"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
Helpful tech Brodie at Ribbit Computers, West Street Wichita, KS.
I had to replace my old laptop about a month ago. I’d spilled beer on it and took it to see if it could be repaired. They advised replacement. So I selected the Dell (smaller keyboard, more memory and faster speed) which I now use and they proceeded to transfer my precious documents and pictures to the new laptop. Got it at a good price and it is performing well.
Time and again I take my computers to Ribbit and get either serious repairs or free tech advice. I’ve always found their efficient service well worth it! I recommend them highly!
(And I apologize to Brodie if I misspelled his name!)
I’d been banging on the delivery door for about three minutes when I finally got a response from inside. It was like that old comedy bit.
“Who is it?” the voice said.
“Delivery!” I said.
“Read the sign. No deliveries between Eleven-Thirty and One-Thirty.”
“It also says ‘Taco Grande’ and they moved.” I said. “Look, your boss called us up and wanted this stuff immediately. Open up, it’s hot out here.”
“I can’t open this door before one. Besides, we’re in our lunch rush.” the voice said.
“I drove around through the front parking lot,” I said. “You don’t look busy, and you need…”
“Look, you don’t bring anything in here without my approval,” the voice said. “I don’t care who said what or how hot it is. You’re not getting in here right now.”
“Your boss wanted this stuff as fast as we could get it here,” I said. “I have the cooler in the van and I…”
“I don’t care what anybody said,” he said opening the door a crack. “You get out of here and come back after…”
He was a tall, lean man with brown hair and one of those corporate-looking button-down shirts restaurant managers wear with the company logo on his tie.
He stared for a moment.
“What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing to my two-wheeler and the brown cardboard tub oozing a purple glop all over the pavement.
“That,” I said, “is the tub of raspberry ice cream your boss called up for and wanted in a hurry. We had instructions to bring it out as fast as we could and put it in your freezer. Your boss has big plans for it. And,’ I said pulling the wheeler out from under it, “he already paid so you don’t have to sign for it.”
I turned and went back to my delivery truck.
The joke was on me. They made that idiot who wouldn’t open the door a Supervisor.
—end—
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Actually, everything in this story really did happen to me at various times in my career as a deliveryman (about 25 years!) I thought about inserting dragons, zombies or a flying saucer but truth is stranger than fiction! ——jeff
Every week we post six lines of a work of ours, a work-in-progress or a work of someone else’s we recommend that has LGBT characters at Rainbow Snippets, here https://www.facebook.com/groups/963484217054974
Arnie Gilman shifted the loaf of bread in his arms, real bread, he thought, not that processed stuff they grow in sheets. He should have probably gotten a cart, but hell, sixty-four wasn’t old, he could carry the big bottle of juice in one hand, the bread in the other and the spatula under his arm.
He glanced out the big grocery store windows as he walked up front to the checkout. Maybe he’d catch a glimpse of the Mars Shuttle that was leaving from the airport. He smiled. He and Mark had always talked about taking one to Mars for a vacation. But now…
Here’s another snippet, as Arnie wanders over to the new “Slow Checkout” and a young checker named Carlos.
“The idea was for there to be a lane for checkers to take their time and talk to the customers because a lot of older people are just lonely and come into stores for conversation.” Gilman said.
“Yeah, that’s the idea,” Carlos said. “It’s just been a week but I have some regulars who come by here. One lady comes in every day and just buys a bag of M & M’s. Talks for five minutes.” He grinned. “But I don’t mind.”
Yeah, I like sweet stories too. Next week, something a bit more edgy (if I remember to do it!)
When I was thirteen, my Father had me run occasional errands for him. Sometimes, this involved delivering messages, sometimes packages. I wasn’t sure what he did for a living but as I was out of school, I didn’t care. This time, it was a message, a piece of paper folded and sealed with old-fashioned wax.
And I got to take it to one of my very favorite people; Old Doctor John, who I figured must have been a hundred years old, but in 1928 he was a lot younger than I am now.
The times he made house calls, or when I took messages to him, he had some of that peppermint candy from a jar, but that was not as wonderful as the stories he told of the years he lived off in London where he tended the sick or helped his friend solve the sometimes bizarre problems that came his way.
That Summer evening, with music playing in the air, I ran over to Dr. John’s office to deliver the message.
Dr. John was his usual, happy self, until he opened the message. As he read through it, I saw his expression turn grim. He mouthed one, strange word: “Mycroft.”
“Young Lad,” he said to me, and somehow I felt the importance of what he said from his tone of voice. “I must, and your Father and I must, ask you to do something dangerous, if you will.”
My heat beat faster. I nodded.
“Do you hear the band playing in the distance?”
“Yes,” I said. “They are rehearsing in their front yard. Near us.”
“I must ask you to go there and pretend to listen to them play. Applaud if you want, but do not think you are anything but a listener. And count how many of the people, including the conductor, are wearing glasses.”
“Glasses?” I said.
“Yes, glasses.” This is vital. They will never suspect you. But this is dangerous. Even more dangerous if you do not do this.”
I nodded.
I started running to the street where the music was coming from, then I realized that I should not appear to be in a hurry. I should appear to just be walking by and happen upon the band practicing there in the yard. Which is what I did. It was a small group, maybe twenty people and they were playing, rehearsing a piece I remembered from when the famous American bandleader Sousa had come to our town a year earlier and my family and I had heard it.
They were all dressed casually and the big man who was the conductor had taken off his jacket and was in his shirt sleeves. I loved the music, but I remembered my mission. I drew closer, pretending to listen intently and I carefully counted the number of people who were wearing glasses. I counted three times to be sure.
I stayed there, watching the band rehearse and then I casually walked down the street, opposite the way I came, repeating the number in my head. When I was far enough away, I ducked down a side street and ran back to Old Doctor John.
His response was simply “Splendid!” He wrote the number down, along with a short note and put it in his jacket pocket. “This,” he said, “I had better handle. And you had better get home.”
It was a week or so later when I found reason to step into Old Doctor John’s office again.
Old Doctor John grinned at me.
“Some day, I may be able to tell you of the service you performed for your country and maybe the world. For now, the only reward you will receive is my gratitude and this little gift.”
He handed me an envelope which smelled of tobacco and chemicals.
“That is just a trivial note once written to me by that old friend I sometimes tell you about. I’m sure he would want you to have some sort of souvenir for your service and your silence.”
I nodded. I did not open the old letter until I got home. It made me smile. Like Dr. John’s fabulous friend was talking to me.
It was many years later when I came upon a rumor that the town I lived in had supposedly once been the headquarters of a spy ring which had been broken. I smiled again.
I will be 101 years old next week. I still have not shown the letter or told this story to anyone.
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 herehttps://www.facebook.com/groups/963484217054974
I’m posting this little snippet from my most recent of my weekly Friday Flash Fiction stories “Nights in White Satin.” https://authorjeffbaker.com/2023/07/14/friday-flash-fics-nights-in-white-satin-by-jeff-baker/ Yes, there are LGBT characters in it, but this snippet is an evocation of the power of story (which is what we’re here for, isn’t it?) In this bit, it’s dusk and Scotty is telling his vacationing kids a local ghost story. (or is it just a story?)
Even in an age of cellphones and made-to-order videos there is a power to a good story well-told. Scotty knew his kids and knew when to pause, what timbre of voice to use and how to make it all atmospheric. It helped that it was dark and lit by the lights on the low corner walls of the porch which cast long shadows.
The boys were enraptured. Eyes wide, mouths open, hanging on every word.
Scotty took a deep breath as he finished, his voice just above a whisper.
For the record, I wrote that story out-of-town in my Brother’s backyard while his nephews and grandkids frolicked in the pool. (May have inspired some of the story!)
Next week, some surprises! (Meaning, I have no idea what I’m going to post!)
“What does this remind you of?” Sam asked, stretching back in the big chair on the cool evening porch.
“Back when this was Grandma and Grandpa’s house,” Scotty said, sipping his lemonade with a glance at the one story ranch house with the well-lit porch and garden.
“Yeah, back then the suburbs hadn’t swelled over here yet!” Sam said.
“Remember riding our bikes down to the convenience store on Thanksgiving when we were like eleven and twelve because Grandma was out of milk and the big grocery stores were closed?” Scotty asked.
“And you said you thought the convenience store only sold sodas, toys and comic books!” Sam laughed.
The two brothers sat there laughing for a moment. Summer seemed a long way from Thanksgiving.
“Hey, Dad!” The front door had burst open and the two boys, twelve and eleven, tanned after a weekend of summer adventure rushed out onto the front porch.
“Can we?” they said in unison.
` “No. It’s late.” Scotty said. “We’re here to be with family.”
“Oh yeah. Hi Uncle Sammy.”
“Hi, kids.” Sam said grinning.
“When’s Mom coming back?” Drew, the younger brother asked.
“She and her cousins are out visiting, doing girl stuff, you know,” Scotty said. “You boys come up here and sit down. And no cellphones.”
“Awwwwww!” the boys groaned in unison.
The four men sat in silence for a few minutes.
“I’m bored!” Deacon said.
“Yeah!” Drew said.
Sam cleared his throat. “Why don’t you tell them about the ghost?”
“Ghost?” Drew said.
“The one grandpa used to tell us about, remember?” Sam gave his older brother a purposeful look.
“Okay guys, gather ‘round,” Scotty said. “This is the story as your Grandfather told me. Back when this area was all farmland, there was an old farmer who lived in a farmhouse just down the road from here…”
Even in an age of cellphones and made-to-order videos there is a power to a good story well-told. Scotty knew his kids and knew when to pause, what timbre of voice to use and how to make it all atmospheric. It helped that it was dark and lit by the lights on the low corner walls of the porch which cast long shadows.
The boys were enraptured. Eyes wide, mouths open, hanging on every word.
Scotty took a deep breath as he finished, his voice just above a whisper.
“…And they say that on quiet Summer nights, the old farmer’s daughter, still wearing her long white satin gown, still walks down the road. Waiting…waiting…for her lost fiancee.”
“Woah!” Drew breathed.
“Yeah,” Deacon said. “Did they ever…”
“Look!” Drew shouted, pointing at the street.
There, at the far bend in the street, by the big old tree stood a figure, a female figure shimmering in a glistening white gown, long blonde hair covering her face, beckoning with long white gloves.
“It’s the ghost!” Deacon gasped!
“Like in the story!” Drew said.
“Quick! Inside!” Scotty said. “The ghost can’t get you in there!”
“GET us?” Drew shrilled, his voice a squeak.
“She’s looking for her fiancee, remember? And if you aren’t married she might think…”
“Quick! Under the bed!” Deacon said rushing for the door.
The two boys ran inside slamming the door behind them.
Scotty smiled and picked up his lemonade, raising it in a toast to the diaphanous figure in white.
The white-gowned figure gave his brother a thumbs-up. Scotty grinned again and nodded.
The kids didn’t know yet about their Uncle Sammy’s career as “Samantha; Chanteuse With the Silver Voice.” They’d never seen him in drag or with the blonde wig. It had come in handy to put a good scare in them though!
Took a break by going out to my Niece’s Baby Shower last week. And I managed to get some writing done during the previous few weeks.
I sat down at a pizza place and while I was waiting on my order I did some plotting out on a story that’s due July 31st. If I type away I should have it done in time.
I found out another story I sent off a year or so ago is for an anthology has changed publishers and word counts, so I have to shave off 1600 words and re-submit by the end of August! How my life has changed since I first started that story!
I don’t remember when I posted the last of these progress reports, probably after I posted my June Queer Sci Fi column. I finished the July column a couple of days ago. I want to get back to where I was with having several months worth of those already done and ready to post.
I wrote several of the weekly flash fiction stories, including one yesterday afternoon sitting in the backyard watching cousins swim and friends chat and cats play.
I started two or three other full-length stories that I have worked on more than the ones I have deadlines for! I’m breaking a cardinal rule that I may have made for myself one of the weekends visiting my Brother in the 1990s when I realized I was stretching the writing too thin by working on too many projects at once and finishing none of them. I may have more discipline now.
And I am doing better emotionally.
A lot of really personal stuff I won’t bore anybody with but I have a lot of friends and family surrounding me. Online and within traveling distance. And yeah, the writing helps.
I still miss Darryl a lot but I feel different about that. It isn’t as all-consuming as it was at first when I made a couple of dumb decisions which thankfully didn’t cost me much.
Even with the loss, the life of a writer is not a bad life to have, so I’ll leave it there.
That’s about it for now!
——jeff baker, July 10, 2023. 3:08 A.M.
ADDENDA: I checked. I posted the last of these back in May. —–j.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The draws for the July 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were a “Just So Story” set at a Radio Station involving a plastic elephant. I’m a huge Kipling fan (author of the “Just So” stories) and so I combined that with the setup of an episode of the old “Night Gallery” TV show. Here it is.
Artie Magruder had been working the night shift at station KIPP for five months and he was bored out of his mind.
His boss, Mr. Jorkens, was a nut on Rudyard Kipling. The mascot of the station was “Ruddy,” the plastic elephant that sat in the front hallway. The format was, as his boss described it: “Real easy listening.” In other words, a few cuts below elevator music.
So, Artie sat in the booth, made inane prattle between records hawking the sponsor’s products and thinking about how he had a damn degree in communications, and he had a voice. He should be doing something else with his talents.
One night, he’d had enough. He interrupted the record he was playing and spoke directly to the listening audience.
“This is Artie Magruder, with a message of vital importance. I call it a Just-So story from this Just-So-So station. This is the story of how the elephant got its plastic.
In the old days of course, all the elephants were made of elephant hide. But one elephant, named Ruddy, wanted to be different.
Ruddy didn’t want to be a real elephant anymore.
So, he got on the internet (the font of all knowledge) and he looked up How Not To Be a Real Elephant.
And he found that things that weren’t real were plastic. So to become plastic, he had to go to someplace that would make him feel not real. So he came here to this radio station and stood in the lobby and soon he turned into plastic. Artificial!
And you know what, ladies and gentlemen? That’s how I feel sitting here every night spinning these damned discs. Plastic! Fake! Artificial! So I’m going to leave right now and I’m going to become a real elephant, a real person again.
But I’m not leaving you alone, Mr. and Mrs. America. Hold on just a minute.”
Artie ran out of the broadcast booth and out into the lobby. He grabbed the plastic elephant which was three feet tall and dragged it into the booth to where his microphone was.
“This is Ruddy the Elephant. He’s going to be sitting in for me for the rest of the night. I’ll start this record and he can handle the rest. Because I’m going back into the real world.”
Artie pushed the button and started the CD player.
“Goodnight, Mr. and Mrs America,” he said. “That’s Just So.”
First, here’s the prompts for the July 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge. Then my usual long-winded explanation:
A “Just So Story“
Involving a Plastic Elephant
Set at a Radio Station.
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 July 17th, 2023.
As I’m no good making videos I did the drawing offstage and the results were the King of Hearts (a “Just So Story,” like Rudyard Kipling’s, but a folk tale thingie will do!) the Five of Diamonds (a radio station) and the King of clubs (a Plastic Elephant.)
So we will write a version of one of Kipling’s Just So Stories, set at a radio station involving a plastic elephant. (And I promise next year, no more pastiches of other people’s writing in the lists!)
So, get to writing and I’ll post the results next week!
authorjeffbaker 