Photo by Jeff Baker
Local Wichita Artist Matt Johnson has an art exhibit coming up on Monday December 4th, 2023 at the Clayton Staples Gallery on the campus of Wichita State University. The exhibit lasts until December 15th
Johnson is seen above at his night job, tending bar at XY Bar in Old Town.
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: [LINK]https://www.facebook.com/groups/963484217054974
This week’s snippets (running a bit over six lines) are from a work in progress, actually a horror story for an anthology. On that, much more later.
I got a used camper truck, packed some necessities, including a road atlas of all fifty states, took Ricketts and off we went.
Ricketts was a healthy two-year old dog of mixed and uncertain lineage. He was of a size where he could sit in the passenger seat, look out the windows and then curl up to nap without getting in the way. Ricketts had been a gift from my nephew Chris; he’d been given Ricketts at a Rock Festival and said the dog would be good company.
“I know he can’t replace Matthew, but you two won’t be alone, Uncle Marshall.” Chris said.
Ricketts and I hit it off. Our needs were simple; Food, walks, a place to sleep. And with him I formulated my plan to travel.
That’s all for now! The Kansas City trip went well—I even did some writing (not on this snippet story which is due in two months!) ——jeff
Jack Fell Down and Broke His Crown
by Mike Mayak
I was standing in front of the mirror, admiring my legs in those basketball shorts I’d kept from High School and didn’t notice Mom & Dad coming into the downstairs bathroom.
“I think you look great, Jake!” My Dad said.
“Awww yes! So handsome!” Mom added. “And nice legs!”
I blushed. “Aw, c’mon, Mom! Besides, these aren’t my legs, you know.”
“Enough of that!” Dad said. “They’re yours. You’re getting along on them okay now.”
I nodded. The Medical Team had said it would take a little for me to acclimate to this different body. About a week before I was using my hands and arms the way I used to but it had taken a month for me to walk without a cane.
I stared at the face in the mirror. Brown hair, a few freckles, nose that looked like it might have been broken once but otherwise kind of nice-looking. I was still getting used to it.
My air scooter had been rammed by a wayward shipping van whose programming had gone haywire. I was lucky to be alive but much of my body was pretty much “shattered,” they explained. In the week they’d kept me in a preserver Mom and Dad decided on a transfer, even if the only available body belonged to a convicted murderer who was facing execution. The shipping van company was paying for it, anyway. All that was left was for the owner of the other body to give his okay, with a possible promise of being given physical form again after he had served “his sentence.”
So I was now in his body and his essence was in what was described as “an old-fashioned microchip player.” I had to wear a medallion around my neck that identified me as a Transfer in case one of the original guy’s buddies ran into me and decided to settle a score. It took some of my friends a while to get used to my new look, and I had realized that this body was 26, that’s two years older than I actually was but losing two years was better than losing my life.
I’d tried to get them to tell me who this guy was, but they said I wasn’t supposed to know and my folks said I should let the dead stay buried.
Well, this guy wasn’t dead and besides I had some connections.
Guy I had made out with a lot when we were in High School was working in one of the official Medical Departments now. He owed me a favor or two. That’s how I wound up standing in a back basement room of the facility while a technician plugged a small speaker and camera into what looked like an ancient portable CD player.
“I can give you five minutes,” the Technician said walking out of the room.
I stared into the camera. It would let him, his essence see me and hear me through the speaker.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Jake. I’m in your old body now. It’s really nice. I just wanted to tell you. I appreciate it.”
There was a tinny voice from the speaker, sounding like a mechanical reproduction of a voice.
“You’re-me-now.” the voice said. It was a statement, not a question.
“No,” I said. “I’m me. You’re still you. Even in there.”
“This-place-worse-than-jail.” said the voice. “Am-nowhere. Swirling-around. Doing-nothing.”
I realized that his essence was trapped in that device or chip or whatever.
“I just wanted to introduce myself, and thank you.” I said. “I…I mean, you saved my life.”
“Never-saved-life-before.,” said the voice. “Only-took.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, My throat felt dry. These hands I now used had killed.
“I’m Jake McGrath,” I said. “I just wanted you to know that.”
There was a long pause from the device. I just stood there.
“I-am-Scott. Scotty.” the voice said.
I grinned. “That’s my middle name.”
I sighed and looked around the room. What else could I say?
The Technician came back into the room, precluding the need for more conversation.
“Okay. Gotta put him back,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said with a small wave at the camera. The voice didn’t react.
The Technician unhooked the device and placed it back on its shelf.
“Can he hear us now?” I asked.
“Not without the hookup,” the technician said.
“How long before you put him in someone else or something else?” I asked.
“He’s not a high priority.” the Technician said. “Anyway, he’ll dissipate without stimulus in about three years.”
“Can you give him this, stimulus?” I asked.
“He didn’t want it,” the Technician said. “This is just a slow form of execution. If he’d realized that before, you might not be standing here right now. So count your blessings.”
As I walked outside I realized that even the chilly breeze felt good.
—end—
NOTE: Written while attending the World Fantasy Convention, October 26, 2023.—-jeff
All-Hollowed Eve
by Jeff Baker
(A Food Garden Court Story)
The luminous white blob, dark smudges for eyes and mouth, surged up out of the floor, emitted a low moan and hovered between the tall young man and the customer at the register.
“Hey! Scoot! Shoo!” T’amec said waving his hand through the blob. He and the customer watched as it rose up to the skylight of the Food Garden Court and then glided back down the mall.
“Hey, did you call me?” said the shorter, more muscular young man opening the swinging doors from the kitchen.
“Naw, Skid.” T’amec said. “Just shooing more ghosts.”
“Oh, yeah.” Skid said. “I got some back here too. Hey! Get! I said get!” He snapped a towel at the shimmering blob drifting behind him.
T’amec sighed and went on taking the customer’s order. At least this wouldn’t go on much longer and this year the end wasn’t hitting on the weekend.
A few minutes later, T’amec was making the customer’s bierock when Skid came out of the kitchen with another canister of broth.
“We sell a lot of this during Octobrus,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s getting colder and…hey! Get out of there!” T’amec said, grabbing the ladle and swatting at a ghost that had shimmered through the wall over the grill next to the broth tub.
Behind them the customer was laughing. “I know how you feel, guys,” he said. “I work in the Coaster Shoppe in the parking lot and we have a couple of those things zipping around that we can’t get rid of.”
“Yeah,” T’amec said, wrapping up the bierock and handing it across the counter to the customer. “We’ve got them all over the kitchen.”
“At least we only have a couple more hours to go,” the customer said.
“Hope so,” T’amec said.
There was a rhyme Skid and T’amec remembered from school:
“When Days of Months are Thirty-Six/The Days of Years Must Soon Be Fixed/Thus Octobrus Came to Be/Five Days When Spirits Must Roam Free.”
Changing the months to lock ghosts into only appearing one week a year was pretty powerful magic, T’amec’s Father had said.
Some people wanted nothing to do with this and stayed in their homes, terrified, doors locked. (As if that would do any good against ghosts who could zip through walls, T’amec had thought.) Others looked forward to it and even partied. There was even a banner hung up proclaiming “All-Hollowed Eve,” the name someone hung on it because the mall felt like an empty cavern late at night with ghosts flitting about.
The Mall did a brisk business during Octobrus, especially at night with a lot of people who usually didn’t go out showing up, some wearing ghost emblems on their tunics. The cavernous Mall seemed to attract more ghosts who seemed to like soaring around inside and were more active at night.
But as a result, a lot of the Mall’s regular employees didn’t want to come in after the sun went down. So Skid and T’amec worked double shifts during Octobrus, lots of overtime and almost as much money over the five days as they made during a regular month.
Skid glanced up as he wiped down a counter top there in the Food Garden Court. Ghosts were more active right now, some of them in small groups flying around the upper floor and the skylights. He glanced at the wall clock. He didn’t know why the Mall insisted on being open until Midnight on the last of Octobrus. Probably good for business. Not so good on the nerves.
A pair of ghosts dive bombed Skid and he ducked. He could imagine them laughing.
“Maybe next year we’ll have the sense to be closed.” Skid said.
“Yeah, or I’ll be home hiding under my bed,” T’amec said. “Or under your bed,” he said with a grin.
One of the security people stopped by for a cup of broth.
“They’re getting more active,” she said looking up at the pale swarm. “At least they aren’t congregating in the restrooms anymore.”
“Yeah,” T’amec said. “Thankful for small favors.”
Skid had read an article online about how the ghosts seemed keyed to local time and local Midnight. The guess was that was part of the magic that had separated the five Octobrus days from the rest of the year.
It was eleven-fifteen when they noticed a real change.
From every corner of the mall the ghosts flew, swirling around each other as they rose in a group towards the glass skylights over the Food Garden Court.
“Just glad they aren’t like pigeons.” T’amec said.
“Yeah, we’d have to clean it up you know!” Skid said and they both laughed.
“Getting close to when they fly up to the sky and fade,” Skid said.
“What was it they used to call it?” Skid asked. “The Wild Wrangle?”
“Something like that.” T’amec said. “Couldn’t happen soon enough for me.”
“And they canceled all the Skyplane flights for tonight as usual.” Skid said picking up the trays and heading back through the kitchen doors.
In the kitchen Skid put the trays in the sink as T’amec tossed the towel into the hamper.
“At least it’s gonna be over for another year,” Skid said leaning against the sink.
“Yeah,” T’amec said.
“Where do you think they go?” Skid asked.
“Not sure,” T’amec said. “I guess if they really are spirits we’ll find out someday.”
He draped a towel over his head and made a hooting noise. Skid laughed. Then Skid pulled the towel off T’amec’s head, leaned up and kissed him.
T’amec grinned and kissed Skid. Suddenly a line of white shapes zipped up between them, passing through the floor and up through the ceiling.
“Be really glad when it’s midnight.” T’amec said.
“Tell me about it!” Skid said with a grin. He kissed him again and T’amec wiggled his fingers and went “Booooooo!”
—end—
And yes, there is a story by me in this one!
As well as stories by a bunch of excellent authors!
Here’s details and some buy links:
RISE
(Noun, Verb)
Eight definitions to inspire writers around the world, and an unlimited number of possible stories to tell:
1) An upward slope or movement
2) A beginning or origin
3) An increase in amount or number
4) An angry reaction
5) To take up arms
6) To return from death
7) To become heartened or elated
8) To exert oneself to meet a challenge
Rise features 300-word speculative flash fiction stories from across the rainbow spectrum, from the minds of the writers of Queer Sci Fi.
Series Blurb:
Every year, Queer Sci Fi runs a one-word theme contest for 300 word flash fiction stories, and then we choose 120 of the best for our annual anthology.
Non-Exclusive Excerpt:
It’s a simple recipe.
Passed down in whispers and hands tracing hands through flour and faith. Never written down, paper being too precious for such a small spell, some might say. Like something must be loud to have worth.
A common myth, one that serves her quiet magic well.
She sits pretty in commonhalls and houses, empty eye-sockets and a cloak of harmless charm enough for most to dismiss her. Certainly, her weaving or kneading is all her pretty head can handle.
She listens, and her hands move. Each stitch another secret, gossip kneaded into every loaf.
—From Simple Recipes for Small Magics – Ziggy Schutz
It wasn’t the principles that Matt Harden objected to. The principles were fine: Limited planetary resources. Circle of life. The wrongness of playing God.
But, he thought as he spread the herbs on the basement floor in the prescribed way, the principles were bullshit when you were faced with reality. When the only man who’d ever held your heart was stolen from you by a moment’s distraction behind the wheel. When you never had the chance to even say goodbye. When your body in bed was as cold and alone as a corpse in a coffin.
When the night mist was clammy on your neck and the grave-dirt heavy on your shovel.
—From Principle and Reality – Kim Fielding
“He’s here,” Matt said, slamming the door behind him. “You ready?”
“Think so,” Rory said. He’d finished the salt circle, and quickly moved on to placing the candle in the center.
“Will this work?”
“It’s this or nothing.” Once Tiff told them she’d survived a run in with the killer known as The Hook, Rory knew they were as good as dead. Supposedly this bastard had been killed before, but he never seemed to stop. Much about The Hook seemed unreal, but Rory thought it was the only weapon they had – the unbelievable. Besides, they were gay; those characters always died first.
From Best Served Cold – Andrea Speed
“You do realize,” the nurse said gravely, “that without your parent permission form, this procedure can only be temporary.”
“I do,” Sharon said nervously. Sharon. That was a good name, right? Sounded like Shawn, but wasn’t. Was a girl’s name. A woman’s name. She liked Sharon.
“And that given your parent’s lack of support for this, there will be a counselor assigned to your home to ensure your safety?” The nurse continued, checking the talking points on her tablet with precision.
“I won’t need it,” Sharon said nervously. “They think it’s a phase, but they’re not, you know, hostile.”
From A New Day – Amy Lane
Universal Buy Link:
Goodreads:
Giveaway:
Queer Sci Fi is giving away a $25 Bookshop.org gift card with this tour:
<a class=”rcptr” href=”http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47301/” rel=”nofollow” data-raflid=”b60e8d47301″ data-theme=”classic” data-template=”” id=”rcwidget_irgn3fbt”>a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js
Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47301/
Authors:
This year, 554 authors entered the Rise contest. 120 of them were chosen, and their stories are included in this anthology:
Queer Sci Fi Website: https://www.queerscifi.com
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: [LINK] https://www.facebook.com/groups/963484217054974
Last week’s snippet reminded me of the fantasy series I write set in a mall. The Food Garden Court is the deliberately confusing name of a restaurant in a food court in a magical mall in a magical world. We again meet T’amec and Skid, two underpaid fast-food workers in these snippets from “Old Man River.” https://authorjeffbaker.com/2022/05/20/old-man-river-walks-the-mall-friday-flash-fics-by-jeff-baker-for-may-20-2022/
“Hey, look! There he goes.” He pointed.
Old Man River was unmistakable staggering along the side of the mall where the shops stopped and the polished brick wall started near the end where the Food Garden Court and the palm trees were. Some of the Mall exercisers ran their hand along the wall and at least one of them would grab the trunk of the palm tree and hold on as they swung around it to head back the other way.
“And you were worried,” Skid said.
“I was not,” T’amec said stirring the broth.
“Yeah you were. The last couple of weeks you kept saying ‘Hey, I wonder where our Old Man River is?’ You made it sound like you were in love with him.”
Okay, here’s a little more…
“I did not!” T’amec said with a laugh. “He’s too old and wouldn’t look as good in a Food Garden Court uniform as…” He stared for a second and looked away, blushing.
Skid grinned.
“Anyway, you notice he got a new suit?” T’amec asked.
“Yeah. Must have a formal to go to later.”
“Or his sweats are at the cleaners.” T’amec said.
My Brother and I really did work in a mall food court about thirty years ago, and there really were a group of early-morning mall walkers getting their exercise (and buying coffee!) and we really did refer to one of them as Old Man River. The mall these days is pretty empty, sad to say! I’ll be way busy next weekend, so I’ll see you all in a couple weeks! Happy Halloween! —-jeff
Photo by Amy Tharp
First Off: I’ve actually been reading! I’ve gotten to where I have to push myself to do that, but I have! In the last month I’ve read a couple of the stories in James Moran’s “Fear Itself,” that I hadn’t read yet; and Robert A. Heinlein’s funny YA novel “The Rolling Stones.” AS well as Steinbeck’s “Travels With Charley,” and a new book of poems by Bob Odenkirk and his kids “Zilot.” He says that was a word his kids made up for a blanket fort.
And I read another of C. L. Moore’s stories; “Lost Paradise,” featuring Northwest Smith, her Byronic adventuring hero of a somewhat desolate but fantastic future. (Think Han Solo and Indiana Jones put together but done about 45 years earlier!) And Moore’s prose is wondrous and gripping. Science-fantasy at its best!
I stumbled across a reference to 19th/early 20th Century writer Ellis Parker Butler while reading up on the Heinlein book and that reminds me I have the book of his Philo Grub (“Correspondence School Detective”) stories which were regarded as very funny once and which I’ve never read which I will have to dip into once I get back home.
And I’ve been writing. Not much on the project that’s due at the end of the year, but some work on various other longer work, including a humorous story I’m aiming for the Saturday Evening Post which is mainly in the plotting stage. Also did more plotting than writing on some other full-length fiction. Often it was the case of Oscar Wilde removing and re-inserting a comma.
And of course the flash fictions. I think I’ve done about five since this last report, including cheating and writing the story for next week as I will be at a convention.
I have several of the Queer Sci Fi columns done for the next few months. I just have to re-write or at least tweak one of them and the column for December I can just ad-lib as it is generally an end-of-the-year reflection.
So, I know I’ve been writing but I need to do a little more on the longer stories. Finish them so I can send them off.
AND keep reading!
That’s about it for now!
ADDENDA: Not quite! I knuckled down and wrote about six-hundred words on the project due at the end of the year.
THAT’S about it for now!
—-jsb, Oct. 21, 2023 5:11 a.m.
For a bit of Pre-Halloween romance, I turned this over to my pen-name Mike Mayak for this sequel to my story “Leader of the Laundromat.” https://authorjeffbaker.com/2023/05/05/meet-the-leader-of-the-laundromat-for-friday-flash-fics-by-mike-mayak-may-5th-2023/ What’s up with Mick and Justin? Some of my readers wanted to know! ——j
Candy Is Dandy
by Mike Mayak
The first thing they noticed was the large, half square arrangement of pumpkins in the parking lot.
“Landing strip for the Great Pumpkin!” Justin said with a laugh.
“Yeah,” Mick said.
Anyone would think that Justin and Mick had known each other for years rather than being basically on a first real date. They’d met that Spring at the laundromat, got to talking and Mick had told him he wasn’t ready for a relationship as his Husband had only been gone a few months. Justin had slipped his phone number in a note into Justin’s bag writing “when you’re ready” on it.
Mick had started texting Justin towards the end of summer. They’d met downtown during Justin’s lunch hour, Mick was self-employed and could lunch when he wanted. They’d had sandwich, salad and coffee. Mick had felt better than he had in a while, more comfortable than he’d felt with somebody since his late husband Paco.
Their plans for an official date kept getting waylaid. Finally they hit on the annual “Treet-O-Ween” Justin’s old school held for the kids. They’d hand out candy to costumed kids and have time to talk.
October 31st was cloudy, but not that cold. Justin’s sister was working for the school and had gotten them a spot to hand out candy from a table with little tissue-paper ghosts hanging from wires floating overhead. Mick and Justin had planned maybe to talk a little about themselves and maybe whether they would go anywhere from here.
Instead they joked, laughed, reminisced about Halloweens they’d been through and ate more candy than they handed out.
“Hey! You two are eating all the candy!” a kid dressed as Batman had said.
Justin and Mick handed him the bowl and laughed again.
“Paco hated handing out the candy,” Mick said about his late, redheaded husband. “But he was just a sentimental bowl of mush when the kids in costumes showed up!”
“Yeah,” I live in an apartment,” Justin said. “And the number of kids started dropping off about six years ago.”
“Then COVID killed it,” Mick said.
“Yeah,” Justin said. “I’m glad they get to do things like this.”
“Glad we do too,” Mick said, munching on a mini-chocolate bar.
“Think we really ate all the candy?” Justin asked.
“We’ll know if we get sick!” Mick said.
They both laughed again. Mick realized he hadn’t laughed this much with anybody since Paco.
They didn’t know for sure where this relationship was going to go, but Justin and Mick knew they were going to go together. Maybe cautiously at first, but together.
—-end—
The draws for the October 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were a romance set on the Interstate involving a Rusted Musket.
E. H. Timms wrote “Shift Change.” https://thinkingthinking123.blogspot.com/2023/10/flash-fic-challenge-shift-change.html
And I wrote: “The Shot Heard ‘Round the World.” https://authorjeffbaker.com/2023/10/14/the-shot-heard-round-the-world-flash-fiction-draw-challenge-story-from-jeff-baker-october-14-2023/
Now, how about you? It’s not too late to write your own story from any of these prompts and post it here in the comments!
We’ll be back November 6th, 2023 with more prompts! Till then, happy reading!
The Shot Heard Round the World
by Jeff Baker
Author’s Note: The draws for the October 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were A Romance on the Interstate involving a Rusty Musket. Here’s what I came up with.
The two forty-something men’s car barreled down the interstate.
“Hey! Slow down, will ya?” Rusty said. “You want us to get pulled over?”
“Speed limit’s seventy around here,” Tony said.
“Oh yeah. I keep forgetting.” Rusty said. “Changed it since we used to drive home from college.”
“That would be screwy if the cops pulled us over and found that gun in the trunk of our car!” Tony said.
Rusty laughed. “Then they’d see it’s falling apart and hasn’t fired a shot since Concord Bridge rudely unfurled in Seventy-Five.”
“Yeah, and it’s rustier than you are!” Tony laughed.
The two men both laughed. Then Rusty sighed.
“You know, I really lucked out the day I found the perfect man to go antiquing with…or to do anything with.”
“Yeah!” Tony said with a broad smile. “If we weren’t heading home I’d kiss you right now! But I guess I’ll have to wait!”
Rusty pointed ahead. “Don’t have to wait. Rest stop ahead,” he said.
“Well, I guess we don’t have to wait,” Tony said, flipping on his turn signal.
“Yeah, because I can’t wait,” Rusty said. “Three bottles of unsweetened tea! Yipes!”
The two men laughed again as they turned into the rest stop.
—end—
authorjeffbaker 