Guest Author
Michael A. Kechula
Michael A. Kechula is the most prolific writer I know. His success in the flash fiction forum is an inspiration to many writers (myself included). He is a master of tightly woven, bizarre stories--each one a little gremlin dressed up in finery. Michael has been kind enough to share “The Anniversary Party” and “Ghost Bugs” this month.
Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. His flash and micro-fiction tales have won first prize in six contests and honorable mention in three others. His stories have appeared in eighty-seven online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “Crazy Stories for Crazy People.” Both paperbacks available at www.barnesandnoble.com eBook versions of the former are available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com
The Anniversary Party
Cool Pacific breezes woke Marcia from a chloroform-induced stupor. She moaned when she realized she was tied to a wooden chair. “Where am I?” she mumbled.
“On the beach at Bodega Bay,” said Henry.
“Why am I tied up?”
“To make sure you attend the anniversary party.”
“For who?”
“To celebrate the fabulous movie that was released fifty years ago.”
“Let me go, Henry. You’re acting crazy again.”
“Just relax and enjoy the party.”
“But nobody’s here. And where’s the food?”
“Tied to a chair,” he said.
“Does this have something to do with your favorite movie, Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho? Are you making believe you’re that loon, Norman Bates? So who am I---his mother? Or the woman he stabbed in the shower?”
“It’s not about Psycho. Otherwise you’d be tied up in a motel room shower. Besides, that’s not my favorite movie.”
“OK,” she said, “you had your fun. Untie me and let’s find a nice restaurant. My treat. Then we can fool around. Whadda ya say? These ropes are hurting me.”
“But if I let you loose, you’ll miss the party. And you’ll nag me about that like you do about everything else.”
Ignoring her protests, Henry poured a jug of honey over her head. It ran down her face and over her shoulders.
“Stop it, you lunatic! I’m getting sticky all over! Dammit! You musta forgot to take your meds again!”
“Nag, nag, nag,” Henry said, as he opened a bag and poured the contents over her head.
“Ow. It’s getting in my eyes. What is this?”
“Bird seed.”
“Let me go right now! I promise I won’t tell the cops or your psychiatrist. Let me jump in the bay to clean this stuff off. Then I’ll make you feel real good. For as many times as you want.”
“I can’t let you go. I promised them you’d be here for their anniversary party.”
“Who’s them? Are you seeing little green men again?”
“Something better,” he chuckled.
Henry put a birdcall between his lips and blew hard.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling our guests. Look…here they come.” Henry raced for the safety of his car, as swarms of squawking birds dived toward them. Landing on the beach, they surrounded Marcia.
Henry was startled when none of the birds approached her.
A seagull flew toward Henry’s car. Landing on the hood, he motioned for Henry to lower the window.
“What’s going on?” the seagull asked.
“I’m having an anniversary party for you guys.”
“Why?”
“To celebrate the release of my favorite movie fifty years ago.”
“Which one?”
“The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock.”
“Never heard of it. Let me check with the guys to see if any of them ever did.”
The seagull flew to the birds, squawked a few times, then returned to Henry’s car.
“None of the guys ever heard of that movie,” said the seagull. “What’s it about?”
“How a bunch of birds went nuts and attacked people. Even little kids. It happened right here at Bodega Bay. It was scary. And very bloody.”
“Sounds goofy,” the seagull said. “None of us would ever dream of doing such a crazy thing. By the way, what kind of bird is that tied to the chair?”
“That’s a woman, not a bird.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Hmm. I could swear I saw her flying around San Francisco last week. Well, we’ll be on our way. Have a nice day.”
“Aren’t you gonna eat the dinner I put out for you and your friends?” Henry asked.
“What dinner?”
“The one tied to the chair.”
“Nah. We’re all on diets. Besides, we’re not cannibals.”
“Hold on, you freakin’ jerk! I spent time, effort, and money to prepare this special anniversary dinner for you guys. And now you tell me you won’t eat it? That’s a damn insult!” Henry pulled a pistol from the glove compartment and blew the seagull’s head off.
The birds scattered when they heard the gunshot and saw their friend fall to the ground.
The sudden recognition of what he’d done jolted Henry back to reality. He ran to Marcia and untied her. Told her he was just fooling around, that he meant no harm.
Delighted to be free, she jumped into the bay and cleaned herself.
Dripping wet and sitting in the car she said, “You never told me what your favorite movie was. The one you wanted to celebrate.”
“The Birds,” he said.
“Never heard of it.”
“It was that fantastic Alfred Hitchcock movie. The one where a bunch of birds went nuts and started attacking people. Even little kids. It happened right here in Bodega Bay.”
“Sounds goofy,” she said. “None of us would ever dream of doing such a crazy thing.”
“That’s exactly what the seagull said. Wait a minute. What do you mean by saying ‘us?’”
Marcia slammed Henry’s head against the steering wheel. After dragging his unconscious body onto the beach, she made a call on her cell phone.
“Hi Gramps. Did you ever hear of the movie, The Birds?”
“Sure did. I was in it. I played a crazed seagull that tore the flesh off an old lady’s face. You shoulda heard her scream. Best fun I ever had. Why do you ask?”
Marcia explained.
“By golly, Henry, was right about having an anniversary party. I’ll round up a bunch of gulls and sandpipers who were in that movie. We’ll be there in an hour.”
Henry woke to find he was naked and tied to the chair. The birds that gathered around him drew lots to see who’d get first taste. Marcia won. She rammed into Henry’s face with all her might. The birds cheered wildly when they saw Henry’s eye impaled on her beak.
“Happy Anniversary!” the old-timers shouted. Then they finished what they started in a movie fifty years ago.
“Differ all you want. To me, things I can’t see don’t exist. And I’ve never seen a werewolf.”
“Of course you haven’t. That’s because the man in the red Mustang carries an assault rifle loaded with silver bullets. All the werewolves know it, so they stay out of town. Let me ask you this: have you seen the Loch Ness Monster running amok through Main Street?”
“No.”
“That’s because our fearless members have kept that horrid thing away with cattle prods and tasers for almost fifty years. How about zombies? Have you seen any in the library, or supermarket?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Nor will you. Thanks to our Monster Chasers, there hasn’t been a single zombie attack in Santa Buffoona for almost sixty years. This city used to be loaded with them until the Monster Chasers kicked them all out. Our people really do a super job. Just two months ago, they caught the Invisible Man. They keep him in a gorilla cage at the Courthouse. He’s on display every weekday from nine to five.”
“Is he really invisible?”
“Go see for yourself. By the way, you look like a man who could hold his own in a scrap.”
“I’m a retired Gunnery Sergeant. Spent thirty years in the Marine Corps.”
“You’d be perfect. There’s an immediate opening for somebody to keep the Bogeyman away during the midnight shift. He was spotted lurking around the edge of the city again.”
“Hmm. What does it pay?”
“Nothing. We’re all volunteers. That’s why we’re collecting donations. We need more wooden stakes, silver bullets, wolf bane, steel traps, crossbows, Billy clubs, holy water, and crosses. It’s awfully expensive to keep this city monster-free.”
“I can’t handle the midnight shift,” Harry said. “Messes up my sleep.”
“Well, I must get going,” she said. “I’m on vampire patrol tonight. Did you say you’d give a donation?”
“Yeah, sure.” Harry reached into his pocket, found twenty-eight cents, and dropped it into the donation can.
“Thank you. Please accept this gift as a token of our appreciation. It’ll come in very handy.”
“Keep it. I already have a fly swatter.”
“Sir, this isn’t a fly swatter. It’s a ghost bug discombobulator.”
“What’s a ghost bug?”
“A mischievous, but harmless critter. Santa Buffoona is infested with them. They first showed up when zombies illegally crossed the Mexican border and tried to take over the city. Some think ghost bugs are zombie cooties.”
“Have you tried to exterminate them?”
“Long ago. But it’s hopeless. Like zombies, ghost bugs can’t be killed because they’re already dead. We think the same mysterious force that animates zombies also animates ghost bugs. On top of that, they’re invisible.”
“If they’re invisible, how do you know they’re around?”
“Because they move things. Like bedroom slippers, toothbrushes, wallets. If you notice that something in your apartment has mysteriously moved from one place to another, chances are ghost bugs did it. That’s when the discombobulator I gave you will come in handy. Use it to slap the surface surrounding the thing they moved. Make sure you do it exactly thirteen times. It scatters the ghost bugs. Keeps them out of mischief for a day or two. But then they start all over again.”
The woman thanked Harry again, turned and left.
“Ghost bugs? Goofiest thing I ever heard,” Harry mumbled while finishing his ham sandwich.
The next day Harry spent two hours looking for his car keys. They turned up inside the fridge’s vegetable bin. “How the hell did that happen?” he yelled. “Geez. Maybe ghost bugs really exist.” Grabbing the discombobulator, he swatted the inside of the vegetable bin thirteen times.
Every few days, ghost bugs moved something in Harry’s apartment. At first he was annoyed, but soon found himself intrigued. He decided to collect every scrap of information he could discover on the critters. Finding nothing on the Internet, he wrote to several Haitian scientists. To his dismay, the only answer he received suggested he seek psychiatric help.
Harry got an unexpected break when a letter arrived from a man claiming to be a Haitian witch doctor. The man said he knew all about ghost bugs. They’d shown up in his village over sixty years ago as a result of a voodoo spell that’d gone wrong.
Somehow ghost bugs were invoked from the netherworld. They attached themselves to zombies who later migrated to Santa Buffoona, California. But there was hope. For 100,000 US dollars, the witch doctor would make good juju to eliminate Santa Buffoona’s ghost bugs, forever.
Harry and the Monster Chasers tried to raise the money, but fell far short of the required amount. They offered what they’d collected, plus the Invisible Man, in payment for the spell. But the witch doctor refused. However, when the Loch Ness Monster was added to sweeten the deal, he quickly agreed.
Santa Buffoona is forever free of ghost bugs, the Invisible Man, and the Loch Ness Monster. And a Haitian village is raking in millions from its fabulous tourist attractions.
Ghost Bugs
Harry was about to bite into a ham sandwich when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, he saw a petite, white-haired woman in a khaki uniform.
“Good Afternoon.” She thrust a donation can toward him. “I’m with the SBMC Ladies Auxiliary. We’re having our annual fund drive.”
“What does SBMC stand for?”
“The Santa Buffoona Monster Chasers.”
“Monster Chasers?”
“Surely you’ve heard of us.”
“Nope. Just moved here last week. This is a joke, right?”
“Certainly not! Do you see the white-haired man sitting in a red Mustang down the block?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s our most experienced werewolf chaser. The moon’s full tonight. I’m sure you know what that means.”
Harry laughed. “You gotta be kidding me. Everybody knows werewolves don’t exist.”
“I beg to differ, Sir.”
