"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
I went to the World Fantasy Convention in Kansas City at the end of October. Went to a bunch of panels, including one on Heinlein’s fantasy stories with a guy who had met Heinlein. Went to a bunch of readings, including one at about ten in the morning with only two or three audience members in attendance (that happens at early-morning readings, I guess) but they had a blast and so did the small audience. Also, I wrote and read a little in my hotel room.
Kept busy writing the flash fictions and a chunk of the project due at the end of December. Got a story for a flash anthology call I heard about at the World Fantasy Convention written up and sent off; this one using a series I started for the weekly flash fictions a few years ago. A lot of this being done at the downtown Public Library.
And I pulled out my notebook and wrote out a song parody, something I used to do all the time but since I don’t perform anymore I don’t do more than once a year or so, Maybe I’ll send it to somebody.
I haven’t done as much reading this month, other than for the writing. I’m thinking of doing a regular “Reading Report” and posting it here, too. (Michael Vaughn does a video version and puts it on You Tube—highly recommended.)
AND I got my copy of “Rise,” the Queer Sci-Fi Flash Fiction Contest anthology that has one of my stories in it. Quite a boost!
I was hungry. I was tired. I was cold. It was right around Thanksgiving, my first one out on the streets since my Mom had bailed on me and I’d hit the road.
I’d been very lucky. I looked like I was about twenty and I’d managed to find a few jobs where I was paid under the table and nobody questioned that my name was Bryce Going or suspected that I was really a Gay teenager on the run. But none of that stopped the awful feeling in my gut. I hadn’t eaten anything other than a candy bar in two days. This little town didn’t have a shelter or anything. And it was Thanksgiving, 1975. At least tomorrow was. The cute decorations of turkeys in the window seemed to be mocking me.
I pulled my jacket tight around me as I walked down the small main street. There was a trash barrel right there. Sign on it telling people not to litter. I hated what I was thinking.
I glanced around. Nobody there, most of the little shops had closed early.
I glanced in the barrel and reached in, felt around through the newspaper, the empty pop and beer cans and felt a lump. I pulled out a wrapped-up half-eaten something with the logo of a burger place on the wrapper. I glanced around again. I was the only person on the street.
I unwrapped it. Yeah, a burger. Someone had taken a bite out of it then discarded it but it was still a burger.
The idea almost made me sick but I didn’t care. I bit into it. It was cold but it tasted like the best thing ever.
I’d intended to eat around the part with the bite in it, I didn’t want to catch any diseases.
I didn’t care. I ate every inch of it. Savored every bite. Licked my lips, pulled a piece of cheese off the wrapper and gobbled it too.
It felt like the best meal I’d had in days.
I rummaged through the trash can. No more burgers. I looked around and kept walking.
I kept remembering an older guy I’d been in a shelter with a few months ago. He told me that I should check out restaurant dumpsters “They have the best food.” The idea almost made me sick then. Not now.
I walked to the edge of town. There was a Russian restaurant. Made sense. Little town probably had a bunch of immigrants. It was dark, their lights were off. No cars parked anywhere near. I walked over. The back parking lot was a combination of gravel, sand, dirt and potholes. I about tripped on one. The dumpster was at the far corner of the lot, by some bushes, partly in the shadow of the decorative spire of the building. The only light was from a streetlamp in front.
I looked around, double-checking. Nobody. The dumpster was about chest high. I could see a hole in the side at the bottom where part of it had rusted away. I leaned on it and it wobbled a little. Probably set on a big pothole. I pushed the lid open. It smelled. Like trash and food. It was about a third full of garbage and leavings from other people’s meals, people who hadn’t had to worry about where their next meals were coming from. That was all to one side of the dumpster and it wasn’t really much. I felt around and grabbed what felt like a chunk of ham or turkey.
Something grabbed my wrist.
I jerked back, or tried to. The dumpster wobbled. Something rose out of the trash, partly covered in food. It had muscular arms and a face and it grabbed my other wrist. It almost looked like an old man but its beard was long and green like seaweed. Its skin was covered with scales like a dirty green fish. I pulled and struggled. It grinned showing sharp green teeth. I was going nowhere.
“You are mine now, boy!” it said in a gurgling voice.
“Who the hell are you? Let me go!” I managed to say.
“I am Vodyanoy! I traveled here when they came from the Old Country. I dwell in the waters. You will make fine company!”
It began to pull me into the dumpster. I stared down. In the dim light I could make out that the Vodyanoy’s legs trailed off and became water, blending with the murky liquid at the bottom of the dumpster. And that the dumpster was tilted slightly.
I had one shot.
I threw my weight towards the side of the dumpster with the rusty hole. It managed to rock back and forth and the water sloshed around, some of it flowing out of the dumpster onto the ground. As it did, the Vodyanoy’s grip tightened and he began chanting in what I guessed was Russian. But his weight wasn’t helping him. I kept rocking the dumpster and the water kept flowing out and the demon-thing opened his mouth for a gurgling yell and fell apart, becoming dirty green water which flowed out onto the ground.
No longer being held, I fell to the ground. Glad the dumpster hadn’t rocked on my foot. I rolled away from it, sprang to my feet and ran, not looking back.
It would be a cold, lonely Thanksgiving but I was just glad to be alive. I checked a few more trash cans and found a few scraps of food and amazingly, an unopened bottle of water somebody tossed. I would make my way to the next town and get another job and if they paid me in food I don’t remember. And it wouldn’t be my last encounter with some kind of water spirit. If I had any sense I would have steered clear of water except the kind you find in bottles.
—end—
Wishing all my readers a wonderful Thanksgiving with a prayer for those who have no place to go. I’m posting a prompt pic but it’s for December 1st as we’ll be taking a Thanksgiving break! —–jeff
Every week we post six lines of a story of ours, a work-in-progress or from someone else’s work we recommend that has LGBT characters on Rainbow Snippets here https://www.facebook.com/groups/963484217054974
You know, I remember your Granddad showing me how to do this. He used to cook the turkey overnight, just like this, I remember when I was a little kid. You woulda liked him, I think. Yeah, when I was a kid we ate around this table a lot. It’s still kinda scuffed up in a few places. And you’ll like your Uncle Enrico when I get him out here.
Awwww! Can’t leave it there!
He had to work on Thanksgiving. I’m just glad your Grandma and your folks are okay with it. Wow. I haven’t been back to this house in over a year. Live too far away. This house is about a hundred-and-twenty years old, I’m twenty seven and you’re about…oh, seven months? Something like that.
My Dad showed me how to do the turkey but I haven’t done one in a while. And there are a couple of houses in my family like the one I mention here!
Next week, something not as Thanksgiving-Themed. (Meaning I’m not sure what!) —-jeff
There’s nothing like small-town High School football. And our team usually played nothing like small-town football. We didn’t have the worst record in the state but some people were surprised to hear we even had a team.
The D’Artagnan High School Knights games did bring out the town, there wasn’t a lot to do on Friday night in Western Kansas but our cheer should have been “better luck next time.” That’s probably why they let my younger brother Scotty Turner on the team, even if he usually just warmed the bench. Me? I was a year older than Scotty and had been on the bench all the time, okay up in the bleachers. I was a tuba player in the school band and we usually did better than the team. Not that William Gaines Turner Junior was planning on a musical career. Nope. Community College, Economics, that was the idea.
Anyway, right before Halloween and our Homecoming game we were playing the Millington Dragons and my buddy Mickey Mayak nudges me and says since our director wasn’t paying a lot of attention (flirting with one of the pretty teachers in the front row) we should start something. So, Mickey kicks Mark Lebsack, sitting in front of us with his trombone, and tells him what’s going on. In another minute, word has spread through the whole band and we kick into a march and the crowd cheers.
And somehow, Scotty thought that was a signal for him to run onto the field. This was during a play and I guess it meant they had too many players out there and the referees blew their whistles and the coaches for both teams started yelling and Scotty stood there with a “Wha’d I do?” look on his face.
Me and Mickey were laughing and the director looked pissed.
The gist of it all was they had to run the play again. Scotty stayed on the bench but since Millington stupidly was doing the exact same thing they did before we grabbed the ball and Martin MacFly (No kidding! That was really his name!) ran for a touchdown for our side! Maybe that gave us some momentum because we won the game, just barely. It didn’t mean a lot in the grand scheme of things but it meant our record for the season was 3 and 0 and not 2 and 0. And MacFly got the nickname “Flypaper,” for holding onto the ball (he’d dropped it on the very first play of the game.)
When it was all said and done my Dad had us stop in at Casey’s for a couple slices of pizza. There were a couple of employees carrying a couple of stacks of pizza out to a customer’s car and a woman with her bicycle leaning against the wall selling tacos. Yep. Small-town football. Gotta love it.
Somebody said later the school paper had wanted to run a story calling it “Marching Band Wins Football Game” but the Journalism teacher nixed it. And Mickey and I got a stern lecture from the director next Monday at band practice.
But my Brother Scotty got the last laugh. He went off to college, fell in love with this girl and married her. Yeah, the Coach’s daughter.
So now, every other Thanksgiving or Christmas, I have to hear “Hey, Billy! You remember your Brother’s bonehead play that saved the game?”
—end—
NOTE: And that’s me reflected in the bell of the tuba! —-jeff
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The draws for the November 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were: Historical Fiction, set in a Railroad Car involving an Antique Cola Bottle.
I realize that the term used for First Nations People in this story is out of fashion today, but it is what my narrator would probably have used about one hundred and fifteen years ago. I offer my apologies. —-mike
It was the middle of the night. The train car was rocking back and forth. I was starting to breathe easier; we were halfway there. The old man, wrapped in a blanket with ancient designs sat in the seat facing me. I was just glad there weren’t that many people in this railroad car and that most people couldn’t tell one old Indian from another.
What we were doing was a mercy. “The One Who Yawns,” to translate his name, was being held prisoner by the government and was no danger to anybody. He told me the Spirits had let him know that his time was short.
And maybe the spirits had told me the same thing.
There was a loyal old man in his tribe who felt moved by the spirits to pretend to be The One Who Yawns and take his place so The One Who Yawns could go home.
It wasn’t that difficult to swap one old man for the other. As I said, most White people weren’t going to bother looking too close. Not in 1906. So I was taking him to his home to die in the ways of his people.
I reached into my coat pocket. I had forgotten about the small bottle I had gotten from the ice chest on my way back to my seat. I handed the bottle to the man who (for the duration of the trip) was calling himself “Fire on the Prairie.” I pried open the lid and indicated that he should drink.
“It’s something new,” I said. “It’s really good. It’s fizzy.”
Suspiciously, The One Who Yawns smelled it, sipped it and then took another sip. He gave me a slight smile.
We rode on in silence.
Just before dawn we stopped at a little town and stepped off the train. As the train pulled away two more Indians walked up, much younger than I was. They explained that they had brought horses and that The One Who Yawns was going to ride with them. Home.
The One Who Yawns nodded at me slightly. “Thanks,” he said quietly. Then he handed me the empty cola bottle and gave me the biggest smile I had seen in a long while.
Then they rode off.
My own friends, with a horse, would arrive several hours later. I couldn’t go back to Fort Sill, so I planned to hit the Oregon Territory. Which is where I was when I heard that the man the world thought was The One Who Yawns had died a prisoner of war and had been buried at the cemetery there.
Last I heard of the real The One Who Yawns, he had outlived his double and was awaiting the call of The Great Spirit.
Maybe that same spirit allowed me to live to be 103 years old, to tell you the story I’ve kept to myself for over sixty years and explain why I have an empty soda bottle set on the mantle, in a place of honor.
—end—
AUTHOR’S ADDENDA: Oh, and The One Who Yawns was a real person. He is believed to have died in 1909 and to be buried in Ft. Sill, OK. —–mike
First, here’s the prompts for the November 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge. Then my usual long-winded explanation:
Historical Fiction
Involving an Antique Cola Bottle
Set in a Railway Car.
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 (and hopefully have one of my own written!) the week of November 13th, 2023.
As I’m no good making videos I did the drawing offstage and the results were the Eight of Hearts (Historical Fiction), the Six of Diamonds (A Railway Car) and the Queen of Clubs (an antique cola bottle.). So we will write a historical fiction, set in a railway car involving an antique cola bottle.
So, get to writing and I’ll post the results next week!
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
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
authorjeffbaker 