C. Lee McKenzie's Blog, page 4
March 5, 2025
Short Story Wednesday
Dear Readers,
It’s Short Story Wednesday again. If you’re new to me, each week, I publish either a really short story in full or a longer one in parts. I’ll do this until I run out of ideas for these kinds of stories. In The Rewrite. Part 1: A ghost is playing havoc in Hazel’s library, and she’s determined to stop him.
Since this is the First Wednesday of the month, as one of the Admins, I also post for The Insecure Writers’ Support Group. You can find that HERE! Come by and join us if you’re a writer and ever feel even a bit insecure.
And now….
Part 2
The problem was Hazel had no idea how to banish ghosts. She knew mops and cleansers, titles and authors, how library numbers worked, and not much more. But she wasn’t a woman who gave up once she set her mind to doing something, so on the next Monday night when the library closed early, she planned to deal with her ghostly problem.
She arrived just at dusk and waited until the white, cloudy form plucked the first book, fluttered its pages, read a bit, and then stuffed it back almost where it belonged. This intruder had now invaded the non-fiction area of the library.
As the ghost moved down one row, Hazel followed, curious to find out what he was reading. Short Story Crafting. She put it in its correct spot and followed the ghost’s route, reading each title he selected. The Modern Short Story. How to Write a Good Short Story. Grammar and Style.
When she reached the end of that row, she peered into the next, but it was empty. Usually, when the ghost was near, she felt him. The chill. The wisp of vapor across her skin. But now nothing. Maybe trailing after him had frightened him away. She returned the last book to its proper shelf and brushed her hands together, satisfied and very pleased that it had taken such a short time to free herself from that pesky intruder.
She finished the floors in the non-fiction section and made her way to fiction. For a change, her maintenance job was nearly done on time tonight. As she ran the mop along row PQR, she imagined a hot bath and a TV show waiting for her at home. Then that familiar chill sprang down her arms. When she walked into row STU, the ghost stood not a few feet away. The worst part of his return was that he was tearing pages out. That would cost her her job for sure. Before she thought better of it, she lunged for the book and yanked it away.
To be continued…
February 26, 2025
Short Story Wednesday
The ghost didn’t scare Hazel, but he unsettled her. His sudden appearance—all bushy-haired with a mustache like a walrus—disrupted her routine. He drifted here and there while she polished the library floor or dusted tables, and while she tried to ignore him, he distracted her from getting her job done.
She’d no sooner tidy a row of books so they lined up neatly than a cold finger would hook one of the spines and tug it off the shelf. Then the ghost fluttered away, thumbing the pages. It was anyone's guess where that book might land. The first week he appeared, he disorganized two short story collections entirely.
She struggled to keep up.
Rita Baum was already thinking to fire her. Hazel could tell by how the woman squinted her direction while she re-shelved those errant books. She wished she hadn’t taken on this additional responsibility, but the library was shorthanded, and Hazel was short on rent money. Now, Rita blamed her for the mess the library was in. Hazel had overheard “not qualified” which she knew was aimed at her.
That ghost had to leave, and Hazel was going to see to it.
To be continued…maybe
Now, here’s a strange thing. I got an email from a company called International Impact Book Awards informing me that Because No One Notice won in the Young Adult category. The thing is, I don’t remember entering this contest. When I Googled the company, I discovered they’re a “borderline vanity award” because they’re open to a wide group and cost quite a bit. The “cost quite a bit” raised a red flag for me, so I looked into my records to see if I’d lost my mind one night and entered. I have no record of any such nutty behavior. So now what? Tell people I’ve won an award, but it’s questionable? I’ve won an award, but I didn’t enter to win?
February 19, 2025
Short Story Wednesday
Dear Readers,Well, it’s that time again. This carousel of Wednesdays seems to have sped up. Time Walker is a story I couldn’t serialize. There was just no good place to break it in two, so here it is from beginning to end--a little over 1,000 words. I hope you enjoy this one.
Time WalkerThe lamplighter coaxes the gaslight to life, and its soft glow pushes back the night. I watch from a distance as waiters ready the tables and customers arrive. Once the cafe bustles with laughter and conversation, I step out of the shadows and onto the terrace.
The regular customers are in their places sipping aperitifs when I pass through, rippling the air and disturbing pungent trails of cigar smoke. On the way toward my favorite table near the cafe entrance, some of the men glance at me, but as usual, these are only brief eye contacts. They sense I don’t belong here. I can tell from the way they pull back at my passing. The women, their hair piled high in the fashion, criticize me with side glances. I touch my hair, a self-conscious reflex. I’ve tried for their elegance, but it’s not so simple to mimic them, even though I’ve worked hard to do it.
The waiter knows me now. He’s at least welcoming, and I detect a warm sympathy in his eyes as if recognizing broken hearts is part of his cafe duty. I’m enchanted by the way he drapes the small white towel over his arm, bows slightly, and then greets me with a melodious, “Bon Soir, Mademoiselle. L’habituel?”
He doesn’t look sour at hearing my badly accented French when I tell him, “Yes, the same.” My French vocabulary and syntax are university-perfect, but I can’t conceal the rhythm of my native Dutch. That’s why I never speak to anyone except this waiter while I’m here. The curled lips of annoyance ruin the moment. I came to enjoy a sip of fine Cognac, this golden mood of Arles captured long ago by one of my most famous countrymen.
The waiter sets my drink in front of me and I inhale its rich aroma. As I lift the Cognac to my lips, a man steps across the cobblestone street and heads my direction. I take in a sharp breath. Lars. How has he followed me? I didn’t think it possible, but he’s striding my way, an anachronism in his jeans and T-shirt. His wiry body, his determined expression plucking at old memories I’ve struggled to tuck into the past.
Without asking my permission, Lars takes the chair across from me. “You can explain this, I suppose?”
That’s Lars. So direct. No preamble. “I can explain it no more than you can.” I sip from my glass suddenly needing fortification. “How did you get here?”
“By watching and doing what you did. Staring at the picture.” He glances around, uneasy. “I assume you felt the pull of it until stepping through was unavoidable.”
“Yes. That’s how it is.”
He settles his stare on me again as if he’s finally taking in the way I look. “Is this a cape?” He reaches his hand toward me, but I duck out of reach. “And your hair. What have you done to it?”
“That’s none of your business." I speak lower, but my voice has sharp edges that were honed by my bitter breakup with Lars last year. He made it clear that marriage and children were off the table. And when I was quite honest and told him that marriage and children were what I needed to make my life complete, he left our bed without a word. The next day he took back his ring. We continue to work as archivists together, but the rancor never lessens between us. "There’s no crime in my being here. I’ve finished my work. The museum’s closed. I’m on my own time, if I’m not mistaken, so I can dress any way I wish.”
The couple at the nearest table whispers to each other and points at Lars. "You'd do better to try to fit in," I tell him.
He smiles. "You're right, of course. And anyway I like your period look." He leans across the table and his breath brushes my cheek. Too close. “There’s nothing wrong in admiring the art, but invading it...that's unnatural.”
“And your arrival isn't?”
He ignores my question. Another of his traits that annoys me, now that I’ve had some distance from the romance. “And I’m sure this isn't the first time,” he says.
I push slightly back in my chair and look out across the cafe terrace, sad that Lars has found me, sad he’s stolen this pleasure from me. Hasn’t he stolen enough from me already? Three years only to find ours was a dead-end relationship.
It troubles me that I’m not the only one who can come to this cafe. It was so special—my reward after a day of looking at beauty from the outside. I could, for a short time, slip inside and be at one with a great creation. I could rub against the soul of the artist himself. His loneliness is a comfort for my own.
“Well,” Lars says. “Am I right? You’ve come before?”
“Yes. I come often. I’d stay if I could.” I hold my cell phone so no one can see it and check the time. I have only a few more minutes before I have to leave.
In my early visits, I discovered I had a precise ten minutes to live in this world that Van Gogh conjured onto the canvas. Staying longer agitated the cafe customers, and even the waiter grew restless. The starry night turned threatening. “Leave,” it commanded. “You don’t belong here.”
“Sophia.”
Lars says my name in that soft way he used to and puts his hand on mine. "I followed you because I was curious, but now that I’m here, I know I followed you for a different reason. I've been thinking about us, about how I miss being with you." He glances at our hands. "Like this."
The warmth of his touch brings back other moments we've had together, and I can't pull away.
The waiter hovers at our table, the bill in hand. “Le addition, Mademoiselle.” He glances at Lars. “Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction.” With a subtle nod in my direction, he leaves. How interesting that he’d know that quote. It came from a book published 1943, and I was inside a painting Van Gogh created in 1889. Perhaps my friendly waiter was another Timewalker, visiting Arles on a starry night.
Since Lars’ French extends only to simple phrases, he looks to me for a translation of what the man has said.
“It’s from The Little Prince.”Love does not consist in looking at each other, but rather in, together, looking in the same direction.”
I slip my hand free from my former lover. “And I believe that is all there is to say… except goodbye, Lars.”
Mouthing "Merci" to the waiter, I leave a generous tip before stepping onto the cobblestones and back to my time.
The End
I have a longer story with this same theme that I’m playing with, but I have yet to make it into something I like.
You can see all my work on AMAZON
February 12, 2025
Short Story Wednesday
Dear Readers,
Welcome to Short Story Wednesday. I have a confession to make. I’m rotten at marketing my work, but I love to write, so I’ve chosen to create short stories while “cleverly” telling you about my longer work. Well, not so cleverly because I sometimes forget to mention my books. I told you I was rotten. Today’s story is Part 2 of The Kiss. Part 1 is HERE. So I hope you’ll read it, and then let me know what you think. Please spare me loud raspberries, but I appreciate constructive criticism!
The Kiss, Part 2Abigail took her hand and led her into the bedroom. “Mel, look.”
“I know there isn’t a body. But last night there was.”
“Honey, you believe that. And I understand why. You’re out to change what happened two years ago, but you can’t in real life, so you try to do it in your dreams. Drake’s gone, Mel. His killer’s in prison.”
Abigail had been with her from the time Drake had been shot, through her repeated calls to 911 and her mental meltdown.
“Look, come and spend tonight with us. Then as much as I hate saying this, I think you have to move. It’s this house. That bedroom.”
Mel nodded. Her friend was right. She should have moved immediately, but she kept thinking that if she stayed—confronted what had happened—she could find absolution. All she found was a growing shame. Something was wrong with her, something she didn’t know how to fix.
Early that evening, Mel packed an overnight bag. She’d agreed to take Abigail up on her offer and stay with her. A good night’s sleep would help her make the right decisions about what to do. She bundled in her heavy sweater and stepped outside. The moon still cast a bright white light, so the shadows from trees and bushes were stark, stretching across the sidewalk.
She’d only passed her driveway when the crackle of dry leaves from behind brought her to a halt. She froze, then with dread pumping blood into every part of her, she turned to look back. His shadow stretched toward her, nearly touching her toes. He advanced, and that shadow crept up her legs and across her chest. She hadn’t killed him last night after all.
“You led me on,” he said, “then when all I asked for was one kiss, you refused.”
Fear lodged in her throat, shutting down her ability to move. She couldn’t scream for help. She couldn’t run. This time it wasn’t a dream. This time, he was inches from her. She was sure of it even though common sense said he was behind bars.
“I wouldn’t have killed Drake if not for you. It was your fault that it happened.”
It had been a flirtation. She’d encouraged this man but then had second thoughts. Her marriage was too important to risk. He’d refused to leave. Drake came home from his meeting that night and found her struggling in his embrace. There was a fight, a gunshot, and blood. Those memories stalked her. She’d made a stupid mistake, and she’d cost her husband his life. She’d paid for that mistake again and again. She was so tired. Let whatever this was facing her engulf and end her.
Abigail’s words were in her head, saying what she’d been saying for two years. “No means no, Mel. Don’t forget that.”
Mel finally found her voice.“Go away. Leave me alone,” she pleaded, but the dark figure crept closer. Then, for the first time since that night, she shouted, “I said no! You didn’t respect that!”
The shadow stepped back, hesitating and silent before vanishing and letting the moonlight pour over her—stark white and defining. She finally saw the difference between her guilt and her shame, a difference doctors had presented again and again.
“I did something wrong. I’m guilty.” Her voice was steady when she said the words that might set her on the path to healing.“But I’m not a bad person. I’m a person who made a terrible mistake.”
The End
I kind of wrote myself into a corner with this one, and I wasn’t sure which way to go. Let her have a breakdown again? I even considered having him become real, having escaped from prison. No. Too corny. So I went with the psychology of guilt versus shame. Did it work?
Available on Amazon
This time, I’ll make sure to mention my latest release. It’s receiving positive reviews.
Amazon Review:At first, I believed that this would simply be another surface level high school drama akin to Mean Girls, but I was pleasantly surprised to see how wrong I was. The characters are not one dimensional. In fact, the decision to write each chapter from a different character’s perspective allows readers to break this stereotype, as we quickly learn that how one character sees another character is not how the character sees themselves or the world. They are multidimensional people with their own secrets and struggles, and those who seem like villains are not necessarily bad people.
The book also deals with topical issues, including school shooting and loneliness/depression. It presents these issues rawly, pulling on readers heartstrings.
I thoroughly enjoyed this read.
Until next Wednesday!
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February 5, 2025
Short Story Wednesday--The Kiss
Dear Readers,
Welcome to Short Story Wednesday. Until I run out of these brief tales, I’ll post either a whole one or I’ll serialize the longer ones. This week’s The Kiss comes in two parts. So I hope you’ll read it, and then let me know what you think. I’m enjoying the emails from readers and the comments from subscribers! Since it’s also the 1st Wednesday of the month, I’m posting for The Insecure Writers’ Support Group. Big day!
The Kiss, Part 1Once early dawn had given way to a bright morning, Mel built up the courage to reenter the bedroom. She pushed open the door inch by inch and examined each familiar bit. The rumpled bed. The nightstand with a half-full glass of water. The light still switched on and where it should be.
Nothing unusual, except once again she’d slept on the couch, shivering. Even with the heat turned up, she couldn’t stop the chills.
She hated to call Abagail, but her best friend was the only one who’d listen and not freak out. Maybe this time she’d have a solution or an explanation. Anything. Desperate was a word Mel had come to know these past two years. During nights, terror was her up close and quite personal companion.
Abigail must have run after Mel’s phone call because she barged into the kitchen within three minutes of hanging up, and she lived two blocks away.
“That was… not a call I… wanted this morning.” Abigail was a bit out of breath. “I thought this had stopped.”
“I know. Sorry. I didn’t have anyone else—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Abigail took her hand and held it tightly. “Pour me some coffee, then sit down and tell me everything.”
With the thick white mugs in front of them, Mel began. She wanted to choose her words so that nothing sounded exaggerated or outright stupid. Yet her first start was both. And she shook her head, “No. Let me try that again.”
The events of last night came in snatches, and there were blank moments. She thought she had what had happened in the right order, but then she realized they weren’t. Of course, it was a dream. The disconnectedness of events, the shadowy memory that ducked away when she tried to recall what had happened. Much better to believe it was a dream. Otherwise, it meant her real-life nightmare was back.
Abigail touched Mel’s cheek lightly with her finger. “Maybe a shot of tequila would be better than this coffee.”
“If I had some, that’s exactly what we’d be drinking.” She’d poured the liquor down the drain after Drake died. If she’d kept it, she would have guzzled all of it in search of oblivion.
“Let me try again.” Mel straightened her back and clasped her hands around her coffee mug. “It was a little after midnight. I’d been reading.”“Nothing scary. A cozy mystery. When my eyes wouldn’t stay open anymore, I turned off the light, but with the full moon, even the curtains couldn’t darken the bedroom. I decided I’d better pull down the shades, or I’d never sleep.” She looked up.
Abigail nodded encouragement.
“I went to the window and…” Her heart became a drum inside her chest and she stood too quickly, knocking the edge of the table and sloshing their coffee onto the cloth. “Oh, God. I can’t…I—”
Abigail wrapped her in her arms and held her. “I think we should call the doctor.”
“No!” Mel jerked free. “I can’t do that.”
“He helped before.”
“It was terrible.” The locked doors. The silence except for her sessions with the psychiatrist. The gauzy days when she was taking the drugs.
Abigail led her back to the table. “Mel, sit. Talk to me.”
“He was there, outside the window. Then he was in the room, and it was the same as that night.”
“Did he attack you?”
Mel closed her eyes, but that only made the image of the man more vivid. It was better to stare into Abigail’s eyes and focus on the friendship they held.
“Yes, but this time I grabbed the lamp and I hit him. Hard. Again and again.”
“So you drove him off.”
“No. I”--she choked--“I killed him.”
Part 2 Next Wednesday
Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. This group is all about connecting! Be sure to link to this page and display the badge in your post. And please be sure your avatar links back to your blog! Otherwise, when you leave a comment, people can't find you to comment back.
The awesome co-hosts for the February 5 posting of the IWSG are Joylene Nowell Butler, Louise Barbour, and Tyrean Martinson!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Remember, the question is optional!
Is there a story or book you've written you want to/wish you could go back and change?Honestly? All of them. I’m never satisfied with a book I write, so I have a terrible time letting them go out into the world, and then I can’t read them again because I’ll want to take them back and fix them. It's a terrible affliction because I’ll never get any of them perfect, and I know it.
Quote of the Month:Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence. Vince Lombardi
January 29, 2025
Short Story Wednesday
Dear Readers,
Welcome to or welcome back to my Substack serialized stories. I’m so happy to say that I have wrapped up this one. If you want to see what led up to The End, here are Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 which tell the first of the tale. I look forward to your comments as always! Ready? Let’s go.
Summer stretched into fall, and fall into winter. Clark grew meaner when the snow came, and Mom withdrew into a cocoon so thick that Nikki feared even spring wouldn’t release her.
One afternoon, as she climbed the steps to her house, she heard the voice she hated. She opened the front door and peeked inside. Her stepfather stood, cornering her mother next to the TV. Her hand was at her mouth, and when she saw Nikki she turned away.
He’d hit her again.
He barely noticed Nikki, but her mother signaled behind her back. Go to your room. She always gave the same signal when Clark was on a rant. Even though Nikki wanted to help, wanted to grab something heavy and hurl it at his ugly face, she knew he would only hurt her, and then turn on her mother again. They’d both learned not to confront him--to let his rage run its course.
Nikki backed away, the familiar hatred and fear stirring inside her. As always, she locked herself in her room and then leaned her forehead against the door, listening and gulping deep breaths of air. How much longer could she and her mom live like this?
When Clark stopped yelling, she released Panther from his hiding place in the closet. Her cat greeted her with a long stretch and a meow. One way to block out Clark and the scene in the living room was to draw, so sprawled on her stomach across her bed, she sketched abstract shapes until his voice faded.
Panther leaped next to her, rubbing his sleek, black body against her.
“Sit still, Panther, and I’ll draw your picture.” She picked up her pencil. “You’ve got a touch of gray in that coat of yours and some tinges of red.”
Panther nudged her hand.
“See how much better I am seeing the details after those summer art classes? My art teacher, Mr. Cigam, said I can be a grrrreat artist.” She rubbed Panther’s chin until he rolled onto his side and then curled up on her bed.
She sketched his body, paying attention to more than his furry coat, just the way Mr. Cigam had taught her. She studied where his leg muscles attached at his hips, where the ribs connected to his backbone, the hinge of his jaw.
Nikki remembered her teacher’s words clearly. Your talent will be of great help to you and your greatest burden.
“He was so weird,” she said to Panther. “But I learned a lot.”
Panther began to purr.
“Now, don’t move, okay?” Nikki made careful strokes to create Panther’s sleek coat. She added highlights so his shoulders rounded and his eyes gleamed. She became lost in the details of his fur and the angle of his head. She held her pencil over the drawing. Only one or two strokes and Panther would be complete.
Trust me. Leave a bit unfinished until the right moment.
She signed at the memory of Mr. Cigam’s curious caution and threw the pencil onto the bed. It was frustrating, leaving her pictures undone like this. Last week Nikki got her first D in art because, as Mrs. Jenner said, she was tired of Nikki’s attitude.
“Finish that picture or suffer the consequences, young lady,” Nikki mimicked her teacher, shifting her head from side to side. “Damn it, Cigam. What did you do to me?”
Still, she feared what might happen if she didn’t do as he’d warned. Whenever she was close to completing a picture, that picture threatened to spring to life. Once, a rattlesnake almost moved on the paper as she placed her pencil on the incomplete diamond pattern. A week before that, she was sure the spider twitched when she considered adding the last spindly leg. She couldn’t risk finishing any of her work, despite Mrs. Jenner’s threats.
A loud pounding on her door brought her to her feet. Panther shot up from the bed, growling, fur puffed out in alarm.
“Unlock it,” her stepfather yelled.
Nikki froze.
“Either open this door, or I’m kicking it in.”
He’d follow through with his threat. He’d done it before, so she flipped the latch and jumped back as the door burst open.
“Off your butt and get out here. Your mom’s sick, so you’ve...Where’d that cat come from?”
“It... I’m taking care of it for a friend. Just overnight.” Nikki grabbed Panther and held him close.
Clark’s voice turned meaner. “I told you to get rid of that. Do it!”
“He’s—”
But Clark was already on his way out. The door to her parents’ room opened and then closed, shuddering the wall. She listened to their muffled voices and waited by her bed as their door reopened and Clark’s voice boomed down the hall.
“Stay in there for all I care!” The wall shook again as the door slammed shut, and then Clark stomped past her room. “Nikki!” he yelled.
Nikki tucked Panther into the closet before leaving to face her stepfather.
“Fix dinner,” he yelled. “Get going.”
She slid away from him and ducked into the kitchen. Quickly she searched the refrigerator for whatever her mom had stashed for dinner. When she found the frozen pizza, she started breathing again. He loved pizza. She even found a half-pack of chocolate chip cookies, another of his favorites. Maybe she’d be able to bribe him into calming down.
Her mom managed to come to the table after Nikki went to her, and the three of them ate in silence. Nikki glanced at the bruise that was already blue along her mother’s jaw. It would be black and tinged with yellow soon, and she would concoct another, “I fell down the front step” story for the office.
When her stepfather pushed away from the table and stood, he came to Nikki’s chair and gripped her shoulder. “Where’d you hide that cat?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t. I put him outside.”
He stared into her eyes, not believing her. “Like last time, right?”
“No. Really. I did.”
He gave her shoulder a hard shove. “We’ll see.”
She held her breath as he stomped down the hall to her room. He’d find Panther trapped in the closet and hurt him. She had to stop him. She looked at her mother, but the strong woman she used to know wasn’t there anymore. Nikki was on her own.
A crash came from her bedroom. Then something slid across the floor. Her stepfather was searching her room. She didn’t have much time before he’d yank the closet door open, grab Panther and…
Nikki pulled out the junk drawer. From the jumble of pens and pencils, she picked up a #2 with a dull point and a yellow Magic Marker.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Drawing something.” Nikki grabbed the blank to-do list pad that was lying on the counter. She sketched so fast her hand became a blur. Still, she made the strokes, the ones she remembered from her drawing of Panther—only this time she made the head larger with cupped ears, flicked back and wary. She drew the jaw so it gaped open with two incisors curving from under the lips, a row of jagged teeth rose up from below. With each stroke, she imagined the underpinnings just as Mr. Cigar had taught her—long front leg bones, the muscles stretched from one ligament to the other. This animal was a powerful machine, well-designed for its purpose. Next, she added the hind legs and the tail.
From her room came the slam of a cabinet door.
Quickly she blended and smoothed the dark lines with her finger.
Clark’s heavy footsteps crossed her room.
Her picture was almost complete. Almost. And when it was would this do what she needed it to do?
“It has to.” She exhaled the words as she added spiky whiskers at each side of the nose, and then, with the yellow marker, filled in the eyes that stared unblinking from the paper. “I’ll be right back,” she said to her mom who had cradled her head on the table and didn’t look up.
She hurried down the hall and entered her room just as her stepfather yanked her closet door open and grabbed Panther by his neck. Panther twisted in his grip and sank his teeth into Clark’s arm. He yelled in pain and let go. The cat darted between his legs and out the door.
With three quick strokes, she completed a picture for the first time since Mr. Cigam’s art class. Then, tossing it onto the floor, she slammed the door and fled.
***
The police couldn’t explain the rapidly decomposing body of the panther. No zoos had reported a missing cat. No circuses had been in town. They couldn’t explain the partially gnawed body of the man either. He’d been recently killed, that was certain, but by an animal that looked to be long dead?
Nikki held her cat tightly as her mother told them what she knew, which wasn’t much. When the police asked Nikki the same question, she drew close to her mother’s side and gripped her hand. “Like Mom, I heard screams, but I was too scared to go into my room.”
“And you didn’t see a”--the officer read from his notes as if he needed to make sure he’d written the report correctly--“big black cat?”
“Not a real big one,” she said, petting Panther’s head.
The End
So there it is—a little bit of realistic mayhem and some magic. I like mixing up the real and the fantastic, and I did it in my book, Rattlesnake. It’s in an 8-book giveaway, so if you like that kind of mixing, why not enter to win some books that do it?
The winner will be notified by e-mail on February 5, 2025.
January 22, 2025
Short Story Wednesday
Dear Readers,
Welcome back to Short Story Wednesday and Part 3 of Premediated Cat. Part 1 and Part 2 set out Nikki’s situation—She has an abusive stepfather, and her only escape during summer is the art class. But this year a Mr. Cigam is teaching and he’s not the kindest of teachers. Yet, he intrigues Nikki by the way he presents his lessons. So now she’s about to draw something using Mr. Cigam’s strategy. Do you have any ideas about where this story is going? Want to guess?
Premeditated Cat, Part 3On Tuesday, Mr. Cigam set a green sprouted plant in a plastic pot on the teacher’s desk. Wednesday, he brought a budding daisy, and Thursday, a pungent one with petals just starting to open.
The three remaining students drew and drew and drew.
He criticized and criticized and criticized.
Clarise fled in tears when he picked up her sketch between his thumb and first finger, carried it at arm's length to the wastebasket, and dropped it inside.
On the last day, when Nikki entered the classroom, she was alone. She sat at her desk, hoping that at least one student would show up. But when the door popped open, only Mr. Cigam entered, carrying a round pot with a bright yellow daisy in full bloom.
He set the plant on the desk and smiled. “Capture this plant’s beauty with your gift for seeing the true nature of things, dear Nikki, and you will have graduated at the top of your class.”
That won’t be hard, Nikki thought as she bent to her task. I am the class.
When she was almost done she looked up. Mr. Cigam hovered over her, his eyes darker than before, his forehead drawn into creases of worry. Oh, no. He was going to tell her how rotten this drawing was. He was going to send her out the door in tears or mad enough to flip him off.
“Your talent will be of great help to you. It will also be your greatest burden.” He set his hand on her shoulder, as if he felt something very deeply and wished he didn’t. “Remember, leave a bit unfinished until the right moment. Trust me.”
“The right moment?”
His smile didn’t brighten his face, and a deep sadness filled his eyes. Nikki saw him very differently at this moment--not rude, but focused on a plan only he understood. She wanted to know about this plan and she needed more of his lessons.
“Will you teach this class next summer?” she asked.
“I’ve taught you what you need to know, Dear Nikki.”
She laid her pen aside and when she turned to ask him to explain what he meant, she was alone in the room. Mr. Cigam and the plant were gone. She stared at her picture, almost complete, just needing a few strokes to finish a petal.
Trust me. His caution repeated in her mind.
She grasped her pencil.
Leave a bit unfinished.
“Ridiculous.” Ignoring, his warning, she brought her pencil down and connected the last lines to complete the picture. As she hovered over it, she imagined the sharp scent of daisies, and when she stroked a petal, it felt as real as if she were touching a live plant. She held what she’d drawn at arm's length, her hand shaking.
Dropping the pencil into her bag, she walked toward the door but stopped when she found a certificate on the teacher’s desk. The sheet of legal-sized paper was edged with stars and rainbows and lightning bolts that sparkled when she picked it up. Across the top was written True Artist, and beneath that was her name in graceful loops. Mr. Cigam’s signature flowed across the bottom.
On the lines for the date and place, he’d written: Summer. Sometime. Somewhere.
This had been the strangest and best art class she’d ever taken, one she’d remember forever.
She missed Mr. Cigam already. She wished that he’d return next year, but he wouldn’t. I’ve taught you what you need to know, Dear Nikki. And what was that, she wondered?
Rolling her diploma into a tight scroll and sliding it inside her bag, she was about to tuck her picture of the daisy next to it when she noticed that the flower she’d drawn already looked a bit wilted, that if she touched it, a petal might fall onto the floor. It was so close to being real, and so close to being dead.
If you like what I write, I hope you’ll take a look at my books. The latest is called Because No One Noticed, and it has great reviews so far. It’s available for purchase at AMAZON
January 15, 2025
Short Story Wednesday
Dear Readers,
Each Wednesday I post a short story or a longer story in parts, so here we go again. In Part 1, we learn that poor Nikki has the worst home life and her only escape in summer is the art class. This year, a strange teacher’s in charge, and he’s eliminating one student after another. Nikki fears she may be next.
Premeditated Cat, Part 2Mr. Cigam didn’t see Brent’s rude gesture because he was intent on tearing another boy’s drawing into tiny bits as the rest of the class stared at him, mouths open. By the time he scattered the pieces on the boy’s desk, the boy was already gone.
At the end of the hour, only four students remained. Nikki and Clarise were two. A couple of freshmen boys were the others. Each time the teacher passed her desk, Nikki had trouble keeping her hand from shaking, even though he only hummed or nodded at her before moving on. Just before she’d finished the last stroke to complete the image of the fly, Mr. Cigam slid the paper from under her pencil.
“Well done.”
“But—” She didn’t have time to lodge her complaint about not having finished. And perhaps that was for the best. She didn’t want to be forced to leave the class and return home.
“Now that we have only true artists, we begin,” Mr. Cigam said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. He reached behind his back and brought forth a dark blue drawstring bag. Then carefully, he opened it, felt inside, and pulled out the skeletal remains of a small animal which he set on the desk.
“Gross,” Clarise muttered.
“Rattus norvegicus. Wharf rat. Examine its bones carefully.” Next to the skeleton he propped a picture of how the rat looked just beneath the skin. “This is the next layer. Notice how a rat’s muscles attach to the ligaments and stretch over the bones.” He reached behind the desk and brought up a real stuffed rat.
“I’m going to be sick.” Clarise covered her mouth with her hand.
“Take your time before you start to draw, dear artists. Come close, and look at this creature from the inside out.” Mr. Cigam stepped back, and while the boys eagerly clustered around the display, the girls stayed a few feet away.
Nikki didn’t like rats, even stuffed ones, but finally, she went to the desk and studied each of the items. When she came to the stuffed animal, she knew she was looking at it differently than she would have before she saw its bones, muscles, and tendons.
As she began to draw the rat, she pictured it from the bones out. When she’d almost finished, Mr. Cigam patted her on the shoulder. “Well done. Stop right there.”
“But I’m not finished with—”
“I see that, dear Nikki, but trust my judgment. Don’t add the last stroke to its tail.” Something in the way he spoke to her made her shudder, or maybe it was her drawing. It was the most real-looking rat she’d ever seen on paper.
Each day after class, she and Clarise and the two remaining boys huddled together, trying to figure out if they should bail. In the end, they admitted they were intrigued by what the nutty Cigam would do next, and their art had improved a lot. Although they were scared he’d pounce on their work and tear it apart, either literally or figuratively, they came. And every day, Mr. Cigam withdrew something different from his blue drawstring bag. Tiny burrowing creatures were first; then came snakes and lizards—always from the skeleton out.
Nikki concentrated on each of the lessons. It helped to keep her from thinking about all the drama at home.
Her stepfather had been out of control the whole week after he’d been forced to take a pay cut at work. Mom had barricaded herself inside the bathroom, sobbing, and Nikki skipped breakfast so she could be far, far away from them both.
Each night Nikki locked her bedroom door and tried to draw, but it was impossible with her stepfather’s screaming.
“Stop blubbering or I’ll give you something to blubber about,” he’d say. Or, “You and your brat can take a hike any time. You make me sick.”
She dreaded the end of the art lessons when she’d have no excuse for leaving the house each day. When the last week with Mr. Cigam arrived, he announced, “Now for flowers.”
The boys groaned, and when he placed a root clump in front of each of them, one freshman swept his supplies onto the floor and stomped out. “This is crap!
Next week Part 3. I hope you’ll come back to see what Mr. Cigam and Nikki will be up to in that art class. But for now, how about some free books from some excellent writers.
Don’t miss out on a great Giveaway! Enter now!
January 8, 2025
January 4, 2025
Short Story Wednesday...again
Dear Readers,
Another Wednesday is upon us. I have Part One of a serialized short story to offer. Premeditated Cat was published in an anthology, but I’ve edited it since, so it’s not the original version. My first IWSG post for 2025 is here today as well, along with information about a great writing competition! I hope you like this week’s Substack.
PREMEDITATED CAT
C. Lee McKenzie
When Nikki stepped into the classroom, Lysol and polish and just a hint of last semester scented the air. Luckily, someone had opened a window, so the smells of summer were already filtering inside.
She wouldn’t be here on this beautiful day if Clark didn’t pound on her mom all the time—if he would move out—if this were any other class but art. Art was her only refuge in summer.
Like last June, Brent was seated at the back, and her friend, Clarise, had taken a desk along the windows. These two could draw better than most, but Nikki was still the best. They knew it. She knew it. The only one who ignored her talent was her stepfather because he didn’t want to pay for art school. That and the fact he’d do anything to make her life miserable, including telling her to get rid of Panther.
Since Clark moved in she kept the cat hidden in her closet when she was gone.
She glanced around the classroom and recognized a few other juniors and a couple of freshmen boys. The teacher hadn’t arrived, so she took a desk next to the window, one just in front of Clarise, and set her bag on the floor. Leaning down to rifle through it, she was making sure she’d brought all the required art supplies when an unfamiliar voice startled her.
“Good morning, my dear artists.”
Nikki snapped upright. The man who’d said that hadn’t been in front of the room a second ago. If she didn’t know better, she would have said he materialized rather than entered through the door. But there he was, his dark eyes darting from one student to the next until they stopped at her. It was as if he’d found who he’d been looking for.
Unsettled by the man’s sudden appearance, Nikki fiddled with her pencils, pretending she was choosing among them and avoiding the man’s stare.
“You are all so wonderful to be here on this bright summer day with your art pads and pencils, your talent waiting to spring forth.” The man whirled like a dancer and faced the class with a thunderclap of his hands. “Welcome to Mr. Cigam’s Summer Art Program.”
Someone giggled at the back of the room. Everyone else stared in shocked silence, waiting to see what other strange things he might do.
“Who is he?” Clarise said in a low voice over Nikki’s shoulder.
“What happened to Miss Lockheart?” Brent asked from the back of the room.
Mr. Cigam ignored Clarise’s whispered question and didn’t even glance in Brent’s direction.
Last summer, when Miss Lockheart taught, they worked a lot with clay and finger paints. It had been fun, but Nikki hadn’t learned much except that clay stuck like mud between her fingers, and she couldn’t get black paint from under her nails.
Now, with the very unusual Mr. Cigam as the teacher, her hopes for learning new drawing techniques slipped away with each of his peculiar moves. He adjusted the thick glasses on the end of his nose then twirled wisps of gray hair that stuck out from under his visor cap. It was itself odd, stitched together from pieces of shiny material cut in the shapes of stars, circles, and lightning bolts. With every turn of his head, the classroom walls came alive with tiny reflections.
He paced the front of the room, staring at the floor as if measuring the distance and checking for accuracy on his return trip. He crouched low on the balls of his feet and swiveled slowly, eyeing the students until they all pressed back against their seats as if fearing he might pounce.
“A different perspective!” he shouted, leaping to his full height and making everyone flinch. Clarise yelped.
“Now that I have your attention, take out your paper and something to draw with. I want to see just what kind of artists we have here today.”
From the back of the room came Bret’s muffled “Nut case.”
“Draw! Create!” Mr. Cigam commanded, again ignoring Brent. The teacher, his arms raised and his fingers spread wide as if casting a spell on them, walked the aisles. “I want to see your natural, untutored strokes.”
Besides Mr. Cigam’s light footsteps, the rustle of papers and the clatter of pens and pencils scratching on desks were the only sounds.
Nikki searched the room. What could she choose? Why didn’t he do what Miss Lockheart had done and put something out for everyone to draw? She looked toward the windows. Maybe there would be something outside.
A fly, dozing in the sunlight, clung to one of the panes. She bent over her art pad, glanced up at the fly, then lost herself in her work as she captured the iridescent wings, then the bulbous eyes she remembered from her science text.
“Hmmm.”
Nikki dropped her pencil and stared up into Mr. Cigam’s dark gaze.
“Talent here,” he said loudly and walked to the next aisle to hover over a girl whose nose almost touched the paper she was drawing on. “Tsk, tsk. What is that?” the teacher asked.
The girl stammered, “A butter…fly.”
Mr. Cigam shook his head from side to side, frowning. The girl slammed her art pad closed and fled the room as the teacher continued to the next student and leaned over her shoulder. “Easy on the outlining, my dear artist.”
When Mr. Cigam stopped at Brent’s desk, Brent was brushing art gum bits onto the floor. He looked up into the teacher’s intense, dark eyes.
“You are wasting your time here, my boy. Why are you in an art class?”
Brent flushed red, grabbed his art pad and pencils, and jammed them into his satchel. On his way out the door he gave the class—or Mr. Cigam, it was hard to tell which—a creative one-fingered salute.
End of Part One
And now for…
The awesome co-hosts for the January 8 posting of the IWSG are Rebecca Douglass, Beth Camp, Liza @ Middle Passages, and Natalie @ Literary Rambles!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Remember, the question is optional!
January 8 question - Describe someone you admired when you were a child. Did your opinion of that person change when you grew up?
I’m skipping this month’s question and going straight to the BIG NEWS!
If one of your New Year's resolutions for 2025 is to write more, join our “Great Expectations” contest here. Using one of the five prompts that we've created, write a short story between 1,000 and 3,000 words for the chance to win $250! The contest will run from January 3 to January 10.
We hope you’ll join the contest!
Because No One Noticed has some excellent reviews: “At first, I believed that this would simply be another surface level high school drama akin to Mean Girls, but I was pleasantly surprised to see how wrong I was.”
