Further, as an instrument of human dispatch, it allows for a more hands-off approach than the other methods.”

“Agreed, sir. Though it does tend to leave a larger mess for me to clean up.”

“Yes, regrettable. But, to make an omelet...” he shrugged. “On to the lounge!”

Their crisp footsteps echoed sharply on the hardwood floor. Entering the plush parlor they found the woman in red reclining casually on an overstuffed chaise lounge, fondling her beaded necklace. A single shot through the heart left the young starlet scarlet.

“Might I suggest, sir, that we employ the secret passage as a shortcut to the conservatory?”

“A splendid idea, Wadsworth. We’ll clean up the mess later.” Wadsworth knew there would be no “we” about the task. Mr. Boddy pressed a button ensconced in the pastel paisley wallpaper. A large section of the floor slid aside revealing a concealed staircase. Wadsworth removed a hurricane lamp from a table, lit it, and led the way down.

As they traversed a diagonal beneath the manor, the butler paused on the bridge over the underground river. His employer stopped by his side.

“Is something troubling you, Wadsworth?”

“If I may, sir. Do you ever tire of this?”

“A fair question. With 324 possibilities, I did not think I would. But I will admit it has lost some of its luster. Nonetheless, we cannot end the game now.”

In the conservatory they encountered Reverend Green.

“Forgive me, Father,” Mr. Boddy said before turning him into a holey ghost. In the billiard room Colonel Mustard sank a bank shot. Mr. Boddy sank his shot as well. In the library Professor Plum studied a dusty tome. Mr. Boddy saw to it that he was written into the history books. Mrs. Peacock, in the study, exploded like a clay pigeon. Finally, across to the kitchen where Mrs. White perfectly matched the cabinetry and modern appliances. Before the splattering.

The final piece eliminated, the devilish duo retreated to the cellar to retrieve the envelope.

“Would you do the honors, Wadsworth?’

“Certainly, sir.” He cleared his throat. “I believe it was Mr. Boddy, in most rooms, with the candlestick.”

“Hmmm. It appears as though I had the weapon was wrong.”

“Perhaps next time, sir.”

“Perhaps. Do you think those rich adventure-seekers will ever realize that it’s not a board game I’m advertising?”

 

 

Let me know what you think.

Indies Unlimited "Imprisoned"

by Michael Seese

Sometimes you write something without quite knowing what's going to happen. This week's Indies Unlimited is just such a beast. We were given this photo:

 

















There is always an option text prompt. Sometimes I completely ignore it. This time I sorta borrowed  it. I came up with the first two sentences, and then thought

?????????????????????????????

But eventually it came to me. And I'm pretty happy with the result, "Imprisoned."

The bald cypress can live 1,000 years. That number corresponds exactly with my sentence.

If I remembered how many people I’ve killed, I might feel some remorse. But I don’t. So I can’t. It’s not in me.

Killing. That’s in me.

It’s like a hunger, of sorts. But not quite.

People speak of watershed moments. That split-second decision which puts you on the left fork, rather than the right. The one which changes the course of your life.

Unalterably.

My watershed moment came the day I spilled her blood. We met at a bar. Naturally. She seemed young, too young. I swear, I swear, I swear that I was about to pay for my beer and leave. I should have.

But her eyes.

They were... beyond mesmerizing. They were hypnotizing.

I walked over and made chat. Soon, we were driving back to her place. She lit candles, incense, then poured two tall glasses of red, and handed me one.

“Cabernet?” I asked.

“No,” she said, taking a lusty swig. “Blood.”

I threw it in her face.

The lesson? Never cross a voodoo queen.

One thousand years of imprisonment in the body of the un-dead. Feasting on humans. Not because I want to. Because I have to.

That’s why I troll the swamps around the LCIW, officially the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women. The escapees are easier to overcome. They’re softer. And desperate, since the LCIW is the state’s female death row.

Though their brains are messed up, too.

 
And remember kids, please stop by Indies Unlimited this Wednesday afternoon (5:00 p.m. - ish EST to 8:00 p.m. sharp) and vote.

Two For the Price Of One

by Michael Seese

This weekend I had fun flashing. (In the writing sense. Get your minds out of the gutter!)

I already noted my Flash! Friday entry, "Finding Peace."

On Saturday, Janet Reid surprised us with one of her contests. One hundred words, using

Pants
Magic
Blood
Spirits
Cat

I came up with the disturbing "Big Brother."


"Sorry, cat," I said to the lifeless mass at my feet.

"Mom will be home soon. Get some paper towels."

It was a mess. Lots of blood.

"What are you going to tell her?"

"If we clean up, nothing," David said.

"Can't you tell her the truth? That you heard you could see spirits?"

"Bad idea. You'll understand when you're older."

David was right. There's a lot that's confusing to a six-year-old.

"We're in trouble, aren't we?"

"We'll be fine."

“OK.” Big brothers are magic.

"Hurry. Throw the pants in the fireplace. And her name was Kate, not Cat."


Between the time I wrote and published this blog entry, I learned I was a finalist. The winning entry was very good. Check it out.


Then on Saturday came the Indies Unlimited contest. We had to work off this photo. 

Below is "Canaries."



A mile of curving, cold steel was all that stood between me and liberation. We had made it past the guards and over the razor-wire-topped fence. From here, it should have been easy.

“What are you waiting for?” she whispered.

“I’m thinking,” I answered.

“What’s to think about? Let’s go.”

I wanted to yell, “Wait!” But yelling would have been suicide. So I followed. Carefully.

The tracks were laid specifically for the trains which brought us to the camp. Some of us wondered why they had been left. I assumed there would be more like us coming some day.

She was my best friend. My only friend. When she learned of my plans, she insisted I take her.

“I can help you,” she pleaded. I knew that she would. That’s why I wanted to leave her behind.

She bounded along the railroad ties as if playing hopscotch. Two feet apart, then one in the middle, skip the next… Almost as if she knew. But she didn’t. She was just carefree by nature.

I followed her footsteps precisely.

The end now in sight, she could not contain herself. She sprinted ahead, squealing, her arms spread wide.

“We did it! We’re free! We’re—”

The explosion provided the punctuation for her final sentence. I guess the rumors about landmines were more than just rumors.

The border less than 20 feet away, I walked around the still-smoldering crater and breathed freedom for the first time in years.

Coal miners have canaries. I had her.


I don't need psychological help.... do I?