"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
For the last three years I have been a happy participant in the Rainbow Snippets group where every week we posted six lines from a work of ours, a work-in-progress or published or a recommendation of someone else’s work with at least one LGBT character. The group was moderated by Paula Wyant. I was taking a break from doing that (I was running out of stories) when I heard the news that Paula had died last weekend. I had already planned this bit from my friend J. Scott Coatsworth’s new book which was released last week. So I’m posting it here with thanks to Paula for all the fun and making Rainbow Snippets a welcoming site which became a little community for all of us. I’ll just post it as I wrote it a few days ago.—-jeff
Okay, I’m back, (for this week anyway!) My friend J. Scott Coatsworth’s new book “The Death Bringer” is out! https://www.jscottcoatsworth.com/book/the-death-bringer/ The fourth book in his Tharassas Cycle (which was supposed to be a trilogy, but it grew!) Let’s jump right in, shall we?
He’d been someone else. Before.
Who was I? Memories of a face—dark hair, intense eyes that nevertheless twinkled at him. Raven.
It came flooding back to him. His mother. His life in Gullton. Training to be a guard and meeting Raven for the first time. My name is Aik.
He reached for the mask that covered his face. It was suffocating. Something was stuck in his throat, and he coughed hard, trying to force it out, whipping around and causing the liquid around him to flash red in alarm.
Okay. Here’s more…
Calm yourself. The voice was as thick and heavy as an ix hide, and just as soft and warm.
Aik pushed back. What are you doing to me? I don’t want this! Let me out! He thrashed about, trying to force his way through the suffocating liquid. The metal crept up his shoulder. If it covered all of him, he would be lost.
Calm yourself! It was more insistent this time.
Still more…
Aik stiffened as an enforced lethargy settled over him. He lost control of his limbs, falling still in his floating prison. The voice pressed against his mind. You’re safe. Be calm, my little one.
He closed his eyes and thought of Raven, trying to stay fixed on that face. I can’t let myself forget again.
Then the world around him dissolved, and he was swept up in a torrent of memories that weren’t his own.
Whet your appetite? Good! I’ll go all fanboy and say that I’m crazy about anything Scott writes! (And I’ve met him; he’s an awfully nice guy!)
And with that I will once more say thanks to Paula and express my sympathies to her family, friends and readers —-jeff
The French Quarter Just Off Douglas, or A Streetcar Named Rock Island
by Jeff Baker
The girl in the print dress stepped out the door, past the hanging plants, walked up to the metal railing, put her hand to her forehead and exclaimed: “Oh, what are we going to do? There’s a hurricane on the way, it’s almost Mardi Gras and I can’t make up my mind between…”
The kid behind the super-8 camera on the tripod sighed.
“Becky, what are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m improvising, Bryant, remember?” Becky said.
“Yeah, but stick to the story,” Bryant said. “Besides, it’s not Mardi Gras and there’s no hurricane in the script.”
“There’s hardly any script either,” Johnny grumbled standing behind Bryant watching the whole thing.
“Never mind that, you just remember what you’re supposed to do.” Bryant took a deep breath trying not to be too exasperated. He’d written the script for their film class after seeing the spot in downtown Wichita that he thought could pass for New Orleans. He’d never been to New Orleans but he’d seen pictures. Anyway, they wouldn’t be up for the Academy Award for 1977. Hopefully, they’d just get an “A” on the project.
“Okay, let’s start up again.” Bryant said. “Marco, this is your big scene.”
“I still don’t have my lines,” Marco said.
“There really aren’t any. We don’t have sound, remember?” Bryant said. “Just remember the story, okay? You’re the Creole guy she’s really in love with, not her stuffy boyfriend she has to marry for…”
“That’s another thing; I’m not Creole, I’m Mexican…” Marco said.
“The guy who played Charlie Chan wasn’t Chinese either.” Bryant said. “You’re an actor, it’s the magic of the movies. I know, this is not exactly Tennessee Williams but this project is due in three weeks and there’s developing and editing…”
“Okay,” Marco said, getting into position by the stairs at the outside of the old warehouse they were using to film.
“All ready…Action!” Bryant said.
It actually looked good. Marco walked up to Becky and pleaded with her to run off with him, while she professed her love to him but her need to marry her rich fiance, played by Johnny. In reality, Marco and Becky couldn’t stand each other.
Behind the camera, Bryant waved with one hand. “Okay, Johnny. This is your scene. “Get up there and break that up.” That would lead to the climactic final fight where one of them would get shot. Bryant hadn’t decided which one yet.
Bryant was standing at the other side of the street so he could get the scene by the doorway in the scene. It looked perfect. Johnny walked up to Marco and Becky and got between them, looking angry.
There was a rumble as a tall truck passed between the camera and the actors behind the railing.
Bryant thought for a moment about yelling “Cut” like a director he’d seen on a TV show once.
Johnny shrugged as Marco called out: “I’m going to the movies. And I’m going to get a glass menagerie.”
Bryant smiled. At least somebody else had read Tennessee Williams.
—end—
Author’s Note: Two of the streets in the downtown Delano District of Wichita (where I took the picture and set the story) are Rock Island and Douglas.
Wrote the usual flash fiction stories and did a QSF column when a subject for it came up.
Plotted out a couple of stories and started writing them up. (handwriting in notebook.)
Wrote a flash fiction Christmas story (well, more Winter Solstice story) that I’ll be posting in December. Been planning it since last year.
Realized I hadn’t been working on the full-length stuff so I worked on “Love’s Not Time’s Fool” and made definite progress. Should have it finished if I work at it regularly. (I’m just about to post this and I went through the story and wrote down a few notes about what I need to tweak.)
Also realized I haven’t been submitting much, so I went through markets a day or so ago and sent one story off and I have another ready to go when the market opens.
Got the first rejection in a while; that’s progress too!
For my Poe Project I just read “Four Beasts In One.” A look back at 3830 B.C. in Antioch and a parade that does not go as planned. This was in the humor and satire section of my collected Poe and it must have been funnier back in the 1840s.
I started to read “The Assignation,” but realized that I had already read it a few months ago and hadn’t marked it on my list. And I added “Three Sundays In A Week”to the list and read it. Very short, basically a humorous trifle. The gimmick is similar to the (later) “Around the World In 80 Days” by Jules Verne. Oh and the (legal) romance between a fifteen and twenty year old mirrors Poe’s own.
Here’s the list of the first stories on my Poe Project, marking off the ones I’ve read.
The Island of the Fay
Lionizing
“Thou Art the Man” —read!
The Imp of the Perverse—read!
Four Beasts in One—read!
King Pest—read!
Von Kempelen and His Discovery—read!
The Assignation—read!
Three Sundays In A Week—read!
Read Charles Beaumont’s “The Last Caper,” a spoof of Mickey Spillane and Ray Bradbury. Played for laughs. (Trust him; he knows what he’s doing!)
Read two of Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories. The God In the Bowl” (which plays a little like a police procedural, at least at first!) and “The Tower Of the Elephant.” The latter recommended as one of his best stories. Lord, could Howard write. And both stories have horrific elements that top even Lovecraft!
Read “The Bleak Shore” by Fritz Leiber. Most of it done as very poetic descriptions.
Read Sterling Lainier’s “The Kings Of the Sea,” one of his Brigadier Ffellowes stories. Sort of a creepy Commander McBragg tale.
Read “The Demon Pope” by Richard Garnett. An 1888 story by an author I wasn’t familiar with. A Goodreads reviewer compared him to Terry Pratchett.
Note: “Tower Of the Elephant,” and the Garnett, Lainier and Leiber selections are all in the excellent anthology “The Oxford Book Of Fantasy Stories,” which I’ve had for years but hadn’t read all of. Stories selected by Tom Shipley.
Read “Guy Walks Into A Bar” by Simon Rich” in the August 19, 2024 New Yorker Magazine.
Very funny, very short and LGBT to boot!
Finished ‘Nathan Burgoine’s novel “Triad Blood,” first in a trilogy (I’d already read the third book “Triad Magic.”) Started reading the second book; “Triad Soul.”
Started reading Johnny Williams’ “Fairy Tales My Grandma Told Me.”
Beta read an unpublished story by J. Scott Coatsworth, featuring one of the characters who appears in his ongoing serial “Down The River.” Called “Miz Fortune.” Oh, and I’ve been reading “Down the River!” Very well done. Coatsworth understands grief and portrays it very well here.
Been reading Kaje Harper’s weekly stories and E. H. Timm’s monthly tale she sends to the Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (Thanks, E. H.!)
Celebrated Labor Day by reading from an anthology I took with me on a long-ago campout: “It Came From the Drive-In.” Read;
“Talkin’ Trailer Trash,” by Edward Bryant
“Jungle J. D.” by Steve Rasnic Tem.
Got “Glitter + Ashes,” a new LGBT post-apocalyptic hopepunk anthology and read:
“Wrath Of A Queer God” by Anthony Moll
“Didn’t My Lord Deliver Daniel?” by Christopher Caldwell. (Magic with Biblical imagery.)
“The Descent Of their Last End” by Izzy Wasserstein.
This made me look up my own post-apocalyptic LGBT story; tweak it and send it off.
“Hey, Luke, throw me the ball,” Jorge said as they walked across the field, glad that late August had cooled down. Practice in 90 degree heat was no fun. But they were glad that they had bottled water again.
Grabbing the ball, Jorge ran back to throw a pass as one of the other players grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. They were all laughing as they rolled on the grass.
“Hey,” DeShawn said as they picked themselves up. “Why are we doing this, anyway? I mean it’s not like there are other teams to play right now.”
“Normal stuff,” Jorge said. “At least that’s what Coach said. We do this, we help things get back to normal.”
“Yeah, but we’re a college team, but I’m only taking one class,” DeShawn said. “I heard about colleges doing that with their players before it all went down but this is ridiculous.”
The other players laughed.
“Yeah, but I heard they’re getting some of the old faculty back,” Danny said. “Maybe even new ones. They’re going to start being a real school again. Probably.”
“Maybe they’d hire somebody who showed up off the street,” Luke said. “That’s how I got on the team.”
“Well, we have water and food now,” Jorge said. “This place was lucky. Small town like this didn’t get hit.”
“Did they ever figure out who…” DeShawn started to ask.
“Not a lot of news on that,” Luke said. “When there’s any news.”
“Like Coach says,” Danny said. “We’re doing this for future generations. Keeping civilization going.”
“Hey,” came the loud voice they all knew so well.
“Speaking of Coach,” DeShawn said.
“You guys aren’t supposed to be standing around! This is practice! Laps! Everybody! Now!”
As the players ran around the track, Jorge called over to DeShawn; “Yeah, someday we’ll tell are grand kids we rebuilt civilization one lap at a time.”
The others laughed as they ran.
—end—
AUTHOR’S NOTE: As this is set in the world of my (unpublished) story “The Simple Life,” I used my pen name from that story here. —-skip
My friend J. Scott Coatsworth is releasing his latest novel “The Death Bringer.”
It’s the fourth book in the Tharassas Cycle that began with…but maybe I’d better let Scott talk about it:
AIK WILL NEVER BE THE SAME… AND NEITHER WILL HIS WORLD
War is coming. Aik has become the Progenitor, and the Seed Mother has released him to transform the world for her alien brood. Silya and Raven, Aik’s former friends, are the only ones who can save him and the world. But what if the cure is worse than the invasion?
As Silya rushes to prepare Gullton for the battle to come, she’s determined to save as many people as she can. But new crises emerge that demand her attention.
Raven has his own hands full, keeping the dragon-like verent in line, while helping Silya to save the world. But what if the only way to do so is to sacrifice Aik, the man that he loves?
It’s the end of the world … or could it be the start of something new?
Series Blurb:
The Tharassas Cycle is a four book sci-fantasy series set on the recently colonized world of Tharassas. When humans first arrived on planet, they thought they were alone until the hencha mind made itself known. But now a new threat has arisen to challenge both humankind and their new allies on this alien world.
Non-Exclusive Excerpt:
Chapter One Regroup
He floated, weightless and naked, surrounded by a reddish light and suspended in fluid. Something connected to his mouth and wrapped around his head, like a lover’s embrace.
He used to have a name. He searched his mind for some clue to his identity. I exist, so I must be someone. Or something.
That made sense, but got him no closer to an answer. He blinked. Who am I?
There was no immediate reply.
He lifted his hand. It was encased in metal. The gauntlet. That much he remembered, though it meant nothing to him. Except… it seemed different, somehow. Thinner.
He moved his arms in the liquid, and it sparkled around him where his shifting disturbed it. The metal extended down his wrist and along his forearm, like before, but now it went farther, around his elbow and up his bicep. He touched it with his free hand.
I can feel it. It was as if the metal had become a part of him, his nerves growing through it. He held out his metallic hand and flexed his fingers. What is it?
We call it uurcaa. It’s a sacred metal—it will protect you, and if your host dies, it will collect and save your soul. He could feel the emotions she held back from him. It is the last of its kind from our homeworld. Like us.
He blinked. Then what am I?
You are my son, Iihil. The progenitor, the one who has come before and the first of many more like you. The voice was deep and comforting.
Mother. Warmth infused him at her voice, and an eagerness to please her.
Still, something wasn’t right. He was more than that. He searched his mind, running up against that stubborn blankness. Somewhere beyond it were the answers he needed.
He’d been someone else. Before.
Who was I? Memories of a face—dark hair, intense eyes that nevertheless twinkled at him. Raven.
It came flooding back to him. His mother. His life in Gullton. Training to be a guard and meeting Raven for the first time. My name is Aik.
He reached for the mask that covered his face. It was suffocating. Something was stuck in his throat, and he coughed hard, trying to force it out, whipping around and causing the liquid around him to flash red in alarm.
Calm yourself. The voice was as thick and heavy as an ix hide, and just as soft and warm.
Aik pushed back. What are you doing to me? I don’t want this! Let me out! He thrashed about, trying to force his way through the suffocating liquid. The metal crept up his shoulder. If it covered all of him, he would be lost.
Calm yourself! It was more insistent this time.
Aik stiffened as an enforced lethargy settled over him. He lost control of his limbs, falling still in his floating prison. The voice pressed against his mind. You’re safe. Be calm, my little one.
He closed his eyes and thought of Raven, trying to stay fixed on that face. I can’t let myself forget again.
Then the world around him dissolved, and he was swept up in a torrent of memories that weren’t his own.
Scott lives with his husband Mark in a yellow bungalow in Sacramento. He was indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine. He devoured her library, but as he grew up, he wondered where all the people like him were.
He decided that if there weren’t queer characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.
A Rainbow Award winning author, he runs Queer Sci Fi, QueeRomance Ink, Liminal Fiction, and Other Worlds Ink with Mark, sites that celebrate fiction reflecting queer reality, and was the committee chair for the Indie Authors Committee at the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) for almost three years..
Every week we post six lines from a work of ours, a work-in-progress or published or a recommendation of someone else’s work with at least one LGBT character. Posted at Rainbow Snippets here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/963484217054974
Here are a few longer snippets from a story I wrote (and re-wrote for various markets; it was actually erotica at one time!) called “The Simple Life.” Written as by “Skip Hanford.” Ronnie and T. J. are happily ensconced on T. J.’s family farm where they are raising experimental crops that will thrive in all kinds of weather (they hope!) But it all may be changed by dire news…
It happened when they were in bed. Ronnie had gotten up to use the bathroom and when he climbed back in bed, T. J. had mumbled something and rolled over. Ronnie, half-asleep, had moved closer as T. J. started to snore. A moment later they heard the low rumble and felt a shudder. T .J. had sat up and stared around the darkened house. Earthquake, he thought.
“Fracking,” Ronnie muttered, as he pulled in closer to T. J. They were both asleep when the streetlight outside flickered out.
That was what somebody later called “the first volley.”
Ominous. Here’s Ronnie and T. J. checking the news—while they can…
“Okay, phone’s on. See what you want me to…” T. J.’s voice trailed off as he scrolled through his messages. After a few moments, he breathed out “Jesus Christ…”
“Yeah,” Ronnie said. “Wichita’s gone. That was the one we felt. “L. A. was hit too.”
“My God, my God, my God…” T. J. said. Hey! We’ve got e-mail!”
“Yeah, I know,” Ronnie said. “Wait, how do we…”
“How do we still get stuff like this?” T. J. asked. “They didn’t get everything, but I bet it won’t last long. Hey, check for something else. Your news feed. Local news. Anything.”
Okay, just a little more, and a little more than six lines…
After a few moments, Ronnie looked up. “I can’t get on Facebook,” he held up his phone “but I found this.”
It was a video of a news broadcast from a local station, they weren’t sure where. The newscaster looked haggard and pale.
“If you are just joining us, the news, as far as we know is the following: at 2:24 Eastern time, several explosive devices went off in this country, including one in Los Angeles, one outside Washington D.C. and one in Wichita, Kansas. These devices were not, repeat were not nuclear. At the same time across the world, similar devices exploded in Moscow, London and the United Arab Emirates. The President of the United States is aboard Air Force One at this hour, and at last report, had been in contact with surviving world leaders…”
“Surviving,” T. J. breathed. “My God!”
And on that ominous note, I will say farewell for now! I’m going be a little busy the next few months so my snippeting will be more occasional than weekly, but it’s still fun! (Besides, I’m running out of stories!)
“Yeow!” Eddie said as they pulled the city truck up to the big parking lot.
“Yeah,” Mack said, the older man shaking his head.
The old grocery store was used for a thrift shop but not today. The wind that had blown through had knocked the big tree to one side into the parking lot and had totaled the electrical pole on the corner. A crew from the city had shut down the power last night and rolled up the wire which was hanging on a smaller tree that was still standing.
“Ironic they turned to power off,” Mack said. “The power to this area stayed on. Not so in much of the south side.”
“Look at this,” Eddie said, staring down the street. “It’s like there’s a line. Wrecked stuff on one side and the other side looks ready to open for business.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s opening here today with the power out and the street closed.” Mack said as they got out of the truck.
“That’s the way life is, I guess,” Eddie said. “Sometimes the storm hits you sometimes it hits across the street.”
“Never take things for granted,” Mack said.”
“Right.” Eddie said.
“Okay,” Mack grinned. “Let’s get at that tree so things can open up again.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The draws for the September 2024 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were: A Horror Story, set in a Costume Shop, involving a Dumpster. Here’s mine.—-mike
The sign on the little downtown shop read simply: “Margolis’ Costumes.” Scrunched in between a key shop and a closed-down garage it was part of a row in an old brick building that dated back to the thirties at least.
Joey Margolis and Matt Wieks were crouched over in the cramped back room going through boxes of old theatrical costumes Joey’s Aunt (who owned the shop) had bought in a blind lot at auction. So far they hadn’t found anything that would have been out-of place at the thrift shop a few blocks away, including a suit that looked like it had stepped out of the year 1975.
Joey glanced around the room, glad his Aunt paid the two of them to do stuff like this. They were both twentysomethings who’d moved into a cramped apartment not much bigger than this back room. They needed the money.
“Hey, look at this!” Joey had pulled out a long, flowered dress that looked like it belonged in 1890. It was out of a separate and very dusty box that had been in the lot.
“That’s from that play your Aunt talked about,” Matt said. “Pretty rare stuff.”
“I can’t believe she’s thinking about getting rid of it,” Joey said, holding the dress next to him. “She’s funny that way. Hey, give me a minute or two, okay?”
Joey stepped into the next room with the dress while Matt inspected the box. On the outside was a printed label: THE SCAR OF THE PHOENIX. Original Production, 1911. Besford Theater.
Matt rummaged through the clothes, pulling out an old red derby which he set to one side. Then searched the name on his smartphone.
“Hey, Joey!” Matt called out. “I think I know why this stuff creeps your Aunt out. The original production lasted one night after one of the actors killed another one during the first performance. Yeow! Wasn’t in the script.”
Matt scrolled down and read some more.
“Hey get this; during a revival of the play in 1947 one of the cast went after her fellow cast members with a knife during dress rehearsal. They subdued her and canceled the performance. The guy who wrote the play, Chambre, was a notorious Occultist who died under mysterious circumstances and the play is believed to be cursed.”
He looked up and whistled. Joey was standing there in the dress. He wasn’t doing full on drag with wig or makeup but the dress did something for him.
“Nice!” Matt said. Joey had done an amateur drag show at a local club the night when he and Matt had first made out. That had been their sophomore year of College. They were still taking classes but hadn’t graduated. They were “an item” if not officially a couple.
“Glad you like it,” Joey said. The voice somehow wasn’t quite his, it spoke of an earlier time and ancient things that had not all crumbled to dust. “I serve the Ravager. Dark Dolggna and the Low One.”
Joey advanced on Matt. He was holding a screwdriver like a knife. The point looked dangerous.
Joey swiped at Matt barely missing him.
“Hey, what the hell?” Matt yelled. Joey stabbed at him again cutting Matt’s shirt and drawing blood from his shoulder. There was a look in Joey’s eyes that wasn’t Joey.
“You will be for the Servitor an entry into greatness.”
“Joey!” Matt yelled as Joey moved in. But Matt had dated biker guys, he aimed a kick at Joey’s crotch doubling him over. Matt quickly pushed Joey down on the ground, knocked the screwdriver away and jumped on top of him. He clutched the fabric of the dress as Joey struggled and snarled; it felt warm, humming, alive.
“This stuff is cursed,” Matt said. “I don’t believe it but it is,” Matt said. He began to rip the dress off Joey. The ancient fabric gave away and tore easily and in a moment Joey stopped fumbling for the screwdriver and stared up with a blank expression.
Matt tore the rest of the dress of Joey, leaving him there in his t-shirt and jeans.
“What the hell is going on?” Joey breathed. He looked up at Matt. “Did I? Was I? Oh my God! That wasn’t me!”
“Yeah, I know.” Matt said. “There’s evil in this stuff. Your Aunt was right.”
“What’re we gonna do?” Joey asked.
“Burn it out back.” Matt said. “In the dumpster. All of it.”
He helped Joey to his feet and then they kissed for a moment, Joey not noticing that Matt had tossed the screwdriver under the cabinet on the wall.
“I bet Aunt Belinda wanted it burned anyway.” Joey said.
“Let’s not wait to ask her.” Matt said, picking up the big cardboard box of clothes from the ancient play.
It wasn’t as if they’d never burned old stuff before, Matt reflected. He followed Joey out as he tossed the torn-up dress in the dumpster and fumbled around in his pockets for a lighter. Matt was balancing the box full of clothes in his arms and had put the old derby on his head, making it easier to carry. Matt remembered that Joey had always admired his muscles. Matt worked out a lot. So it was easy for Matt to use one of the costume’s belts to throttle Joey from behind.
Matt let Joey’s body fall to the ground and pressed the hat down more firmly on his head. There would need to be more sacrifices, he realized. He walked back into the shop remembering where Joey’s aunt kept the pair of scissors, the names echoing in his head as they were once called out in lost Carcosa; “Hastor! Hali! Uoht! And Icy Thabbas!”
They would see blood run…
—end—
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Okay, “Kill Your Gays” is a trope I justly despise, but I figured what the hey! And I dedicate this to the late writer Robert W. Chambers (1865-1933) with thanks for the inspiration! —-mike
authorjeffbaker 