"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
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!
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
If there’s ever an anthology of original stories written to commemorate, say, ‘Nathan’s fiftieth anniversary as an author, I want to write the story about Lightning Todd. Todd was hit by lightning and now can see the future and goes “where I’m needed.”
And he has a website where he talks all about it.
In “Struck,” Todd is talking to Chris, a young bookseller who has already had a demonstration of Todd’s powers.
“Before you quit and never come back, you totally have to kiss the guy who won’t wear pink.”
“Kiss the…before I quit?” Chris said. Given his situation, that was rather unlikely.
“Because of the Titanic,” Todd said.
“Because of the Titanic.” Chris leaned forward. “Are you high?”
‘Nathan Burgoine has a knack for characters with some prescient psychic ability, but Todd is the only one of them I might go out for a coffee with!
I’ll be back with more snippets next week! —–jeff
(P.S. I usually don’t edit someone else’s work but I added the “Todd said” up there.)
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…
He sighed.
He glanced at the lines in the checkout lanes. No, not there. And not at the odious self-checkout. (“Why do they still have those damn things anyway?”) He looked over at one end of the front of the store; off to one side was a checkout lane with nobody in it, just a youngish-looking guy with dark hair standing beside the register. A sign overhead proclaimed: Slow Checkout.” He remembered those. He was in no hurry. He walked over and put his items on the conveyor.
“Hi,” the young man said. “I’m Carlos.”
“Gilman,” he replied. “Arnie Gilman. You know I think I remember these from years ago, they were big in Europe.”
“Oh yeah,” Carlos said, not making any effort to check any of Gilman’s items. “This chain decided to bring them back. Just started this one up last week.”
“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.”
“That’s nice of you,” Gilman said looking around. “You know, I worked in a store like this back when I was in High School. Must have been about fifty years ago. And an afternoon I’ll never forget, it was in the middle of Summer and I was working back in the stockroom when we heard the voice come over the loudspeaker:”
Arnie cupped his hand over his mouth and intoned in a nasal voice:
“Attention. Any checker or manager. Repeat, any checker or manager. Self-checkout is down and I am the only checker on any register. There is a line of customers stretching back to the pharmacy. If someone does not open another register in the next three minutes, I will walk and there will be nobody checking out customers.”
Carlos laughed. “What happened?”
“Well let’s put it this way: I’m glad I wasn’t in the way of our Manager when he ran out of the stockroom headed up front!”
They both laughed again.
“Well, hey, I’d better get your stuff checked in, huh?” Carlos said.
“I’m not in a big hurry but sure,” Gilman said.
As Carlos scanned the three items and put them in a bag, he said “Next time you come by here I can tell you a couple of crazy stories about working here.”
“Sounds like fun,” Gilman said taking the bag and nodding goodbye, musing how Mark would have liked the young man and the whole idea of what he was doing.
But Gilman felt better. Happier.
“Bye, Sir,” Carlos said.
“Bye,” Gilman said waving a hand.
As Gilman walked out to his car he made a note to come back soon and buy some M & M’s.
NOTE: Yeah, this is probably more personal than I usually post, but I decided to put it up anyway. Written on June 29, 2023.
This may be more personal than I should post, but I will probably do it anyway.
Or I may just write it down. Here goes.
This has been a strange late Spring/early Summer. I am dealing with the recent passing of my much-loved Husband Darryl and am finding comfort in the little things. I have felt as Summer began that I have adjusted just a bit to being in a new phase of my life.
I’m up much of the night writing or reading/watching stuff online. Darryl and I used to watch old TV shows all night, but I’m not ready for that yet. It’s not as much fun without someone beside me to laugh at Dobie Gillis or Uncle Arthur and the like.
Anyway, late the other night (I call it that but it was like 2:30am) I wandered out to the kitchen to get something. I walked through the darkened living room, looked out the window on the front door, wandered to the kitchen for a can of (sugar-free) soda and then I was hit by a memory…
In the mid-Twenty-Teens I still had a delivery driver job; this one was four days a week with the big day being Friday. Consequently, I’d come home on Friday, have dinner, snuggle with Darryl on the couch in front of the TV and inevitably start to snooze. So, I would (sometimes at Darryl’s insistence) head for the bedroom to sleep. Usually around 10pm, sometimes earlier. Darryl would usually follow me a couple of hours later.
We would happily snooze together, but I would usually wake up around 2:00am, slip quietly out of bed and head to the living room and the silent lure of my laptop and e-mail. I’d quietly check that, go on Facebook, watch a few You Tube videos with headphones on (which is when I discovered that sweet werewolf cartoon “Dirty Paws.”)
And after an hour or two I would either be getting sleepy or just want to crawl back in that big, warm, husband-filled bed. So I would shut everything down and silently slip back into the bedroom and into bed next to my blissfully snoring husband.
He might wake up, or half wake up or not. If he did, we probably exchanged “I love yous.”
Then I would roll over, snuggle up next to him and in a few minutes the dark blanket of sleep would engulf us both. Maybe being the rising curtain to a world of dreams…
So that was the memory. And it made me smile and be very happy.
And I have been happy this last few weeks in spite of sorrow and grief. This is a process, I know and it isn’t cut-and-dried. So I’m grateful for the memories and the moments that still make me smile.
And it’s early in the morning and I’m heading to bed.
The bed still feels warm, occupied and filled with love.
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/RainbowSnippets
For the next couple of weeks I’m going to post some things from the recent short-story collection by ‘Nathan Burgoine “Of Echoes Born.” https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37800605-of-echoes-born He is an excellent writer and short-stories just don’t get the attention they deserve. I’m putting this snippet up because the description is so vivid, and I did not know the history…
It’s late on a Thursday night and I’m watching Parliament burn down again. The heat is intense, the smoke makes my eyes water and I have to struggle not to cough.
I can’t get close enough. I’d like to figure out which wayward soul is stuck, what need or wrong has kept this echo repeating all these years. But the same quirk that lets me see these ghostly reenactments makes it too real for my flesh. I have enough scars from other souls. I don’t want to burn.
That’s from ‘Nathan Burgoine’s story“Elsewhen,” and if you’re looking up the Parliament building fire, take a moment to look up the statue of Sir Galahad. A moving, true story that ‘Nathan discusses in his introduction.
We’ll have more from ‘Nathan next week, a story that hits like lightning…——jeff
Millennia ago, an ancient race ruled the galaxy. Their power and potency remained unchallenged and the most feared of these was Astaroth. Then did the ancients rebel against Astoroth’s evil and use his own power to bind him and destroy him and to scatter his powers into oblivion.
And the legends of Astaroth spread across the Universe as tales of warring Gods., across countless worlds.
And one day, on one of those worlds, those scattered powers reappeared…
And now, when young Barry Easter speaks the name of “Astaroth,” he becomes heir to unimaginable power…the Secrets of Astaroth!
“Okay, Barry, hang on!” Bill Gray said as the balloon took off.
“I’m hanging,” Barry said, gripping the ropes attached to the balloon and bracing himself against the basket. He wasn’t sure going up like this was a good idea, even if Bill was pretty experienced for a High School kid.
Barry couldn’t be afraid of heights, he said. He could actually fly, he reminded himself.
“Take a look out there, Barry!” Bill said. “Isn’t this great?”
“Yeah, great.” Barry said.
But in spite of himself, Barry was starting to feel a lot more relaxed, even letting go of the ropes, although he kept a hand on the edge of the basket.
“Hey, how’d you get into doing this stuff, anyway? Barry asked.
“My Granddad, that’s my Mom’s Dad? He showed me. He’s been taking me up since I was a little kid. I did my first solo flight a few months ago, okay, solo with a passenger!”
“Wow.” Barry said.
“I saw that movie on TV when I was a kid,” Bill said adjusting something on the balloon. “Five Weeks In a Balloon.” He looked over and grinned. “We won’t be up that long! Hey, we were the first ones to take off at the balloon show!”
“Yeah,” Barry said. “I’m glad this isn’t a race. Hey, what’s that noise?”
“Just a little air letting out…”
The balloon’s sudden tilt and a louder rush of air cut Bill off.
“I think it’s a lot more air letting out!” Barry said as he lurched to the side of the basket and grabbed a rope. “There’s a big rip up there and…”
He looked over. Bill was curled up on the floor of the basket clutching his head where he’d hit it.
“Aw crap!” Barry said. “He’s out. Well, it’s better he doesn’t see this.” Barry took a deep breath and said “Astaroth.”
The ancient name, that of an evil alien overlord whose powers had somehow passed across centuries and a galaxy to Barry did their usual thing. There was a roaring wind which pushed the balloon from side to side and a blaze of light and the figure that stood there, seemingly wrapped in blurry gauze just wasn’t totally Barry anymore.
The figure looked down at Bill; he could somehow tell that he wasn’t injured and was still breathing. But the balloon was descending faster.
The figure stood in the middle of the basket and raised his (its?) arms. Wind rushed and supported the balloon, pulling it back the way they came and towards the ground. At the same time the balloon filled with enough warm air to keep it aloft. This wouldn’t look like anything other than a lucky landing.
The figure that wasn’t quite Barry could see the balloon show over the ridge of trees and another balloon ascending as he willed their balloon to land, gently in a huge clump of bushes.
“Can’t let them see me like this,” he thought as he ducked down and uttered a familiar word…
Barry stood there in the open field near the ridge of trees as the medic on duty tried to get Bill to cooperate.
“I’m fine! I’m okay,” Bill snapped from the folding chair as the medic dabbed more alcohol on his forehead.
“You’re gonna want to get that checked out,” the medic said. “I don’t think it’s a concussion, but it’s best to be safe.”
“Yeah, let’s be safe.” Barry said. “But I think you’re gonna be okay.”
“You’re just lucky the balloon landed back so near the balloon show,” the Medic said.
“Yeah,” Barry said. “I guess when the air started spewing out of it, we got pushed back here. Lucky we didn’t crash.”
“Soft landing in those bushes over there,” the Medic said. “We saw you coming down and ran over.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Barry said.
“They’re thinking about canceling any more flights after that big gust of wind just after you landed. That might have been part of why you got knocked over here,” the Medic said.
“Um, probably was,” Barry said.
“Hey, you guys quiet down and get me something for this headache okay?” Bill said.
“Okay,” Barry said grinning.
They helped Bill into the ambulance and Barry didn’t notice that he eyed him with a funny look, then closed his eyes realizing he was out of it right now.
—end—
AUTHOR’S NOTE: A sequel to an unpublished superhero story I wrote called “The Secrets of Astaroth,” remembering the superhero comics and TV shows of my childhood and wondering what really would happen to a kid who got super powers. —-jeff
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