"Seeing"

The end was coming. Bradley Fleishman had seen it. He awoke from a trance with the vision of the entire city in flames, consumed by a fire that would rage uncontrolled for three days. Nothing would be left.

It wasn't uncommon for Bradley to go into a self-induced trance or to have visions of the future while he was in one. More often than not, a vision would evaporate like smoke, leaving behind only a few crystal-clear images. He had tried to tell his friends, but they didn't listen. Half of them weren't even his friends anymore. His family? Not a chance. The cops? Twice, and he'd been laughed out of the police station. He had seen a vision of a store robbery and was left with a crystal vision of the window smashed in by a cement block. “Archer's Jeweler” was the place. The letters in bronze paint on the plate glass window right before the cement block went sailing were burned into his mind.

The police didn't listen then, just like they didn't listen about the graffiti on the Second Avenue Thrift Store before that. He'd been right about that too, hadn't he? One crystal vision, clear as day, of a hand and a can of white spray paint, writing the name “Biff” on the wall. It had consumed Bradley's mind like a painful splinter in his eye, right up until he'd bought the paint.

And it wasn't until a full day had passed after he'd thrown the cement block that the vision of breaking into the jeweler's had finally settled down. The crystal-clear sight of the deed would just linger in his mind. He was lousy at school, impossible to talk to and could barely eat or sleep until he made the vision go away.

But no one would listen! Why wouldn't they listen? He was a psychic, for crying out loud! Everything happened just like he said it would, time and again. And they still wouldn't listen?

Bradley shook his head, muttering about the unfairness of it all. Muttering to himself was also a side-effect of the visions.

“You say something, kid?” asked the man at the gas station.

Bradley snapped his mind back to the present long enough to ask how much for the five-gallon gas cans.

“'It's a great honor to be chosen by a dragon.' That's what she said, Stanley! I got a visit from the flippin' mayor when we first met!” Dan took a swipe at the dragon with a broom, trying to knock him off his perch on the kitchen's island. He and his wife (now departed) had nearly drained the bank account getting the kitchen done and now it was in shambles. Stanley leapt from the island, raking the three-hundred-dollar marble slab with his claws.

“And it is a great honor, you meat bag!” Stanley shouted as he landed on the countertop by the wine barrel sink. By way of punctuating his sentence, he blasted a small puff of fire at Dan, who quickly ducked under it. The stainless steel fridge took the punishment instead.

Dan screamed in rage. “You scale-faced lizard! It's no wonder my wife left!”

Stanley reared back in mock surprise, knocking pots off an overhead rack. “Lizard?” he gasped. “That's racist!”

Dan had finally had it. Feeding the dragon, cleaning up after it, fixing stuff it burned, fetching it beers about every ten minutes, giving up his spot on the couch; it was all too much. He didn't want this stupid “honor” in the first place. The second he first laid eyes on Stanley as a hatchling, he knew he'd be nothing but trouble. But dragon hatching ceremonies were a big deal with the HOA and everybody in the neighborhood showed up, holding their collective breath in anticipation. More like terror of being picked, he now realized.

“What was that? You say something, meat treat?” Stanley sneered, circling the countertops as Dan circled the floor, wielding his broom. Mind-reading was the latest and most infuriating bad habit the unwelcome guest had picked up.

“You know what I'm thinking. You figure it out!” he said, swinging the broom.

“You want me out? Tough luck, pal! Dragons choose their humans for life, so you'd better get used to it!”

Red-faced and sweating, Dan screamed “Get out of my life!” and rushed Stanley, swinging the broom like a madman as Stanley ducked and deflected every blow. At last, when he was good and ready, Stanley pounced. Dan felt like he'd been hit by a Saint Bernard with a weight control problem and attitude. When the stars stopped spinning in his eyes, he found himself flat-out on his hardwood floor with the dragon looming over him, a fang-filled grin on its face.

“I win,” Stanley said simply and dashed away. From the living room, he shouted, “You know the rules, meat-bag. Get your keys!”

Dan sat up coughing and tossed the broken broom away. “Best two out of three?” he offered. There was nothing for it. He used to be able to wrestle Stanley into submission and get his way, but it was pretty clear those days were over. Out front, Stanley was already cramming himself into the driver's seat of Dan's Mercedes. “So now the car's ruined too,” Dan sighed.

“You say something, Danny boy? Ah, lighten up. It'll be fun!”

Dejected, Dan dropped into the passenger seat and tried to explain to Stanley which pedal was which before handing over the keys. Ignoring the instructions, Stanley laughed and pulled the car into gear with a wrenching sound of metal being bent the wrong way. He craned his neck up out of the window and cheered, “Road trip! Road trip!”

Dan palmed his face as they peeled out of his driveway. He could put up with Stanley all day long, but a road trip to Vegas? That was just cruel.

Camp Counselor Alice leaned in close to the flickering fire and put on her very best spooooky voice for the circle of children who gathered around to listen. “After that day, Thomas was never seen again. Or, so they say. As it happens, on dark nights, if you tap rocks together three times and say his name, he sometimes still appears. Who wants to try it?”

A chorus of “no!” rang out in high-pitched squeals, but the louder volume of “yes!” won out in the end. Counselor Alice and several of the children carried out the story's ritual: tap, tap, tap. Thomas! they all cried. For a long moment, nothing happened, just as the storyteller knew it would, so she encouraged them to try again. Once, twice, then a third try. It was on the third attempt, just as they were all starting to feel their jittery nerves settle down, that a pair of boots suddenly appeared inside the firelight and a man shouted “You called?” as loudly as he could, terrifying all the children.

Half of them screamed while the other half tried to act like they hadn't been startled at all. For her part, Alice just laughed and clapped her hands together before finally introducing their new Counselor, Maynard, to the group.

By this point, all of the children, including the ones who had been genuinely scared by the story, had settled down and were shaking off their fright. But there was one person who couldn't calm his fears at all: Counselor Maynard. He was still sitting outside the group in the dark, waiting for his cue to pounce. Then who was the stranger who laughed and talked with Counselor Alice and the kids, he wondered. And how was it that he looked exactly like him?

Ken had a great, big, unsightly, and slightly off-center horn right in the middle (though not quite middle) of his head. Yep. There it was, big as life, right smack-dab in the not-quite-middle of his forehead. Of course, it's not exactly the kind of thing a person can hide. Everyone in school made fun of him over it and called him “unicorn boy” or even “uniKen” when they were being particularly clever.

Everyone except Jenny. She was always cool about it. “It'll be fine,” she told him before the big speech. “Just go out there and give it your best. They'll be listening and not looking, I promise!”

Easy for her to say. She didn't have a horn in the not-middle of her head. Ken let out a defeated sigh and stood up when the Dean called his name. Him and Jenny were parked off-stage on a pair of folding chairs and when Dean Markey stepped aside from the podium, it was his cue to go. Jenny had to push.

No sooner had he stepped onto the stage than the entire auditorium burst into a barely contained giggle. Smiling kindly, Dean Markey shook Ken's hand and passed him his diploma. Being valedictorian, he was certain, was more of a joke vote on the part of the student body; one last chance to point and stare at the unicorn. But he had learned to take what he could. Anyway, his parents were so flipping proud.

He took up his place behind the podium and spread out his notes. Nearly two hundred people were there for graduation and all of them were gawking at him. He kind of hated them. All of them with perfectly centered horns, and most of them in triple sets. Even kind old Dean Markey was double-horned.

Off-stage, Jenny gave him a thumbs up. She had a dozen horns...in spirals. Why in the world did she push him into this? Just smile and get through it, Ken told himself, just smile.

One of my favorite things that people say about the "Dorothy" series is that it was not corny like they were expecting. In books where people spoof on an earlier idea, they're often just riding coattails, but in this series, I'm going in a new direction with original characters and a different look at the world.

I think the important thing for the books is that they can stand on their own, even without the "OZ" source concept. To me, it was just a lot of fun to use the overall concept and the characters, but only to a point and as more of a starting place.

In this story I'm charting completely new ground. The character types are there (a metal man, a coward, a brainless traveller) but they are so different from Baum's characters and have so much of their own personalities that they truly do stand apart from The Wizard of Oz.

The struggles that Dorothy faces are also unique to this series, taking her in directions that even I hadn't planned. That's the truly exciting thing about creating characters with a life of their own: they say things and do things as you write them that you hadn't planned in advance!

So, yes, this book series is inspired by The Wizard of Oz, but it's nothing like the Pride and Prejudice and Zombies type of book. It really is it's own unique story. I hope you enjoy reading it!

Hey guys, I've got a new book trailer for the first Dorothy Gale: Vampire Hunter book. I hope you'll check it out!

As Marty McFly might say, two thousand fifteen will be "totally radical". Maybe no hoverboards or flying Deloreans, but new books are a distinct possibility. I'd like to get the third "Dorothy" book done, make progress on a new project (I've got two major non-Dorothy books in the hopper) and get a new "31 Improbable Adventures" done.

Reader comments are a big boost, so be sure to leave comments on Amazon!