The Way of the Sea. Continuing a serial for Friday Flash Fics, December 7, 2018 by Jeff Baker.


The Way of the Sea

By Jeff Baker

NOTE: A sequel/continuation of the stories that began with “The Flight Into Egypt.”


Forty-one years ago it was a lot easier to show up somewhere, lie about your age and get a job, if you found the right job.

I’d been working in the back kitchen of a restaurant just off the highway in New Mexico for four months. I’d told the owner that I was nineteen and that my name was Jack Bryce, not that I was seventeen and my name was Bryce Going. I don’t think he believed me but then he paid me in cash so I didn’t press him. Also, he let me sleep in a room over the back storeroom that had a bed, a toilet and electricity. I had to share it with stacks of boxes but I’d slept in enough fields in the last few months so this was practically paradise.

The new guy I was working with was named Aegir. He was about sixty, big with grey hair and tattoos. He said he’d been in the Navy for years. He said he was still part of the sea and that the sea would always be with him. I had always fantasized about Navy men, but not him. Nonetheless, I checked out the tattoos on his bare arms. I’d gotten pretty good at checking someone out without their knowing it, a survival skill basically, but Aegir caught me staring. He grinned and held up his arms.

“You’ll never see any tattoos like these,” he said. “I saved a man’s life in the islands and so he did these for me. He said he was last in a long line of artists who knew what he called ‘The Ancient Art.’ I never knew what he meant by that.”

The tattoos were done with thin, spidery lines. They looked like ripples until you looked closer and saw outlines of sea creatures hinted at in the lines. It was masterful. I’d never seen anything like it. If I hadn’t known better I’d have sworn the creatures had changed position from one time I saw the tattoos to the next.

It was one afternoon after the lunch rush that I was washing pots and pans in the big metal sink when I heard Aegir singing. A sea chanty, I supposed, about life on the sea, amid the islands. As I kept on washing the pans the water started to slosh around by itself, reminding me of the sea. I stepped back from the sink and watched the water move by itself. Aegir’s song kept rising and falling and suddenly I felt the floor move. Up and down as if we were on a ship. I splashed my face with water and shook my head to clear it. I wasn’t imagining things. And now the wind was rising and I could smell the salt air. I looked out the window. The back room was tilting like a ship at sea; the view from the window kept rising and falling. I quickly ducked out the back door and staggered over to lean against the dumpster. There was no wind, no sea-smell, no rising and falling. I stood there and took deep breaths. There was a clattering noise as the door swung open. A dirty pan that I had set on the floor was sliding back and forth on the floor as if the floor was tilting. I closed my eyes, and then opened them again. The floor inside wasn’t tilting anymore. I walked inside.

Aegir had stopped singing. He was checking something on the menu board. I stared. I was certain the tattoo on his right bicep had changed shape. I closed my eyes again.

“Hey, Jack,” a voice said. I opened my eyes.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I may need you to come in earlier tomorrow. Aegir says he’s quitting after today.”

I nodded and mumbled a “Yes.” I’d seen some damn strange things since I was on my own but this had to be a result of too much work and not enough sleep. I stumbled over something on the floor. The pan that I’d seen moving around on the tilting floor. I’d left it by the sink, now it was over by the ice machine. I picked up the pan and put it back in the soapy water.

“Jack, me lad,” Aegir said walking back in the kitchen. “It’s true; I’m heading back to the sea where I belong.”

“Hey, congratulations,” I said, busy scrubbing the pan.

“The way of the sea, there’s nothing like it!” Aegir said. He busied himself at the table and began to sing again. Another chanty. A chill breeze began to blow in the kitchen, accompanied by the smell of salt air. I glanced over at Aegir; he looked over at me and smiled. The tattooed lines on his arms were moving like rolling waves. His eyes had become a bright sea-green.



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Spirits of the Night, for Friday Flash Fics, by Jeff Baker. November 30, 2018.


                             The Spirits of the Night

                                           By Jeff Baker                       

            After two weeks sleeping in fields and eating handouts from taverns, Prince Almazotz was beginning to realize that while the title sounded good, there were a lot of princes around and the title was no good without an army or money and he had neither at the moment. But for that evening anyway, he was the guest at a castle, or what was left of one. The main house may have been more comfortable but he wasn’t going to complain about a hot meal, or a room at the top of a tower with a comfortable bed, windows with shutters and a fine view and even a fireplace, if he needed one.

            Prince Almazotz rolled over, under the warm blankets and was still half-asleep when he noticed the pale figure half in, half out of the room’s shadows. He sat up in bed and reached for his knife. The figure was male, dark haired and very pale. At first, he thought the figure’s arms were covered in tattoos, but the moved and Almazotz realized they were wings.

            “I am one of the Spirts of the Air,” he said in a breathy voice. “A Spirit of the Night Air. I was flying past your open window and I saw you slumbering so peacefully, looking like a young god.”

            Prince Almazotz wiped some drool off his chin and hoped his hair wasn’t too much of a mess.

            “What exactly do you want?” Prince Almazotz asked warily.

            “To embrace you, to feel you, to evoke all the passions of this world, but I am not of this world.” The spirit spread its wings and flew over Prince Almazotz, landing on top of him. The spirit burst into a cloud which looked like someone’s breath on a frosty morning.

            The spirit re-formed beside the bed.

            “You see, I have no substance,” he said.

            Prince Almazotz pulled the blanket around him; he felt chilly.

            The spirit shrugged. “I am made of the night air, you see?”

            Prince Almazotz kept his hand on his dagger.

            “Allow me to caress you as a wind, as if we were both mortals. It is the thing most spirits truly desire and you, oh handsome one, are one that any spirit would desire.”

            Prince Almazotz shrugged and said “True.” He tossed the thick blanket to one side and lay down on his back on the bed, putting the dagger to one side. He was, he smiled at the thought, wearing nothing but his braccae. The spirit rose towards the ceiling and burst into the cloud of greyish mist which quickly swirled around the young Prince. He shivered with delight.

            There was another swirl of wind and Prince Almazotz’ braccae was quickly unwrapped and whisked off of him into the air, accompanied by laughter from the spirit.

            “Hey!” Prince Almazotz yelled. “Come back with those!” He jumped out of bed, tripping and landing face first on the crumpled up blankets on the stone floor. He heard the spirit’s laughter as a blast of wind pushed the door open followed by his braccae, just out of the Prince’s reach. He dashed down the short flight of stairs down to the courtyard and was immediately surrounded by gusts of wind and laughter. The ground floor tower door was slammed shut behind him as his braccae soared into the sky.

            He was locked out of the tower.

            He was naked.


            He heard the laughter from the sky, becoming more distant as his braccae, lit by the wan moons, faded into the starlight. Prince Almazotz sighed, turned and walked towards the main building, a few yards away from the guest tower, looking for a bush to hide behind after he knocked on the door to ask his hosts for a spare tower key.




NOTE: A  braccae is a pair of underwear circa the Middle Ages. 

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My Latest Publication! Lambda Literary!

My latest publication is a review of the final “Wilde Stories” in Lambda Literary. This yearly anthology series only got better. Here’s the link to the article:

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Yellow Brick Road, Inc. Friday Flash Fics for November 23, 2018 by Jeff Baker


                                             Yellow Brick Road, Inc. 

                                                        By Jeff Baker

            “Okay,” Hillerman said, seated behind the desk in the sunlit office. “Your credit checks out and your forms are all filled. Now all we need from you is a destination.”

            Dennis, a short, slender man with glasses and a tie seated in front of the desk looked up at the ceiling thought for a second. “Oh, London, Paris…”

            “Mr. Humphrey, any ordinary travel agent can book you to London or Paris. We deal in the extraordinary, not the prosaic.”

            “Like what?” Dennis asked.

            “Well, instead of Paris as it is today, you could go to a Paris that was always part of a still-thriving Ottoman Empire. Or a London where the advances of the Renaissance never happened and…oh,” Hillerman had been scrolling through a list on a screen. “I’m afraid that one is unavailable.” He shuddered. “Plague.”

            “What do most people ask for?” Dennis asked. “To go to, I mean?”

            Hillerman sighed to himself. A customer was a customer.

            “We had a gentleman a few weeks ago who wanted our Polar Package,” Hillerman said. “New York City under ice. And thriving as I understand. I took him there myself. He stepped through the portal (which in this case manifested itself as a curl of cold water) and found himself in what to him was Paradise.” He shuddered again. “Cold.” He smiled again. “You see, the limits are only those of your own imagination.”

            To himself, he thought; good luck with that.

            “Nothing with Nazis, I hope,” Dennis said.

            “Passage to any variants where the Nazi regime dominates has been effectively blocked,” Hillerman explained. “Too many skinheads, too many fetishists.”

            “I wasn’t interested,” Dennis said. “Thankfully.”

            “But you are interested in something? Otherwise you wouldn’t be at a travel agency.”

            “Yes,” Dennis said. “Someplace closer to here, with free drinks and cable. And no attacking giant insects or invading aliens.”

            “You want a staycation, I take it?” Hillerman said with a sigh.

            “Yes.” Dennis said. “Do you validate parking?”



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Something on the Wall for Friday Flash Fics by Jeff Baker, November 16, 2018.


                                      The Palimpsest of J. V. Leiberhofft

                                                             By Jeff Baker


            Ian stopped dead and stared at the wall. His jaw dropped.

            “Oh…my…God…” he managed to say. “Is that what I think it is?”

            Corey nodded and grinned, letting Ian take it all in.

            The room was not that big and bare. Black vinyl floors, white walls, white lights on the ceiling, just the right brightness. The figure on the wall dominated everything. A young man, clad only in black shorts, his wrists bound in front of him with matching black leather bindings, head bowed, muscular arms, legs, abs, chest, the whole package. He was either backed up to or growing out of his back behind him two spreading bare branches from a small tree, giving the look of wings stripped of their plumage. The whole thing gave an impression of restrained motion and grace. Tension beneath a surface. Freedom cut short. It was only when Ian looked closer that he noticed the slight pinkish tinge on the pale flesh, the slight yellowish in the blonde hair. 

            “I thought, well at first, you had a model posed up against the wall,” Ian said, “but this is fantastic!”

            “Look a little closer,” Corey said. Ian nodded, still in a daze. He stared at the edges of the canvas that covered nearly the entire wall, held at the corners by white thumbtacks. In one corner was a small white card, tacked to the wall.

            “Hey, somebody tacked this card right on the canvas!” Ian said.

            Corey was pouring two glasses from a bottle on a table in the far corner of the room.

            “Take a good look,” he said. “I’ll have this ready when you do.”

            Ian bent down and read the card aloud. :”Flight. J. V. Leiberhofft (2107) Oil and Pastel on Canvas.” He looked up. “Yeah, Leiberhofft. I saw an exhibit of his paintings in New York a couple of years ago, but I didn’t…” He had reached out to touch the card. It felt flat and firm. So did the thumbtack. He cautiously ran a finger along the edge of the canvas. He looked up again.

            “This is all a painting…” he breathed. “All painted on the wall…even the thumbtacks are a painting…My God! This is the original!”

            Corey handed Ian the champagne. “Thought you’d want this.”

            “Yeah…” Ian said, sipping the champagne, “Thanks.”

            “And it’s not the original,” Corey said. “It’s a copy he did later after he sold the original.”

            “The New York exhibit called their copy ‘the single most erotic artwork that entered into mainstream America in the first part of the century.’”  Ian said, staring at the painting.

            “And that’s James-Steven Coe, he was Leiberhofft’s usual model,” Ian said.

            “I know,” Corey said. “I’ve spent my share of time admiring James-Steven since I got this.”

            “Where did you find this anyway?” Ian asked.

            “When I bought the house there was a mural on this wall,” Corey said pouring himself another glass. “One of those awful retro-abstract things. I wanted to have it painted over but luckily the painter scanned it before he started painting and told me there was something else underneath. Cost me about $100 to have the abstract thingie dissolved, but this was what was underneath. A genuine Leiberhofft.” Cory finished his glass. “And I checked at the Records Hall and then did a little research and found that the guy who owned this house twenty-five years ago had been a friend of Leiberhofft. So, he definitely stayed here.”

            “And he painted this right here,” Ian said, sipping his champagne.

            “He and James-Steven were here,” Cory said.

            Ian stared at Cory and broke out into a smile. “Did you buy the house and the painting just to get romantic with me?”

            “No,” Cory said, putting down the glass and kissing Ian. “But it’s a nice idea!”



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“Incident on a Dirt Road” Flash Fiction Draw Story for November, 2018 by Jeff Baker.


                                                         Incident on a Dirt Road

By Jeff Baker

The genre, setting and object for November 2018’s Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (drawn by ‘Nathan Burgoine) were an action-adventure, a bridge and a sandbag. I wrote this one sitting around as my car was being worked on.


Jake ducked as the big man swung his fist with a roar.

“Close!” Kate said, ducking herself as what looked like a crowbar zipped past her ear.

“You got the thing?” Jake asked, flipping the big man onto the ground.

“Yes. No!” Kate said as the man jumped to his feet and grabbed the slender, wrapped package after her hand and took off running.

“Come back with that!” Kate said as she tossed a throwing star after him. The man collapsed screaming, the star embedded in his butt. “That’s mine, thank you,” Kate said, grabbing the package from the writhing man’s fingers. “How many more?” she asked Jake.

“Dunno! They’re regrouping!” Jake said.

“Then let’s get out of here!” Kate said.

The two of them ran out of the warehouse and jumped into the big Army surplus truck. Jake gunned the engine and they roared out of the parking lot into the South American night.

There was the sound of an engine behind them and the unmistakable sound of bullets hitting the truck.

“Glad they didn’t think of guns when we were back in the warehouse,” Jake said.

“I think this is a second group.” Kate said looking in the side mirror. “I haven’t seen that truck.”

“Second?” Jake said. “How many of them are there?”

“How much is this worth?” Kate said, holding up the package.

“Good point.”

“How far’s the bridge?” Kate asked.

“About three miles thataway,” Jake said, thumbing behind him. “But we’re going,” Jake pointed ahead, “thataway.”

“What? Why?” Kate asked.

“Because it’s a lot more dangerous,” Jake said.

“Oh,” Kate said.

A bullet hit the driver’s side mirror.

“Ow!” Kate said.

“Good thing they hadn’t thought of shooting out the tires,” Jake said. “Hang on!”

Jake floored the engine. They lost the pursuing headlights in dust and distance. Ahead Jake pulled the truck behind a large clump of trees. They waited. The other truck sped past without stopping. When it was gone, Kate and Jake pulled open the back doors of the truck and lowered a ramp. Inside the truck was a small, red pickup.

“Nobody will give this a second glance,” Kate said as they climbed in the cab of the pickup. “Let’s see; keys, check. Package, check. Sandbags…”

Jake looked through the back window at the sandbags in the truck bed.

“Check,” Jake said.

“Okay,” Kate said. “Let’s go.” She started the pickup and headed back the way they came.

“Perfect distraction,” Jake said. “Lead them on a wild goose chase, change trucks; nobody’s looking for us going back the other way.”

There was the sound of gunshots behind them.

“Almost nobody,” Kate said, flooring the pickup.

“Damn!” Jake said as the pickup roared down the road, past the warehouse, the bigger truck in hot pursuit.

There was a rattling sound as they raced across the thin, rickety bridge, the truck behind them stopping at the foot of the bridge. They heard more gunshots, fading into the distance as they drove away.

“Their truck couldn’t have crossed that bridge any more than ours could have,” Jake said. “That’s why I went the other way to mislead anybody who was following us.”

“You do this pretty good,” Kate said. “For a man, I mean.”

“Who said I was a man?” Jake said. “No, I’m not kidding.”

“Really?” Kate said with a growing smile. “Well, maybe this changes everything.”




Posted in 'Nathan Burgoine, Fiction, LGBT, Monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge, Uncategorized | 5 Comments

Something Unseen for Friday Flash Fics. by Jeff Baker, November 9, 2018.


                               The Invisible City of Kahyav

By Jeff Baker


I am not expecting this document to be believed by the time it is found, but as I shall be gone by then it does not matter. I have been engaged for the past several years in research documenting my ancestors and other Russian immigrants who found their way to Kansas and in particular to a small group who settled several miles west of what is now Kansas City and for all intents and purposes disappeared off the face of the Earth.

The papers Marco found gave us the location, but not the how, why and when of the moving of a population from one continent to another. Their being invisible doubtless had something to do with it. As remarkable a thing as it is to believe, these people were immigrants from the fabled invisible city of Kitezh! We were able to discover what we should have guessed: that the evacuation of Kitezh was connected to the turmoil in Old Russia in the decades leading up to the Russian Revolution of 1917.

It was at this point of wondering that Marco disappeared. A week later I received a message slipped under my apartment door at midnight:

Join Me!

Bring Pears!

Signed, Marco.

Underneath this was a set of directions. I first assumed it was a joke, but I as live in a high-security building and found that nobody had entered or left. Video showed nobody near my door. And I remembered an oblique reference in the papers to a lack of fresh fruit.

So I will be standing at the appointed place at the appointed time with clothing, a few books and an offering of pears from the local supermarket. I will doubtless feel strange standing in the middle of nowhere with a suitcase but I shall be waiting for a door to open to grant me entry into a life in an invisible world.





AUTHOR’S NOTE: The fabled(and invisible) Russian City of Kitezh makes an appearance in an opera by Rimsky-Korsakov. The classical station used to play the overture.



Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Friday Flash Fics, Short-Stories, Uncategorized | 1 Comment