Political Crack Undone


I cried when I awoke to the fact that donald will be president. I refuse to call him president-elect. I refuse to use his surname. He doesn’t dignify capitalization of his first name. When he does something I can back, something I can be proud of, I might start using the capital ‘D’ but until then, nope.

I have never been a political person, and I don’t know why or what changed. Okay, that’s wrong, because I do know. donald. I have to hand it to him, he knows how to draw a crowd. He knows how to work folks into a frenzy.  He made me political, and for that, I’m not sure if I should thank him or not. He was my political crack.

I was happy in my little bubble of ignorance. My apathy surrounded me like a good bourbon warms the heart. I liked the way things just happened around me without my input.

Now I’m a mess. I have problems sleeping at night. I worry about Russia and the Keystone Pipeline. Many of my concerns are about issues that don’t have any consequences for me, but they can vastly hurt so many: LGBT equality, woman’s health (I’m post-menopausal), climate change (I would pray for my children, but that’s a whole other issue.), just to name a few.

For fuck’s sake. This isn’t me! I’ve spent most of my life in hedonistic pleasures, denying reality because none of it affected me. Up until now, I was more concerned with marijuana law reformation that NAFTA. Not really, but you get my point, right? All of a sudden, I feel like the country is living on the brink of disaster, but we have no clue from which direction it will come. Civil unrest? Global warming? Nuclear war? Now I know how those end-of-the-worlders feel.

By now lots of you have quit reading, but for those of you who haven’t, we are kindred spirits, are we not? I’m at such a loss. It’s hard to watch the news when every day, hell, every hour, there is some new transgression going on with the transition team. Appointing an Alt-Right elite is just the tip of the iceberg. His children are a key part of that team. What the fucking fuck! Can’t anyone see the ginormous conflict of interest, here? Do any of his supporters even care?

I absolutely believe that many of them think they are not racist, but they are okay with him being one. They don’t think that assaulting women is okay, but they are okay if he did it. Rating a woman based on their appearance is calling it like it is, but they wouldn’t want their child doing it.

I don’t even know what my point is. Is it too late? In so many ways, yes. He is our next president, but that doesn’t mean we should become complacent. His actions must be scrutinized every step of the way just like Hillary’s emails. A man accused of assault will be occupying the White House. I am NOT okay with this. I will NOT stop posting the facts. I will NOT give up hope.

Posted in politics, Retrospective, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

History/Origins of Steampunk

Doing some research for my new novella, The Contraption. I need to steampunk it up more. It deals with the horrendous topic of conversion therapy. It will be laced with horror and a dash of romance.

Steampunk, before it became the full-blown sub-culture it is today, started out as a science-fiction sub-genre in the 1970s.  Its fundamental inspirations go all the way back to 19th century Victorian writers, such as Jules Verne (author of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea) and H.G. Wells (author of The Time Machine).  Their tales of steam-powered dirigibles and Victorian-age settings have inspired, a century later, an aesthetically motivated and imaginatively driven alternative history in which the technology of the Victorian age reigns supreme over that of modern technology.

Steampunk also plucked from the feathers of a specific genre of Dime Novels from the 19th century.  Dime Novels were very popular during this time because, as suggested by its title, these novels were very cheap.  They were more often than not targeted at lower-income readers, those with a less sophisticated taste.  Thus, the books were full of melodramatic romance and adventure, much like harlequin novels of today.  There is evidence of Steampunk elements in the Dime Novels known as “Edisonades.”

An Edisonade, often appealing to a younger crowd, is an adventure of steam creatures and their inventors. One of the earliest examples of this type of Dime Novel is “The Steam Man of the Prairies” by Edward S. Ellis.  This story would set many precedents of plot and theme for most others to come. It has been said by some that with this novel, “Steampunk was born.” One of the the more well-known examples is “The Steam House” by Jules Verne.  Published in 1880, this story follows the travels of British colonists by way of a gigantic steam-powered elephant.

Like much having to do with Steampunk, its history has its debatable origins.  It is difficult to pinpoint exactly where the sub-genre’s first authors truly got their inspiration. What is known, however, is that the inspiration was clearly taken from the Victorian Age (1837-1901). The Steampunk movement reaches directly into the pocket of Victorian England and predicts what the world would be like today had its inhabitants and inventors prevailed over modern technology.

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Little River Dog

This is fiction. For now. River has cancer, so much cancer, but for now she seems happy and healthy but the lump on her throat is growing. She’s the love of my life. 


She’s been gone for three days now. My husband thinks I’m a fool, but I have to know. They advertise on television: “Ghost Hunters! You lose ‘em! We find ‘em!”

Yeah, well, I’m running out of hope. We’ve searched the neighborhood, put up flyers, and even ran an ad on the local stations, but we’ve come up short. You would think a beagle dog wouldn’t be that hard to find.

She’s getting up in years. I’ve found a couple lumps on her. Vet says there’s nothing that can be done. So I just make her comfortable. She gets every T-bone, cleans every plate. She’s a worker when it comes to doing the dishes, I tell you what.

Anyway, she’s been gone for three days, and I fear the worst. Erase that, I know the worst. I just need to find her. Bring her home and put her in the ground.

I know she left to save me. Save me from the most difficult decision I would ever face.

The Ghost Hunters come to my house. I give them her food dish, something she loves almost as much as me. It didn’t take them more than a minute to come up with a vision.

“Is there an oak tree nearby?”

“There’s a couple on the top of Knob Tree Hill. We used to go chasing rabbits up there.”

Well, she chased. I did a lot of yelling for her to come back. She never listened to me much, especially where rabbits were concerned. Rabbits were hardwired into her DNA.

Knob Hill was a place we loved, me and her. She would sound, sending her voice across the valley, echoing into forever.

I found her there. Laying peaceful, just waiting for me to find her, surrounded by leaves and acorns. She knew I couldn’t make the decision. She saved me, you see. She didn’t want me to suffer. Somehow they know, animals. They know, and they want to die alone.

I take her home. She’s buried behind the old barn. I sit with her now and then. I tell her about the rabbits that been stealing from the garden. I add a bone to the pile.

Posted in Flash Fiction, Love story, Uncategorized | 6 Comments

Roofie – Excerpt from Sanity’s Threshold

Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind


“Where am I?”

I roll over in back of the station wagon, stiff from an activity I don’t remember.  The full moon lights the parking lot with a dimness that matches my confusion. My head aches with the pain of seven hangovers.

“What the hell?”

The crusty blanket beneath my head smells of vomit which permeates the interior of the sedan. I test the flavor inside my mouth. The odor must be from some other poor soul’s supper.

The evening’s activities patch together: the bar, the drinks, and the girl.

The girl. A beautiful creature with airbrushed tits and pearly-white veneers. At that moment, nothing existed except for my desire to taste her mouth. She had me before she tickled my thigh with her toe.

I followed her like a puppy dog to her nauga-wood paneled porn palace, a 69-Chevy complete with curtains on the extended rear windows. Whatever freak show she had in mind, I was game. She made me climb in the back, after that the misty remnants of my memories drift just out of reach.

It must have been the drinks. Come to think of it, they did have a kick. I drank one by the pool table and one by the juke box while her dancing finger twisted my hair. Hell, she could have slipped me anything because I certainly wasn’t thinking with my brain.

I ease my throbbing head toward the rear of the car and yank on the tailgate’s release lever. Locked. I crawl over candy wrappers and used condoms and flop onto the back seat. My surroundings disgust me, but I didn’t care earlier. Knowing I am not the first to lower myself to this squalor does little to lift my spirits.

The night air hits me, cool and clean, a hypnotic fragrance to my lungs after inhaling the wretched air inside the confined cabin. A cloud flits across the face of the moon, and the first pangs of panic worm down my spine.

Cold, clammy hands cover my eyes, and a hard body presses itself against my back. A whiff of stale alcohol and cigarettes fill my nostrils.

“Did you miss me, my love?”

The sultry voice does little to relieve my climbing sense of foreboding. I stop her hand working its way to my throat.

“What did you give me?”

“Come on, baby, don’t you remember? We’re having so much fun.” The other hand drops to my crotch and takes a no-so-gentle tug at my junk. It responds against my better judgment.

“No, I don’t remember much.” I pull away, but she holds me tight.

“Not so fast, big boy. I’m not done with you yet.”

The grip locked around my larynx restricts my next breath. “You’re hurting me.”

“Yes, but you like it, lover. You insult me. You’ll always be one of my favorites.”

The tug at my belt grows frantic, and my cock rises to the occasion, pressing against the cold steel of the sedan. My anticipation accelerates as tiny memories of our escapades work their magic. The first ray of sunlight touches the hood of her car and the pressure behind me evaporates. My breath balloons against the window in hasty pants as I wait for her to continue.


“Hey buddy, you can’t sleep here.” A not-so-gentle toe prods my thigh.

I rub embedded gravel from my cheek and cringe at the stench of stale grease that emanates from the dumpster that towers over me. “What the fuck?”

Joe, the owner of the tavern, scowls at me. “Had a few too many last night, eh bud? You still owe me for that last round.”

I dig into my jeans pockets for my wallet. Gone. She must have pinched it.

“She must have took my wallet. I’ll pay you, don’t worry.”

Joe rolls his eyes at the words he has probably heard a hundred times.

The station wagon is nowhere in sight. Just as well. I don’t want to get back into the jizz jalopy if I can help it. I follow Joe into the shaded recesses of his bar.

“Way you were drinking didn’t know if you’d see the light of day.”

“I’m not feeling so hot. I think I was drugged.”

A round of laughter filled the bar. “Drugged, or drunk for sure.”

“I’m just here to see if anyone found my wallet. I think the girl I was with might have stolen it.”

“Girl? You weren’t with no girl.”

“Sure I was, the red-head.”

The early morning day drinkers exchanged knowing looks.

“Must have been Ole Mabel. She’s been known to show herself just before the full moon.”

“Where can I find her?”

“You don’t, she finds you, and if you were a smart feller you’d forget about that wallet. Nothing good has ever come from Mabel.”

I stumble toward the door rubbing my face in confusion.


Joe polished his bar. “You think I should have told him?”

A newcomer at the end of bar piped up. “Told him what?”

“Ole Mabel been dead for over forty years.”

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Sanity’s Threshold – Goodreads Reviews

Thanks to all my friends who voted and reviewed my book on Goodreads. You put me at #1 on the Top Ten Books You’ve Read in 2016! Don’t forget the book launch tomorrow!

Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

“You could sit down and read all of these “stories” in one sitting, but you might want to spread them out in order to savor the weird deliciousness of each piece. Because each one is so short, flash fiction has to be written “tightly” with no extra wordiness or fluff. These stories will NOT disappoint. I highly recommend.”

“A twisted collection of brilliantly written horror stories. Quick read and definitely worth it! Guaranteed to send a chill down your spine!”

“Angela L. Lindseth’s twisted bits of flash fiction provide the whole “story” in a microcosm. In “Slivers of a Twisted Mind,” readers experience murder, mayhem, and heat, both real and emotional. It is an interesting and well-done collection of stories, each told in under 700 words. I recommend it.”

“Just a word of warning … don’t read when you’re home alone. Angela L. Lindseth is a master of psychological suspense.”

“Brilliant story lines. Authentic author.”


Posted in Dark Fiction, Flash Fiction, horror, Microfiction, My books, Published work, Reviews, Sanity's Threshold, social media, Speculative Fiction, thriller, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

October 2016 Contest Roundup

If there is a Twitter pitch season this seems to be it! There are lots of opportunities coming up in the next few months, especially Twitter pitch days. (If you aren’t up on how to take part …

Source: October 2016 Contest Roundup

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Supernova – excerpt from Sanity’s Threshold


Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

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Sharp Edges – excerpt from Sanity’s Threshold


“I am good enough!”

My inner voice whispers, but is cut off by their sharp-edged accusations and demeaning comments. Jabs of a finger explain my worthlessness emphasized by spittle from their ugly mouths. Their condescending tone suppresses the scream inside me, a deafening shriek inside my skull that doesn’t make a ripple in the real world.

“I am somebody!”

Why do they make me feel so small, so insignificant? As if the world isn’t difficult enough, they have to rip at my walls, eat away at the tiny seed of self-confidence I was born with. They leave me naked for the world to see that under my skin, I am a gnat. I’m ignored, cast aside as riff-raff. My opinions are from a brain still forming and therefore, irrelevant.

“I should be punished!”

I’m faulty, defective, not worthy of love. I don’t deserve the acknowledgement I crave. The bombardment of negativity eats away at my resolve. The narrow strip of metal beckons me, promises temporary relief. My pounding head keeps time with the barrage of criticism. I wish they would hit me and get it over with. At least that would be pain I understand.

“I need relief!”

I pull the blade across my skin, an experiment, testing its strength, determining if its elasticity will withstand the abuse I’m about to inflict. This is something I can control; I am in charge. A tiny drop of blood pools along the cold steel, and for one moment I forget the outside world. It’s just me and the slice of costly peace.

“I won’t do it again!”

I know it’s a lie. As long as I’m punished for being myself, it will happen again. The tiny purple welts will heal, but the scars will never recede. Inside they fester and ooze, pointing fingers and placing blame. Soon there will be more ridges, bigger each time, until I find a place where the sharp edge gives me full deliverance.

Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

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Centerville – excerpt from Sanity’s Threshold


If the lake doesn’t freeze tonight, sunrise will be ugly.

We went out on the lake despite all the warnings. We went out for one thing─ food.

It’s amazing at how fast the weather changed, like once the oven heated up it couldn’t wait to toast every glacier and iceberg. The dam that held back the water above Centerville gave way faster than a hooker takes off her dress. Not many survived. Most of the bodies rest beneath the water buried in thick layers of silt and mud that swept over the small town in minutes.

The apparitions appeared soon after, always at the same time. The dam burst at dawn catching the inhabitants while they yawned and made coffee. Daybreak. Now it’s a dangerous time to be caught out on the lake.

“I told you we shouldn’t have come out here.” My daughter surveys the expanse of water that surrounds our broken boat.

“We have to eat, Sarah.”

“You should have checked the oil.”

“I did, but you know what a piece of crap the engine is. It’s not like I’m a mechanic.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just scared. You know the stories.”

“They’re just stories.” I fiddle with the engine trying not to think about Jim Harris who had come back to camp with a hand, frost-bitten and black. The ice keeps ‘them’ at bay, but there’s no security in the thought.

“It’s going to be dark soon. What are we going to do?” Terror trips along the edge of her voice.

“It’s cold. Maybe it will freeze.”

Her fear is my fear, because I believe in ghosts. How can the energy of so many people be wiped away in an instant with no remnant of their existence?

Sarah sat silent. It’s said that a crust of ice will keep the lake people beneath the water. It’s possible. The temperature swings are erratic, so there’s hope. It’s our best bet. To be caught out on the open water… well, Jim Harris tells his story.

He had been adrift on the lake, passed out more than likely, and woke up to a cold, fierce grip around his wrist. He claims Mr. Therman, who had been Centerville’s sole liquor store proprietor, had come to collect. Mr. Therman had tugged at him, but even in his belligerent state, Jim had escaped. He lost the hand to frostbite, small price to pay he claims.

You can find the rest of Centerville in Sanity’s Threshold. http://tinyurl.com/zp5h7ap

Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

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Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

Available now on Amazon only $1.50! If you like horror, you’ll love this!


Sanity’s Threshold is not for the faint of heart. It tiptoes along the extreme and delves into the paranormal, the horror, the dark, and the weird. It harnesses your imagination and leaves you questioning the slivers of your twisted mind.

This short fiction/short story collection is for the lovers of dark realism, suspense, and the scary. Kids Come First details a woman’s nurture for the alien creatures growing in her belly. Supernova speculates the demise of our planet. Mind Rot speaks of the disasters of chemical experimentation. Enjoy nearly thirty additional enthralling and stimulating pieces.
Flash fiction, dribbles, drabbles, and sudden fiction have been gaining popularity and requires concise story telling and extreme brevity.

Threshold AL


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