authorjeffbaker

Here’s the latest for Monday Flash Fics:

My Object All Sublime

                                           By Jeff Baker

            Jimmy stood in the office, his hands at his sides, trying not to be nervous. The man behind the desk was reading a report out loud.

            “Disobedience. Slacking off on a work detail, showing disrespect to officers. You’re what? Twenty-eight?”

            “Twenty-nine, Sir,” Jimmy said.

            “You’ve been here three years. You should know the rules by now.”

            The man paused and pushed a small bowl across the desk towards Jimmy.

            “Here,” the man said.

            Jimmy took a deep breath and reached out for the dish. In it was a small, flat rectangle wrapped in foil. Jimmy unwrapped the foil and popped what appeared to be a flat piece of chocolate into his mouth. It tasted like chocolate, only tangy and bitter. Jimmy chewed and swallowed.

            The nausea hit him at the same time as the pounding headache. Jimmy didn’t even remember falling down.

 “Take this man back to his cell,” Jimmy heard, as if from a distance. He knew what was going on; what he’d taken was an encephalic reaction tablet. It had a long chemical name, but everyone called them “punish-mints.” He wasn’t really sick; his brain was just making him react as if he was. The trick was not to think about anything, clear his head.

“Don’t think about the work crew,” he thought. “Don’t think about picking potatoes. Don’t think about your sunburn. Don’t think about your churning stomach. Don’t think about not thinking. C’mon, Jimbo, make your mind a blank!”

He was dimly aware of one of the guards pulling him to his feet and making him stagger out the door. He saw the window where a few days ago he’d stood waiting to get into the showers and stared across the yard at the other cellblock. He glanced down and saw the band of chain tattooed on his left forearm with the sign for infinity above it—“duration permanent” it meant. He about fell over. Don’t think, just walk.

“Hey, I got him, okay?” The familiar voice, Ron. He’d been Jimmy’s cellmate for the last two years. The new regime had convicted both of them. Jimmy kept his eyes tightly shut, his head was swimming, he felt himself being handed over to someone else.

“Just lean on me, buddy. I got you. Just relax,” Ron said.

Jimmy forced his mind to become a blank as Ron half-guided, half-dragged him down the landing from the Captain’s office to their cell. Jimmy noticed a change in the sounds from the cell house to the small, steel-walled room they shared about fourteen hours a day. He opened one eye. The nausea was subsiding, but the glimpse made his head hurt worse.

Ron laid Jimmy down on the bottom bunk. Jimmy usually slept in the top bunk, but this was easier.

“Just relax, buddy,’ Ron said. “You’ll feel better in about four hours.”

Ron walked over to shut the steel door; it would automatically latch, locking them in until breakfast. Ron walked back and kissed Jimmy on the forehead.

Jimmy smiled. He was trying to keep his mind a blank, but all he could think of was Ron.

                                  —end—

As Time Goes By

By Jeff Baker

“C’mere, soldier boy,” the man in the blue t-shirt said pulling him closer on the bench.

“Been waiting for this all day,” said the man in the fatigues.

They kissed and kissed again. There was a roar of applause from the crowd.

“It looks like a near-unanimous decision,” said the man on the side of the stage. “The two of you are this year’s winners and, may I say, very convincing.” The crowd applauded again as the two men stood up and bowed.

“This turned out better than the first time I entered,” the man in the blue t-shirt said as they collected their prize.

“When was that?” asked the man in the fatigues.

“About three-thousand years ago,” said the man in the blue t-shirt. “Amazing to think that millennia ago people like this,” he glanced down at himself, “they really felt affection for one another.”

“And reproduced,” the man in the fatigues said. “Don’t forget reproduction.”

“Yes, after kissing, one of us would become pregnant,” the man in the blue t-shirt said.

“It all sounds so awkward,” the man in the fatigues said. The other nodded.

The two of them collected their prize and began to walk towards their respective homes.

“I’ll call you,” the man in fatigues said.

“Yes. I’ll call you,” the man in the blue t-shirt replied.

It had been over a hundred thousand years since anyone on Earth remembered what those archaic phrases, now said reflexively, had meant.

—end—

A Hierarchy of Widows

By Jeff Baker

Cynthia passed the closed, quiet apartment door on her way upstairs. She’d taken the woman in B3 soup a couple of times, but she wouldn’t leave her room. 25 was an awfully young to be widowed. She walked up the stairs to her apartment, but when she heard the rain on the roof she made her decision and went back to knock on the door.

“Shirley,” Cynthia said when the younger woman opened the door. “You’re coming with me.”

The younger woman made a few protests but Cynthia interrupted her, talking as she led her to the ground floor.

“Now, I know you’ve been a widow for two weeks now, but my George has been gone for eleven years. I outrank you,” Cynthia said. Shirley hadn’t known there was a hierarchy of widows. Cynthia went on.

“Now I found sometimes that it helps to do something the two of you used to do together, but I need two people for this.” Cynthia said as she opened the old wood framed glass door. They stepped down onto the sidewalk which, as usual during a rainstorm, was flooded with water.

“Shouldn’t we go back in?” Shirley asked.

“Nonsense, the rain is letting up. Now where, ah! Here!” Cynthia reached down in the water and picked up a rock. “What we do is play hopscotch.”

“In this water?” Shirley asked, taking off her shoes.

“See the cracks in the sidewalk, those are the squares and you imagine the numbers; one, two, three, four, see?” Cynthia said pointing. “You imagine the numbers, here we go.”

She tossed the rock which “Plooped” into the water and then, with slooshy splashes, hopped on the squares and bent over to pick up the rock.

“Your turn now,” Cynthia said handing Shirley the rock.

“But I really haven’t…” Shirley began.

“Come on! It’s easy!” Cynthia said, grabbing Shirley’s hand and tossing the rock again. “We hop like this, follow me.”

The two women hopped, hand in hand through the water.

“But what if we fall?” Shirley started to say. Then they fell, splashing in the water. Cynthia began to laugh and Shirley did too. She sat there wet and cold and laughed and when Cynthia held up her soaked, handbag, dripping water, she laughed some more.

And when Shirley realized for the first time in two weeks that she was alive, she laughed all the harder.

—end—

—–for Ray Bradbury

Life is But a Dream

By Jeff Baker

“Yup. Boat’s in the tree all right,” Lars said.

“At least the water went down,” I said.

“May as well leave the boat up there, water will probably be rising again soon,” Lars said.

Since the Moon had started twisting off its regular orbit, the tides had become like mini-tsunamis. Some weeks were fine, others…

“I heard there were two solar eclipses on the same day a few weeks ago,” Lars said.

“Mmmmmm hmmmmm,” I said, not listening. Someone had said that the Moon had hung in the sky over the Northern Hemisphere and run through all its phases in just two nights a while back. Someone was always saying something. The oddities for Moon-gazers really weren’t important anymore. I was worried about massive tidal waves. And earthquakes.

“How’s the house?” Lars asked.

“Humid,” I replied. “Full of water in the basement.”

“Stock it with fish,” Lars said.

We both laughed.

“You know, I hear the Maguire house up on Karlen’s Hill is staying pretty dry,” I said, staring up at the boat.

“Really?” Lars asked.

“Big bedroom,” I said. “Spare bedroom too, if you want.”

Lars stared out at the receding water for a moment. Then he smiled and grabbed my hand. Life was too short not to take chances.

We started walking towards Karlen’s Hill. I glimpsed the Moon out of the corner of my eye. It seemed to be smiling at us.

—end—

More Monday Flash Fiction (Amazed I got it done, I actually lost the original manuscript of this!)

He Knows If You’ve Been Bad or Good

By Jeff Baker

Eddie pulled the boat up to the dock.

“About time!” Gene said, his glowering red face matching his red Santa Claus suit. “Hurry up and tie that thing to the dock. Did you bring any clothes?”

“Just mine,” Eddie said. Gene was six-three, Eddie was five-eight. The clothes wouldn’t fit. Eddie was trying not to laugh.

“One ‘Ho-Ho-Ho,’ and I’ll dump you in the lake,” Gene said.

“You know, I don’t get it,” Eddie said as he tied the boat to the dock. “Gwen’s brother had this place stocked with all kinds of stuff, canned goods, bottled water, liquor…”

“And several hundred thousand in cash remember?” Gene said.

“Can’t forget that!” Eddie said. “How much is left anyway?”

“A couple of thousand,” Gene said.

“Anyway, he has all that stuff here and the only clothes he saves are long johns and a Santa suit.”

“And the long johns are too hot, my suit I had on when I dumped the boat shrank and my other clothes are at the bottom of the drink,” Gene said. “You got your key?”

“Always,” Gene said, tapping the chain around his neck. They’d been meeting for three years while Gwen’s brother was in the clink, using their keys to unlock the two padlocks they’d put on the steel box in the back room. Taking small amounts of the money and spending it discreetly so as not to arouse suspicion. The cops didn’t know about the cabin.

Eddie grabbed a beer from the cabin’s fridge. They were both anxious to get at the last of the loot. They pulled the cover off the box and after a few fumbling moments unlocked the padlocks and opened the lid.

There was a cough behind them. They turned their heads.

In the door stood a man flashing a badge and a gun.

“Detective Frederick Sebastian,” the man said. “Hands up. We’ve been tracking you folks for months.”

As the detective led them into the waiting police boat, Gene asked how they found them.

“Following you after we found out you two were spreading that money,” the detective said. “It did take us a bit.”

“But how did you know that was the money Gwen’s brother stole?” Eddie asked.

“Stole?” Sebastian laughed as the other officer started the boat’s engine. “He’s not in prison for stealing; he’s in prison for counterfeiting!”

As the boat roared off, Officer Sebastian was humming “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

—end—

Here’s something for Monday, June 6, 2016.

Bus Ride to Somewhere

By Jeff Baker

Dear Jake:

Well, I’m on the bus, on my way home. Seems these three-day weekends never last long enough, do they?  I am so tempted to quit my job and move back there with you! Even with e-mail and everything seventy-five miles is a long way, especially when I don’t drive.

Thanks so much for everything, and I guess I’ll see you in a few weeks, huh? I could e-mail this, but sometimes the old stamp-and-envelope mail seems so romantic.

Love, always

Andy

P.S.: I didn’t even hear you get out of bed this morning. Oh, and after I got out of the handcuffs I took ‘em with me. They’ll be waiting for you up at my place. (Not sure about the key!)

—A.