"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
“Gosh, Wonk,” Benjy Baxter said to the small, scruffy looking dog by his feet. “I know we’re in this TV studio a lot but I’ve never done a telethon before!”
The dog looked up and seemed almost to smile.
“Let’s just try to stay out of everybody’s way until it’s our time to go on,” Benjy said. looking at his watch. Only seven-thirty in the evening. A week before Christmas and the annual Christmas telethon for a local charity had been going on for over two hours already. He glanced around; from backstage he could see the big sign over the phone banks with the glittering words; WUBG CHRISTMAS TELETHON 1993; GIVE BIG.
Benjy and Wonky walked around behind the people answering the phone banks and glanced over at the big Christmas tree glittering with tinsel and lights, and fake wrapped presents underneath.
“And Wonk, don’t get any ideas about the tree, okay?”
Wonky wagged his tail. Benjy had been in on Wonky’s training with his uncle but sometimes he was sure Wonky understood everything Benjy said.
Benjy spotted a familiar face; Billy Gander, the station security guard, who Benjy thought looked a lot like Burt Mustin.
“How’s it goin’?” Benjy whispered, even though he was pretty sure they were away from any microphones in this back corner.
“Pretty good, Benjy. Hi Wonk!” Gander said. “Got it easy tonight. The station hired extra security guards for the telethon.”
“Why do they need extra security?” Benjy asked. “It’s just phoned-in pledges isn’t it?”
“Nope.” Gander said. “People drop by the station and drop off money and not just checks. There’s a whole lockbox with the cash in the office over there.” He pointed down the hallway and Benjy saw a uniformed guard standing beside the office door.
“You guys goin’ on?” Gander asked, pointing over at the stage where a man in a tuxedo was juggling what looked like bricks.
“Yeah,” Benjy said. “In another twenty minutes.”
Another uniformed guard walked past and Wonky suddenly looked up and growled. He jumped up, barked and started running after the guard who ran.
“Hey! Wonk! Hold it!” Benjy called out, running after the little dog.
The three of them raced past the Christmas tree, ran across the stage knocking over the juggler and the guard ran into one of the black curtains at the side of the stage, and Wonky jumped on him.
“Wonky, come back here!” Benjy yelled, running after the dog into the curtains. There was a ripping, popping sound and the curtain fell on all three of them.
When it was all over and the real security guards showed up, the station manager explained everything.
“They hadn’t put the money in the strongbox,” he said. “They’d been ducking behind the curtains and hiding it in these bags that are supposed to be full of sand but we don’t use now that we have metal weights. This stage is pretty old.”
“And they did it in front of everybody,” Benjy said. “Wow.”
“What I don’t understand is how Wonky figured it out.”
“That’s easy,” Benjy said. “The guard was carrying those meaty doggie treats in his pocket. To use if they ran into any guard dogs.” Benjy reached down and ruffled Wonky’s fur. The dog wagged his tail. “Those aren’t the HealthyTreat treats he usually gets but he went after them anyway. I’m really sorry if we wrecked the telethon.”
“Sorry, nothing!” the station manager said. “The cameras caught your chase and Wonky apprehending the guy. Pledges are coming in like never before.”
Benjy grinned and scratched Wonky behind the ears. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been something besides the doggie treats that had set him off. Wonky seemed to understand what was going on most of the time.
I’ve gotten a nice response the last couple of years posting a snippet of Oscar Wilde around Christmas. No overtly LGBT characters here but the writer IS Oscar Wilde.Paula always liked that I had “invited Oscar Wilde to Rainbow Snippets.”
I had not read “Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime” before this year. I knew it was about a man predicted to become a murderer but I did not expect the story to be as funny as it was!
Here’s a snippet:
Murder! That was what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! The very night seemed to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it in his ear. The dark corners of the streets were full of it. It grinned at him from the roofs of the houses.
First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to fascinate him. He leaned wearily up against the railings, cooling his brow against the wet metal, and listening to the tremulous silence of the trees.
Outro:
Isn’t that elegant prose? And yes, this snippet doesn’t indicate a story full of humor.
“Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime” is available online and in plenty of printed places but I first found it in the excellent anthology “Shadow Voices: 300 Years Of Irish Genre Fiction” https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58935109-shadow-voices Edited by John Connolly. It not only includes well-known stories but seriously obscure tales and poems. (Remember, Wilde was an Irish Writer!)
And on that note, I will wish you all the best for the holiday season and for whatever the seasons of life brings! —–jeff
Wichita’s newest bookstore, “Left On Read” occupies a cool niche in a multicolored alley just East of Old Mill Tasty Shop at 612 E. Douglas, Suite 200.
When I visited the store, owner Latasha Kelly was busy shelving books in the space which is well-lit and inviting and has a wide selection of books by Black authors.
The store is “Supporting and amplifying Black voices,” Kelly said in an interview with KAKE TV.
Left On Read is open Wednesday through Saturday from 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.
Alleyway off Douglas leading to Left On Read, 612 E. Douglas, Suite 200. Wichita, Kansas.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The draws for the December 2024 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (last one for this year, more coming in January 2025) were A Romance set in a Haunted House involving Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers. Here’s what I came up with…
“Put the sleeping bags over here,” I said to ‘Berto.
“That’s right by the door, there’ll be a draft,” ‘Berto said.
“Yeah, but we’ll be able to run out of here if anything happens!” I said.
“And if we don’t run out we get five thousand dollars,” he said grinning. “Apiece!”
‘Berto Alvarez and I had entered a contest to spend the night in a local supposedly haunted house. The house they picked was perfect; an old Victorian at the end of a road at the edge of town surrounded by trees and grass. It looked like something the Addams Family would live in.
Nobody who had rented the house had stayed in it long and none of them had gone into much detail other than “ghost.” And they didn’t mean something off social media.
“Okay,” I said, setting the backpack and cooler on the floor of the living room. “It’ll be dark soon, glad we have the camping lantern in case the lights go blooey.”
“And a nasty wind kicks up in the middle of the house.” ‘Berto said, glancing at the strip of orange light from the thin, glass brick window to the side of the door.
“Hey, I need to check in,” I said, pulling out my cellphone and punching the radio station’s number. “Yeah, this is Mark Kauffman. We’re at the house. It’s about sunset and we’re kicking back. See you tomorrow morning.”
And I’ll punch somebody in the nose if anybody from the station rigged something, I thought.
In the dim light we looked around the old living room. Covered-up couch, bricked-up fireplace and even a small stained glass window covered in cobwebs up near the top of the chimney. The stairway leading upstairs was wider than the trailer I’d stayed in the previous summer. To one side of the stairway was a long hallway leading to a room that looked brighter. Probably a kitchen.
“Okay,” ‘Berto said, running a finger on the grey sheet covering what must have been a living room couch. “Let’s have a look around and then hunker down for the night.”
“It’s something my Grandma got me to do,” ‘Berto said. “She told me whenever I got scared to say ‘Rubber baby buggy bumpers’ and I wouldn’t be scared anymore.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
“No,” ‘Berto said.
“Let’s go down that hallway” I said. “Glad I brought this.” I pulled a metal baseball bat out of my bag.
We walked down the hallway, my grip on the bat tightening when we heard the thump noise again.
The kitchen was nice sized with lots of windows that made the room bright even in the dusk. The appliances seemed about twenty years old but that was new for this house.
“Looks like they upgraded the kitchen after the Munsters left,” ‘Berto said.
“Yeah,” I said. “And zoinks, Scoob, there’s the refrigerator.”
The refrigerator let out a thump.
We broke into sighs of relief.
“That thing’s about 25 years old,” ‘Berto said. “And it still works.”
“Not for long, judging from the sounds it’s making.” I said. “While we’re out and about, lets check what’s upstairs.” I grinned at ‘Berto. “Maybe a nice, cozy bed?”
“Or a very strange bed,” ‘Berto said.
“Wanna grab the camping lantern?” I said as we walked down the hallway.
“Don’t need it,” ‘Berto said flicking the flashlight app on his phone on and then off.
We barely glanced at the living room as we walked up the huge staircase. The upper floors were dark. Curtains drawn. No beds.
“Let’s find a restroom,” I said.
We looked into what might have been a spare bedroom but had been used as an office. In the dimness we saw an old desk like my grade school teachers had used hanging up near the ceiling.
“What’s it doing up there for?” ‘Berto asked, shining his flashlight beam around.
We both saw it at once; the desk wasn’t attached to anything, it was floating in mid-air.
We barreled down the stairs.
“Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers!!!” ‘Berto yelled.
I didn’t have to go to the bathroom anymore.
‘Berto hit the ground floor, swerved past the big couch and all but slammed into the wall. He stood there in the dim light feeling the bare wall, in a near panic.
“The door! Mark, the door’s gone!”
I rushed up beside him and stared. The wall looked grey and bare. I felt where I had seen the door earlier,, beside the long, thin window with the thick block glass.
“Gone…” I breathed. “We’re stuck here in this…wait a sec, where’d our sleeping bags go?”
I stepped a few feet away, past the corner to our left. On the other side was the door with the little window with our sleeping bags where we’d left them, still rolled-up on the floor. And there was another couch to the other side of the stairs.
“Got mixed-up in the dark,” ‘Berto said. “Easy to do, you know. Scared and all. And those big stairs….”
“Yeah,” I said. My heart was pounding. I glanced around. We’d been in a near-panic and it had gotten darker. But didn’t the house look bigger somehow?
“Hey,” ‘Berto said. “I gotta thank you. You’re the one with the level head.”
‘Berto was a couple of inches shorter than I was. Nonetheless I was looking into his brown eyes and I leaned in and kissed him. We held for a moment, then broke away.
“Wow,” ‘Berto said quietly.
“Yeah.” I said.
We’d met in college, we’d been just friends who were both in the LGBT student group. We would go out for coffee and talk about which guys on the teams we thought were hunky and kid around about how we were never going to get involved with each other. In that dark house, we were suddenly involved. And judging from Berto’s smile neither one of us minded.
“Money or no,” ‘Berto said. “I think…”
“…we should get out of here.” I finished.
I reached for the door. The knob wouldn’t move. I tried again.
It turned in my hand.
“I’m heading through the kitchen window!” ‘Berto said.
“Right behind you!” I said.
“Hold up!” The door swung open. Mr. Sanders from the radio station was standing there, looking worn out. We stopped and stared.
“There’s been a big mistake,” he said. “Somebody at the station. Anderson and his damn handwriting. You’re at the wrong address. The house you’re supposed to be at is over on Carlson street, not here on Carstairs. How did you get in here anyway? That key wouldn’t open this door…”
“The door was unlocked,” ‘Berto said. “We figured you folks left it that way and were going to spring some spooky stuff on us.”
“No way.” Sanders said. “Our insurance wouldn’t cover you being in this old place. You couldn’t pay me to spend one night in this house.”
We looked at each other smiles spreading across our faces.
“And the contest is still on. Grab your stuff and let’s get out of here.”
It only took a minute to grab sleeping bags, cooler and lantern. We stood on the porch and kissed as Sanders got into his car, parked in front of ours in the long driveway.
“Hey Mark,” he said between kisses. “How about we use the money…”
“After we spend the night in that house…” I said.
“”Snuggled up together,” ‘Berto said. “And then we use the money…”
“After taxes,” I said, kissing him again.
“Yeah, and rent some crummy apartment so we don’t have to stay in the dorm?”
“I like that idea,” I said.
As we drove away I glanced back. In the dim light the house with its windows for eyes and big porch for a mouth seemed to be smiling at us.
“Hand me the caulk gun, will ya?” Zander Black called down from the top of the ladder.
“Which one?” Marty Roths asked, looking up, glad they were both wearing hardhats.
“The only one in the back of the truck.”
“Sure. Comin’ right up.” Marty said.
He pitched the gun upward like the baseball standout he’d been on the D’Artagnan High team forty years ago. Zander caught it deftly and turned around, standing on the ladder, going back to adding a layer of caulk at the edge of the big block-glass windows on the old building.
“Hey, you remember Advent calendars?” Zander asked, not looking away from his work.
“Yeah,” Marty said. “We got my little Granddaughter one a few weeks ago, she’s all excited.”
“Uh huh,” Zander said.
“What made you think of that? I mean, besides the fact that it’s a few weeks before Christmas.” Marty said.
“And warm enough to play baseball,” Zander said. “Well, workin’ on these windows for one. I keep expecting one of these old glass blocks to open up and have a candy cane or a camel or Santa or a Nativity scene behind it.”
“Uh huh,” Marty said. “These days they’re selling them with chocolate inside.”
“Yeah, that may be a little too much,” Zander said. “Kids today don’t know how good we had it back then. No cellphones ruling our lives. Real TV shows, not that streaming junk.”
“Hey, you grew up in the 90s, I was around for the 60s!” Marty said. “Real Christmas specials on TV. A jillion versions or Dickens.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Zander said finishing off the window. “You know, this old brick building is another example. Look at the designs and patterns the bricks make. They don’t do that nowadays.”
“And you know,” Zander said starting the climb down. “It does kind of remind you of a big advent calendar. All the things that could be open doors.”
“Wonder what’s behind the windows?” Marty asked.
“That one I was at I think has a bunch of storage stuff. Can’t see through that thick glass.”
“Another thing they don’t use a lot of these days is those glass bricks,” Marty said. “Very 1930s.”
“Yeah,” Zander said. “Hey, after this you want to go and get a brew or something?”
First, here’s the prompts for the December 2024 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge, the last one of the year! Then my usual long-winded explanation:
A Romance
Involving Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers
Set in A Haunted House
Now, on to the details.
Hi! I’m Mike Mayak, I also write as Jeff Baker and I’m the current moderator for the monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge, which was started by ‘Nathan Burgoine a few years ago and carried on by Cait Gordon and Jeffrey Ricker. It’s a monthly writing challenge mainly for stress-free fun that anyone can play.
Here’s how it works: the first Monday of every month I draw three cards; a heart, a diamond and a club. These correspond to a list naming a genre, a setting and an object that must appear in the story. Participants write up a flash fiction story, 1,000 words or less, post it to their website and link it here in the comments. I’ll post the results (including, hopefully, one of my own!)
As I’m no good making videos I did the drawing offstage. So, the results were the Two of Hearts (a Romance), the Seven of Diamonds (A Haunted House) and the Five of Clubs (Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers.) So we will write a Romance Story, set in a Haunted House involving Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers. (And I don’t believe I said that last one!)
We’ll have the results here in this same space around Monday December 9th, 2024.
So, get to writing and I’ll post the results next week! And I’m putting the 2024 Flash Draw sheet at the end of this message, again! (* indicates those have been used.)
In January, I’ll have an all-new draw sheet, ready for another fun year!
Thanks for playing, and I’ll see you in about week!
And have fun!
——mike
Flash Draw Sheet for 2024 (“*” indicates prompt has been used.)
NOTE: I wrote the original version of this poem about twenty years ago. This version has been posted here almost every year for the last eight years or so. Happy Thanksgiving! —-jeff
Oh Stately Bird
By Jeff Baker
Oh stately bird
Who is there that does not love you
Our family gathered together, you the centerpiece of the table altar
Old Ben Franklin, I am told
Wanted you as the symbol of our fledgling nation
Not the Eagle.
If things had gone the other way, I cannot imagine us sitting down
An extra for our off-week for Thanksgiving. Happy reading! —-jeff
Along Came A Parade Balloon
by Jeff Baker
Thanksgiving in New York City was pleasant and actually warm. The young photographer grinned to himself as he aimed his camera and took a picture of the band marching past the Newspaper Building across the street. He grinned again at the sight beside the Newspaper Building.
“My jolly boss is getting his shoes shined by that shoe shine dog,” he said watching the dog in the red vest and striped ballcap work at the shoes with the rag. He waved at them as his editor looked up, cigar clamped in his teeth. “Figures he’d pick somebody cheap,” he said to nobody in particular. If he got a really good picture of the parade he might frame it and give it to his Aunt for Christmas.
He heard a cheer from a block away.
“Aha! Just on time! Here come the balloons!” They had been the young photographer’s favorite when he was growing up. As they drew closer he could make out a cartoon cat, a mouse, a big candy cane…”
Suddenly there was a scream.
One of the large balloons had torn loose from its handlers and was bouncing against one building than another. Then a second and a third balloon joined, following almost as if they had minds of there own.
“Uh, oh” the young photographer said to himself. “Time to duck out of sight and swing into action. But first the camera…”
Across the street, the cigar smoking editor gawked at the rampaging balloons.
“There should be pictures of this!” he said, his voice rising to a yell. He looked across the street. “PAR…” he began. But the photographer wasn’t there.
Behind the editor, the anthropomorphic dog dashed from the shoe shine box and ducked into an alley behind some trash cans. In another instant there was a burst of energy and a blurred, caped figure soared skyward.
“The parade’s in trouble, I must act fast. And so it’s up and awayyyy at last!”
Now attired in his own familiar disguise the erstwhile photographer swung up the building on a slender web just in time to meet up with the flying dog. Beneath them a large orange cat balloon followed by a dog flying on a doghouse and a mouse in gloves were swirling over people’s heads seemingly of their own volition.
“I’ve seen a lot of crazy things as a New Yorker but a costumed dog superhero and crazy balloons…If I had eaten dinner I’d put it down to spoiled cranberry sauce!”
“The man with webs in front of me,” the dog said hovering “I’ve seen you fight crime on T. V.”
“You too, canine crusader,” the webbed wonder said. “But I think we’d better take care of the parade before someone gets hurt!”
“I agree! Follow me!”
The two of them zipped down to parade level and zoomed and swung around the balloons which started to soar after them. There was a glint of something metal around the edges of the balloons.
The dog pointed. “The balloons are being flown by jets! Spray them quickly with your nets!”
“Uh, actually, they’re webs but, right!” he said aiming his shooters.
The chemical webbing did its job as the three cartoon balloons were stopped and attached quickly to the ground. Moving at superhuman speed the caped canine disabled the jets attached to the balloons and zipped along the route to check for more with the web swinger swinging behind.
“That must be all of them,” the webbed superhero said at the end of the parade route. “I’ll take one of those jets and see if I can find out what spoilsport is behind this.”
“There’s no return label on these jets, analysis would make some safer bets,” the dog said hovering a few feet over the ground. “Harm did not seem the intent, just a prank by a mind quite bent.”
“At least we stopped this before any damage could be done,” the webbed wonder said. But, uhhh, I have to be somewhere.” He was thinking of his automatic camera he’d set up hoping it might get a picture the paper would buy.
“It’s the same for me, I think…” the flying dog said. “I must be gone quick as a wink.”
And with that he zipped up into the air and was gone.
The cobwebbed crusader sighed as he jumped up a wall.
“I’ll track down the baddies who did this stuff. Then I’ll make them say ‘Enough.’ Oh my gosh, he’s got me doing it now!”
And to all my readers I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving and a…hey, what’s this? A copyright notice?!? ——-jeff
authorjeffbaker 