For Monday Flash Fics: An Encounter With Frivolity, by Jeff Baker. January 21, 2018.

Posted on January 21, 2018 by jeffbaker307

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                                               With Bells and Motley

                                                           By Jeff Baker                                                                      

            The city is old and familiar. But all cities, all places are familiar to me. I glance casually at the people walking along the street. Some of them eye me curiously, some of them are smiling. I smile to myself at that.

            Fashions have changed (of course) and at times I feel there is as much difference between different countries and different centuries. I have worn the most outlandish outfits as well as sober grey flannel. I have been plainly seen presiding over my special area of human frailty and strength. In the days of knights in armor I was in bells and motley, but I also was seen in ermine robes as well as running naked in the woods. I have been to funerals in a burst of sudden good feeling and nostalgia and once, in this very city, I was in the wings on opening (also closing) night of an unfunny stage comedy, where the conversation between the playwright and the stagehand was funnier than anything the audience was being subjected to. I hope the playwright took what little hints I could give as to subject matter for a next endeavor. I don’t drop hints very often, though I have dropped people’s pants unexpectedly.

            I am an Embodiment, what some called a Teraphim, a personification, of something considered insubstantial. The depiction of Death, with a skull-face and black hooded robes is one such being. Father Time is another. I am laughter. I am humor. Frivolity and satire. And I take many forms in many places. I have been in hospitals, on playgrounds and in prisons of all sorts. I have literally been gallows humor.

            So, why am I here in this place at this moment? There. That young man at the table, at the outdoor café. The one with the drawing pad. He has drawn me here.

            Because he is thinking about me.

            He is talking to his friends about me. And he has drawn a picture. It doesn’t look like I appear now, nor is it dressed like I do today. No white jacket, no hat, no carrying bag. In the drawing I am wearing bells and motley, the exact same pattern as I wore long ago. The drawing is not a surprise. We are not entirely unknown, and there are some people who are sensitive to us. This young man is one of them I am certain.

            In the drawing, I am behind the wheel of a fancy car, a convertible. A well-drawn car, a car of at least four decades earlier. My drawn counterpart is laughing, and so is the young man at the table with his friends as he points to something.

            The license plate at the rear of the car. It does not have numbers, but is one of the recent, personalized variety. The term on the plate is a new one, just a few years old; LOL.

            It makes me smile.

 

                                                —end—

 

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Monday Flash Fiction, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

A Song for a Shutdown

Posted on January 20, 2018 by jeffbaker307

With the current government shutdown, I’ve been thinking about the one about 1991 during the first Bush administration. Congress looked silly and petty and the president came off smelling like a rose. And I did this song at a comedy club in town which went over well!

                                           Shutdown 

                               By Jeff Baker, circa about 1990

                        (To the tune of T.V. theme from “Rawhide.”)

 

            Keep Movin’, movin’, movin’

            Voters disapprovin’

            Incumbents they’re removin’

            Let’s hide!

            We’ve been enterprisin’

            And we’ve been compromisin’

            But Bush has the veto on his side

            Federal employees-a-waitin’

            For paycheck satiation

            They’ll vote us out by-and-by.

 

            Keep rollin’, rollin’, rollin’

            Budget bucks are swollen

            Looks like it’s been stolen

            Let’s hide!

            Not quite like we planned it

            In D.C. Boy Scouts are stranded

            Wishin’ that they could find tour guides!

            All the things we’re missin’

            That last week we were dissin’

            We’ll be voted out by-and-by.

 

            Vote ‘em in, vote ‘em out, vote ‘em in, save our butts

            Hopin’ it saves our hides!

            Veto in, veto out, veto in, veto out

            Hope that we can save our hides!

 

                        —end—

Posted in Political satire, Songs | Leave a comment

A Ride in the Sky for Friday Flash Fics, by Jeff Baker, January 19, 2018

Posted on January 18, 2018 by jeffbaker307

                                           The Skycruiser

                                                By Jeff Baker

                                   

            “Woah! Hey! Lookout!!” Kyle-Four jumped in his seat and alternated between pointing and covering his eyes.

            “Relax! I’ve got this!” Scott-Two said, as the skycruiser moved into the next airlane. “I’ve been driving for a while!” He steered the skycruiser into position as they soared past the tops of the downtown skyscrapers. “It’s actually pretty easy!”

            “Keep your eye on the line, dude!” Kyle-Four yelled in near-panic.

            “Hey! It’s chillib, Bro!” Scott-Two said. “Besides, the monitor does most of the flying, remember?”

            “Oh, yeah,” Kyle-Four said, settling back into his seat. “I keep forgetting.”

            The skycruiser arced above the city, following the rest in a line.

            “I got my assignment this morning,” Kyle-Four said, staring out the passenger side window.

            “Yeah?” Scott-Two said, his hands clenching the control disc. “What did they say?”

            “Girls,” Kyle-Four said still staring out the window. “I’m gonna like girls.” He turned to Scott-Two with a sad smile. “For the rest of my life.”

            “When…when’s the…” Scott-Two started to say, his mouth hanging open.

            “Acclimation?” Kyle-Four said. “Mine’s set for Frostday at 11:16 in the morning.”

            “Two days. Aw, Horus, two days.” Scott-Two said.

            “Look, I’ll always remember what we, you know, had…” Kyle-Four said.

            “But you won’t feel it anymore!” Scott-Two yelled, banging his fist on the dashboard.  The monitor didn’t even let the skycruiser jiggle.

            “But I’ll remember,” Kyle-Four said again, wondering how he really would feel then. “How about you?” Kyle-Four asked. “I mean, any word when your, you know, Acclimation is gonna be?”

            “Already happened,” Scott-Two said. “I turned twenty-two last month, remember?”

            “And?” Kyle-Four asked, his jaw dropping.

            “Same as I always was,” Scott-Two said in a flat voice. “Same as the last time we…you know. That’s why I didn’t bother telling you.”

            The two of them sat back in their seats and let the monitor do the flying. Kyle-Four slid his hand across the armrest and touched Scott-Two’s hand. They flew in silence.

            “We…have two days before I have to…you know.” Kyle-Four said.

            Scott-Two turned to Kyle-Four and grinned, squeezing Kyle-Four’s hand.

            “You know, for now I’m happy with this.” Scott-Two said.

            “It’s chillib, Bro, It’s chillib.” Kyle-Four said.

             

 

                                               —end—

 

Posted in Fiction, Friday Flash Fics, LGBT, Science Fiction, The Skycruiser | 2 Comments

A Librarian Story for Friday Flash Fics., by Jeff Baker. January 12, 2018

Posted on January 11, 2018 by jeffbaker307

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The Library of Babel                                                                                                                               (A Coffee Man Story)

                                                                      By Jeff Baker                                                                                              We were having our usual after-work beer and game of pool at Merle’s Bar when Billy started laughing about something he’d seen. Some guy walking down the street wearing a t-shirt that identified him as a librarian while his arms were covered in tattoos. He laughed saying he’d never seen a librarian who looked like he belonged in a biker bar before.

            That led to a loud “Harrrumph” from the far end of the bar.

            We called him the Coffee Man. Not to his face, but he was usually in Merle’s when we were, sitting at the bar and reading the paper over endless refills of coffee. He claimed to have been some kind of government agent and we had no reason to disbelieve him.

            “Young people today doubtless don’t even see the life of a librarian as full of intrigue and adventure,” he said, “but I had an experience several years ago that belies all of that.”

            It was just before I retired from the Company (the Coffee Man said) and I was attending a lecture at a public library. The speaker identified himself as the head librarian from a university I had never heard of and he said this made him an expert on his subject. That subject was; how libraries were now dangerous for children and they were sources of all sorts of inaccurate and politically slanted information. How these were not the libraries we had grown up with, and how the only recourse, unpleasant as it may be, was to shut down public and school libraries across the country.

            I realize how this sounds, but he came off as charming and presented his argument in a rational way, backed-up with charts and graphs full of numbers which I doubted most of the people in the audience were following. The speaker was of the most dangerous type; able to convince his audience of the most preposterous assertions by virtue of his credentials. Finally, after his seemingly interminable presentation he opened up the floor for a Q and A.

            Naturally, I was the only person who stood up.

            My question was simple; I asked him if he’d ever been aware of practitioners of Library Science. (A gamble, I realize.)

            He stared at me and then confidently stated that he wasn’t going to, as he put it, “bend to popular academic trends.”

            That was when I asked him about his University background. He gave another glib answer and mentioned some degree in some form of theology. And that was when I suggested to the moderator that the speaker was not what he was presenting himself to be and they should ask him to leave. And they did.

            “And,” the Coffee Man said, “As I’m sure you figured out why, I shall retire to my newspaper.”

            The Coffee Man turned back to the paper he had spread out on the bar, waving for another refill of his coffee cup. Billy of course, was demanding an explanation.

            “Okay, my Mom’s a school librarian, so I know what library science is, but he didn’t need a degree in it to be a real librarian. What made you think that guy wasn’t legit?”

            “As you explained,” the Coffee Man said, “it isn’t necessary to have a degree in it to be a librarian, but this man was not able to explain that as well as you. The fact that he could not exposed him to me as a phony.”

 

                                                —end—

 

 

 

Posted in Coffee Man, Fiction, Friday Flash Fics, Mystery, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

More Flash Fiction by Jeff Baker for ‘Nathan Burgoine’s first monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge; January 8, 2018.

Posted on January 8, 2018 by jeffbaker307

‘Nathan Burgoine has started a Flash Fiction Challenge of his own, modeled after the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. The idea is; ‘Nathan draws three random cards which correspond to an object, a genre and a setting. Writers put those three things into a 1000 word story, due in a week. In this case, the three draws were for a tattoo machine, a fairy tale (as the genre) and a prison (as the setting.) Having written my share of prison stories, I couldn’t pass this one up! The object is to have fun, which I did! See if you can guess which fairy tale I’m riffing on! Here’s the story, all about someone called

Reynaldo

By Jeff Baker

Life in the Scolfield Correctional Facility was pretty much routine, but Joey figured he’d use his time to better himself.  Joey’s idea of bettering himself involved getting a new tattoo. He’d spent the last three years working out in the prison weight room, so he figured his arms were big enough for a major ink project.

“A motorcycle race,” he’d outlined to his cellies. “With bikes and smoke and speed and skulls.”

Unfortunately, the arts project Joey was outlining was beyond the scope of his circle of acquaintances, to say nothing of his budget. And that’s when he heard one of the other cons showing off one of his tatts and talking up the con that’d done the artwork.

Of course, it cost. Big. The tatt artist called himself Reynaldo and he only took people he wanted or needed something from.  After asking around and calling in some favors Joey finally got a message delivered, supposedly to Reynaldo. Reynaldo’s cell was in A-Block, the part of the prison reserved for “special care” inmates. The guard unlocked the gate to D Block and let Joey in without a word. Joey wondered what strings the other con had pulled.

Reynaldo’s cell was at the far end of the top tier. Blankets covered the bars and cell door, against the rules in the main part of the prison but probably not here. Joey stepped up to the cell and a hand shoved a fold in the blanket aside.

“You’re Joey, right?” the man said. Joey tried not to stare. Reynaldo was seated in a small wheelchair in the middle of a cell crammed with table, steel bunk and toilet. Reynaldo looked about seventy, he was short, and had no legs. His face was a mass of wrinkles, like a light tan prune.  And all around the cell hung drawings and sketches, some in pencil, some in pen, at least one that looked like it had been drawn in blood. Joey was no expert, but he guessed the drawings were of museum quality.

“Yeah,” Joey said. “You Reynaldo?”

“Who else would I be?” Reynaldo said. “You’re here for ink.” It was a statement, not a question. “What are you into?”

Joey outlined his idea of the motorcycle race, the smoke, the wheels, everything.

“Can you do that?” Joey asked.

“I can do anything,” Reynaldo said. He rolled his chair back (not a lot of room to wheel around in here, wonder if he ever gets out of his cell, Joey thought) and reached behind the toilet and pulled out a bag wrapped in dirty rags. Out of that he pulled a cylinder that looked like a thin metal box wired to a grubby tire pressure gage. He squeezed one side of the box and the machine buzzed. Joey caught a glimpse of a needle at one end of the tire gauge. “The consultation and this first bit are free,” Reynaldo said. “It’ll take a while, and you’ll pay as you go. Violate the rules and it all comes crashing down.”

Joey glanced down at the I.D. badge all the inmates had clipped to their shirts and read the name.

“Caesar Soler, huh? How’d you get Reynaldo?”

“So-LAR.   It’s Spanish. Like me. And it isn’t my real name,” Reynaldo said. “A sorcerer’s name has power, and he has to hide that power.”

“Sorcerer, huh?” Joey grinned.

“This is sorcery,” Reynaldo said, holding up the tattoo machine. It wasn’t buzzing but the needle seemed to shimmer and glisten like moonlight. “And sorcery can vanish. Poof!” He let go of the machine, caught it with a swipe of his hand in the air and placed it back in its bag. “Session’s over. Next one will cost you.”

True to his word, the next time Joey showed up at Reynaldo’s cell, he demanded payment. Payment in information.  “Knowledge is power to a sorcerer.” Joey was no snitch, but this was business. Besides, Joey kept his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut. He figured this was why he got accepted into Reynaldo’s exclusive little club. Besides, he figured Reynaldo was crazy. No harm done.

But Joey got curious. He started wondering about Reynaldo. From the prison number on Reynaldo’s I.D. badge, Joey figured out that he’d been locked-up for at least twenty years. From muttered hints during the tattoo sessions, Joey guessed he had taken another man’s name and was doing someone else’s time. Reynaldo had also muttered something about “location,” and “a sorcerer needs a cave.”

The bound copies of the newspaper in the prison library went back past twenty years so Joey figured he might be able to find what he’d hoped to find: NO CHARGES FILED IN MAN’S DISSAPEARANCE. Joey read through it twice. He glanced down at his arm and flexed his bicep. The tattoo was looking good. Bikes charging in and out of the smoke and dust. He could almost hear engines roaring

The next morning, Reynaldo quizzed Joey for the latest on a small-time drug dealer who had just bought himself a month in the hole. Joey looked up and grinned.

“How about we finish this and it’s on you,” Joey said. “Or I tell people you’re really a disappeared recluse from Ivor, Kansas named,” he paused for effect, “Vernon Glick.”

Joey didn’t expect the cold wind that ripped the drawings off the wall, his last backward glance was of Reynaldo screaming, slouching down in his wheelchair as if he was shrinking, waving the tattoo machine over his head, the silver tip shining like a sorcerer’s wand.

Word was that Reynaldo had left the facility. Official story was he’d been transferred out in the middle of the night. Unofficial story was that an inmate with no legs and confined to a wheelchair had vanished from a maximum security prison and taken all his drawings with him.

And the elegant tattoo on Joey’s arm now looked like a child’s drawing of cereal and spilled milk.

 

—end—

 

 

 

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge, Uncategorized | 9 Comments

Short, short story for Monday Flash Fics, by Jeff Baker. January 8, 2018

Posted on January 7, 2018 by jeffbaker307

26166529_10155922295829787_614311529540696717_n                                                                                 The Cottage

By Jeff Baker

Years later I went back to Pending, Kansas and drove past the stone house. It was much the same; it still looked like a cottage in a fairy tale. I wondered if the new owners had made a lot of changes. I wondered if my old room was still upstairs to the one side. And most of all I wondered if the cistern in the back yard was still tightly sealed, the way we left it twenty years ago.

I debated about going around to the back and checking it but I thought the better of it. Besides, the sun was shining, birds were singing and life was continuing.

So I knew the cistern was sealed and what was in there, trapped under the ground was still there.

For now.

 

—end—

 

Author’s Note: The first lines are a variation on the opening of C.L. Moore & Henry Kuttner’s story “Call Him Demon.” I couldn’t resist that or the picture. I thought I was just going to do the opening of a story but this one feels complete! —-jeff baker, 1/6/18

 

 

 

 

Posted in Fiction, Monday Flash Fiction, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

A Swap Meet for Friday Flash Fics, by Jeff Baker (January 5, 2018.)

Posted on January 5, 2018 by jeffbaker307

26055805_322421618255416_3708938565997131904_n                                                                  Will You Still Respect Me In The Morning?                                                                                        

                            By Jeff Baker

            Luke stood in the doorway running a hand through the short hair. He looked down and flexed the right bicep, staring at the tattoos.

            “I don’t remember this one, the one of the face,” Luke said.

            “You should,” Johnny said, from in front of the mirror. “You used to like to rub it with one hand when I was on top of you when we’d…you know.”

            “I think I usually had my eyes closed by that time,” Luke said. He flexed the biceps again. “Seriously, you really took care of yourself. This body looks good.”

            “Thanks,” Johnny said with a grin. “Yours does too.” He grinned into the mirror. The face that grinned back was tanned and dark haired. The body was lean, not as muscular as the figure standing in the doorway but with some good definition. “How much do you weigh, anyhow?”

            “Mmmm…about 185 pounds last time I checked,” Luke said. “Be careful with that body; I get it back tomorrow afternoon”

            “Yeah, you take care of mine too,” Johnny said. “Hey, where did you get those shorts? The ones with the marijuana leaf on them?”

             “Office party gag gift,” Luke said grinning with Johnny’s teeth. Johnny’s body (which Luke was occupying) was muscular, tattooed with reddish brown hair. “This is crazy, you know.”

            “Yeah,” Johnny said. “But it should be worth it.” Luke grinned again; he was getting used to seeing his own face and hearing his own voice coming from over there.

            Johnny had inherited money, and he’d told Luke this was something he’d wanted to try. It was, he said, “a little faddish and kinky,” but it could be fun. They’d spent enough to have themselves transferred into each other’s bodies for 48 hours. Since they got back to Johnny’s apartment they’d spent about an hour gawking at each other. Since body transfer as a way to keep prisoners in line had been declared illegal in 2237 the transfer companies had gone private. It wasn’t legal to do permanently, say to extend life, but after filling out a lot of paperwork it could be done temporarily.

            “Hey, turn around,” Johnny said. “I want to see my backside.”

            “So, when are we going to, you know, do this?” Luke asked, facing the wall.

            “Um, well. Anytime.” Johnny said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

            Luke grinned. Johnny was getting cold feet. Maybe he was too. This was different. Essentially making love to themselves. Luke faced where Johnny was sitting and stared. Unabashedly checking out his own physique. Not a jock but still nice, in a way. Not super-hot like he thought the body he was in now was. But still…

            Luke looked down at his shorts. “Pup tent,” he said.

            “You’re actually blushing!” Johnny said walking over to Luke. “I didn’t think you ever did that!”

            “So, how are we going to do this?” Luke said with a grin.

            “The usual way.” Johnny said. “Let me help you out of those shorts.”

            “Be my guest,” Luke said, kissing him (Weird feeling—kissing your own lips!)

            “I could get to like this!” Johnny said.

            “Yeah, but I like you either way!” Luke said.

 

                                    —end—

Posted in Fiction, Friday Flash Fics, LGBT, Science Fiction, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

A Christmas Ghost Story by Jeff Baker. For Friday Flash Fics., December 29, 2017

Posted on December 28, 2017 by jeffbaker307

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Dusk at Marsden Towers

                                    (A Christmas Ghost Story)

                          Written December 24, 2017 by Jeff Baker

 

            I was sixteen in 1978, and my little brother Todd was thirteen the year we spent Christmas in Los Angeles where my father was from and where my grandmother lived. We were supposed to stay in a suite in the old Marsden Hotel, which was just a few blocks from the big downtown area and dated back to the 1930’s. It was in what they called the Art Deco style, and isn’t there anymore, but it was there in 1978. When we got there, we found the big suite with the adjoining rooms had been given to somebody else and the hotel manager apologized all over to us and offered us the only rooms left. They were four separate rooms but they were right across the hall from one another on the fourteenth floor. The hotel had seventeen floors (I know because in the years since I have read every word ever written about the Marsden Towers, formerly the Marsden Hotel.)

            Mom and Dad took a room across the hall (my Aunt and Uncle were driving down from Hayward the next morning and would have the room next to theirs) and Todd and I each had a room to ourselves across the hall. I had to admit, for the two of us it was an adventure, almost like camping out. We had been up early driving in from Kansas, so we ate and went to bed around dusk. Todd and I spent some time running back and forth from each other rooms, then we settled in for the night.

            Our rooms were the same, table, chair, small bathroom and a single bed right by the window. The windows had been refurbished so they wouldn’t open. My Dad joked that we could see a glimpse of the ocean or check out the California girls through the window. They didn’t know that I wasn’t interested in girls. I would guess we were in bed by about five-thirty. I dozed eyeing the L.A. skyline.

            I was awakened a few hours later by somebody crawling in bed with me. I recognized him immediately as Todd. I knew him and I knew his voice. We’d each had a key to the other’s rooms. He was whimpering and telling me to shut the drapes. He kept talking about a face.

            I got him to calm down and tell me what had happened.

            He had been dozing when he woke up from an awful dream, a dream of an awful face with wide eyes and a mouth open in a big 0 just inches away from his. He had woken up, stared out the window, seen nothing but the city, gotten up, gone to the bathroom, drank some water and went back to bed. He lay down, stared out the window for a few minutes, he guessed, and started dozing again, when he opened his eyes and saw the face again, for an instant. He blinked and it was gone. It had been the same face and Todd realized it had been upside down. He thought he was having a nightmare. He sat up in bed. He was breathing hard. He had a thought; maybe he’d seen somebody jumping off the roof, past the window. He pressed his face against the glass and stared down at the street. No crowd, no police, no sign of anything unusual. He looked up. He could barely make out some stars in the light from L.A’s streetlamps. He sat back in bed. In a minute, he laid back down, still staring out the window. He was absolutely sure he was awake. He glanced up at the ceiling for an instant. When he glanced back at the window he was staring into the face.

            Todd lay there frozen. The face was on the other side of the window. Upside down, lit by the light from the streetlamps, its mouth and eyes open wide. The face wasn’t moving, but the hair, which was a dark reddish color, was streaming out from behind the forehead. There was no body visible, just a hint of shadow above the chin where the body should be. It was frozen in an instant, Todd realized. And Todd took it all in in another instant and then the face, the hair and the shadow were gone.

            The rest is quickly told; Todd talked me into going into his room and watching out the window, but he didn’t want to go back in there or be left in my room alone, so he ducked into Mom and Dad’s room. I stood in the hallway with my hand on the doorknob of Todd’s room but I didn’t go in. I went back to my room; made sure the door was locked behind me and went to bed after closing the drapes tightly. We spent Christmas Day at Grandma’s apartment and headed back home that evening, staying at a motel.

            And only later did I find out about Zachary Marsden, who had built the hotel and lost all his money gambling and had thrown himself from the roof in 1936, from the side of the building facing west. Yes, he’d had red hair.

            And yes, he’d done it on Christmas Eve.

 

                                    —end—

 NOTE: My attempt to write a Jamesian ghost story for Christmas; my unconscious inspiration (besides the picture) may have been the image of the mask at the window in M.R. James’ essay “Stories I have Tried To Write.”

                                                                            ——Jeff Baker, Dec. 24, 2017 

 

Posted in Christmas, Fantasy, Friday Flash Fics, Ghost Story, Horror, LGBT, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

A Tale for Christmas, in Monday Flash Fics. by Jeff Baker, December 25, 2017

Posted on December 24, 2017 by jeffbaker307

25399133_10155886363339787_3625427976267169604_n                                                                                                                                                                          Note: I couldn’t think of a story this week. Fortunately, my club bore McGuffin has a story for any occasion! Merry Christmas!

McGuffin and the Joyous Season                                                                                                                         By Jeff Baker                    

            What got McGuffin talking this time was the workmen trying to bring a Christmas tree in through the door into the clubroom with the billiard table where we all were, as usual.

“Ah, the tinsel, the carols, all the trappings of this time of year!” McGuffin said as he helped himself to eggnog there in the clubroom. “My own contributions to the festivities have been humble,” he went on. “Except for when the Royal Family called upon me to select their Christmas tree.”

            Aubrey-Smith nudged me as he began looking for an exit. Unfortunately, the Christmas tree blocked any escape and McGuffin went on.

            It was a week before Christmas (McGuffin said) and I had received a message from the King, as it was then. Plans for an official tree had fallen through, and knowing my reputation, they felt I was the man for the job.

            I had to act quickly and in secret; Under cover of night I travelled to an area I knew where I believed I could find the perfect tree. The moon was high and bright and there was snow on the ground when I found it—an immense fir, one of the proud descendants of the firs brought to England a century earlier. I pulled my axe out of my backpack and began to chop down the tree.  It took a while but I worked swiftly and soon the tree fell to the ground with a crash. But while I deftly stepped to the side, I was careless enough to allow the strap of my backpack to become caught in one of the branches as it fell. Not only was I pulled onto the falling tree but the tree began to slide down the snow-covered hill towards the ocean! I was stunned, and could do little but hold on for dear life as the tree fell into the ocean with a splash and I began to move quickly out to sea! By the time I untangled myself from the branches and my backpack I was far out to sea in the middle of the night. I tried to steer the big tree but to no avail. My only recourse was to hang on for dear life and make do with the nuts that were stuck in the tree branches from the adjoining trees. Between those, the rations I happened to have in my backpack and the precious water in my canteen I was able to survive during the days I was out to sea without any sight of land. One morning, by a miracle, I saw I was headed for land; an island with a cove. The swift current that I was caught in quickly deposited myself and my tree on the shore. I found that the natives were friendly and largely spoke English. And, to my amazement, I was near the coast of Java—I had traveled two-thirds of the way around the world!

            It did not take long to send word back to Britain to tell them where I was and to arrange for return passage on one of the Crown’s cargo ships. But I learned of the most remarkable surprise of my journey; it was December 25, and I had somehow made landfall on Christmas Island.   

            McGuffin leaned back in his chair and reached for another eggnog.

            “Really, McGuffin,” Aubrey-Smith said. “Halfway around the world…”

            “Two-thirds,” McGuffin corrected.

            “Yes,” Aubrey-Smith said. “Two-thirds around the world on a Christmas tree? And what about the Royal Family? What happened when they didn’t get their tree?”

            McGuffin sipped his eggnog and gestured behind him at a spot on the trophy wall. We walked over and stared at a framed picture we had never noticed before. The picture was small, just a black-and-white snapshot. McGuffin standing on a beach next to a large fir tree he and some natives were propping up like a prize fish. Next to the snapshot in the frame was a note on royal stationary.

            A most appreciative note.

            “As you can see,” McGuffin said, “their Majesties were most understanding.”

 

                                                —end—

 

Posted in Christmas, Fiction, McGuffin, Monday Flash Fiction, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Something for the End of December in Friday Flash Fics, by Jeff Baker

Posted on December 21, 2017 by jeffbaker307

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WRUD New Year’s Eve?

By Jeff Baker

I hadn’t planned on working New Year’s Eve when I got the text message. Enough cash to pay off my post-Christmas credit card balance, so I packed a toothbrush and my private eye license and checked into one of the ritziest hotels downtown for the night. Another working holiday for Andrew Navarro. I was between boyfriends, so no big deal. The party was on the top two floors, a New Year’s bash with booze and snacks and a posh room to safely crash in after ringing in the New Year. All part of an expensive package. I got with hotel manager, my latest employer, about Noon in the hotel lobby on December 31st.

His request was simple; stay sober, keep an eye out and troubleshoot if necessary. The hotel had security but with two floors full of hard-drinking partiers they wanted to take no chances. The hotel rooms all opened out onto windowed hallways with a view of the city, and there was a big conference room at one end of the top floor which had been converted to a makeshift ballroom with streamers, signs saying “Happy New Year” and a cash bar. There was a table to one side where the D.J. was going to set up later, but the partying had already started. I saw about four guys sitting around, drinking beer and laughing. Another couple, both with greying hair were kissing in the hallway outside their room, one of the two men reaching behind him and fumbling for the doorknob.

Have fun guys, I thought as I walked past the closing door.

The rest of the partiers trickled in as the afternoon went on, and most of the guys were pretty well-behaved at first, but some of them had evidently started partying early. About five-thirty with the lights coming on in the darkening city I saw a buff young guy in the hallway wearing nothing but a red speedo, a Santa Claus hat and “Naughty or Nice” printed in black marker across his chest and abs.

“Happy New Year, dude!” he said, giving me a thumbs-up. I gave him a nod and grinned.

All that’s missing from him is a surfboard, I thought walking down the hall.

I checked in at the ballroom from time to time but mainly I patrolled the hallways, keeping my eyes and ears open for any trouble. It was after nine thirty and the music was blaring from the ballroom when I found trouble. The kid from earlier in the hallway with the Santa hat was lying face down on the floor of an unused back room. It didn’t take me more than a minute to realize he wouldn’t be ringing in this or any other New Years.

The regular hotel security wasn’t too far away and I was just glad I had their number on my cellphone. We were lucky nobody came into this room. Security called the police and when they arrived we turned the dead man over.

“Yup. It’s who I thought it was,” the head of security said. “Pete Zongker. He’s come to a couple of things here before and I talked to him earlier. No sign of any wounds. He may have O.D.’d.”

I stared and shook my head. “This may be Pete Zongker, and it sure looks like the guy who was roaming the halls earlier, but that guy wasn’t this guy.” The other men stared. I went on. “This message on his chest isn’t going to wash off for a few days, but it’s different than the one I saw earlier. That one was written by the man on his own chest; you can tell by the shape of the letters. It’s like when a right-handed person trains himself to write with his left hand, the letters are shaped differently. Writing on yourself is like trying to write backwards. But the printing on the dead man was clearly written by someone else. Possibly his murderer or whoever was there when he O.D.’d or was poisoned, probably before we saw the other one walking the halls. Making everyone believe that the other was still alive. Whichever of them is Pete Zongker it’s the other one we’re looking for. Someone who looks like him,” I said staring at the dead man.

I found out later that the dead man was Pete Zongker and the police had caught the man we’d seen alive; Zongker’s cousin and business partner. Some New Year’s Eve.

Amazingly, most of the other partiers knew nothing about this; they were in the ballroom as the body was removed. I walked in just as they were counting down to midnight, and another buff, young guy, (this one very much alive) ran across the room wearing shorts and a banner proclaiming “Happy 2018.”

—end—

Posted in Andrew Navarro, Christmas, Fiction, Friday Flash Fics, Mystery, New Year, Uncategorized | Tagged | 4 Comments