"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
Here’s house again. Open car door. Sniff yard. All okay.
Open house. Look back at yard. Head in.
Curl up by sofa.
Niiiiiiice.
Wag tail.
Dream…..
—end—
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Written pretty much in one sitting from a prompt pic I snapped of a dog looking out a car window. Didn’t quite know where it was going to go. I knew it would have a happy ending, but I wasn’t sure why the guy was going out. Not for food (I thought about a drive-through.) The prosaic mailing of a letter seemed to fit; it just popped into my head. Looking at it again, maybe the guy was mailing off his taxes. —–jsb.
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
The Errant Kidnapping and Inadvertent Time Travel of James Sandall Jnr
by Jeff Baker
“Okay,” Eddie said. “You can take the blindfold off now.”
“Great,” James said, pulling off the black blindfold and tossing it onto the floor of the rental car. “Hey, where are we?”
“Look around.” Eddie said with a grin.
“It’s dark!” James said.
“Not that dark,” Eddie said pulling the car out of the shadow of the building. “It’s Monday and a lot of the places around here aren’t open this late. But look.”
They were on an old brick side street that had been kept up by the city. The area was fashionable for the end of the week after work crowd. Old buildings surrounded them, mostly brick, some with dates carved along the top. Dates about a century old from the days when there were train tracks running down the street to unload shipments into the warehouses.
All that was missing, Eddie thought, was Batman chasing the Joker. James gawked around, his eyes adjusting to the dark.
“Oh, my gosh!” James breathed. “You brought me back down here?”
“Yeah, and look right there,” Eddie said pointing out the car window.
James looked where Eddie was pointing. A narrow brick four-story building, wooden steps leading down from a big steel door under a big neon sign glowing with the word “ARCADE.”
“Oh, wow!” James said. “I thought they tore that down!”
“Nope!” Eddie said. “I drove by when I was up here on business last year and I checked online before we left. Of course it isn’t the produce company warehouse anymore.”
“Sure isn’t,” James said. “And my days driving delivery are long gone.”
“The bar and grill’s still a couple of streets over,” Eddie said pointing. “But it’s expanded into a big restaurant now. They serve more than beer and fish sticks.”
“And that’s where you were working in the mornings when I delivered your load of breaded mushrooms, those damn fish sticks and the frozen cheese sticks nobody liked!” James said, smiling broadly with the memory.
“And we met and we got to talking when I’d check stuff in, and well…” Eddie said.
“And here we are almost twenty years later.” James said. He leaned over to kiss his husband.
“You know,” James said a couple of minutes later when he was settling back in the passenger seat. “I wondered why you were being so mysterious back at the hotel.”
“Yeah, asking you to put on a blindfold and not ask questions does count as mysterious,” Eddie laughed. “I’m just glad this is the hotel I stay at when the company sends me up here. They know me so I could explain we went to college here, we’re up for a reunion and I wasn’t kidnapping you.”
James laughed again. “The Erratic Kidnapping and Inadvertent Time Travel Of James Sandall Junior. Yeah, there’s a title for a novel!”
“Time travel?” Eddie asked.
“Isn’t that sort of what we’re doing right now? Going back twenty years?” James asked.
They sat for a few more minutes holding hands in the car.
“You know, I still have that picture I took somewhere,” Eddie said. “The one of you waiting on a shipment and sitting on that dock that’s where the door is now reading some science fiction novel. And now you’re a published author.”
“Yeah.” James said. “Couldn’t have done it without you beside me.”
Eddie reached under his seat and pulled out a book. “So, how about you get up there and we take an author photo?”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” James asked with another laugh.
“Pretty sure.” Eddie said looking around.
Under the neon sign, James Sandall tried to look serious holding up his latest novel standing by an ancient building that held a lot of his and Eddie’s history.
The Draws for the April 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were:
A Hardboiled Detective Story
Involving a Model T. Ford
Set at a Prison Work Farm
I almost didn’t do a story for this month’s Challenge..
As some of you know this has been a very very bad week for me. I had a good beginning for this story, written right after I posted the draws. It looked good and I figured I’d finish the thing in a couple of days.
But then, on April 4, 2023 early in the morning, my Husband Darryl died. He had been in intensive care and we thought he was getting better but then we found he was sicker than we thought.
I will be all right, but I figured the story would not be finished until a later date if ever. Then a few mornings later I went out to my car and found it had a nearly flat tire. So I drove it two miles to Kansasland Tire to have it repaired. (Nail. Repairs. $35.00 Whew!) But while I was sitting in the shop I pulled out my notebook, read what I had written and finished the story. And, to my amazement, I had fun doing it.
Darryl encouraged my writing, especially in the early 2010’s when I was not making time for it and complaining I wasn’t writing. Then he told me to make time and I did; working on writing stories on my lunch hour. He was as proud as anything when I started placing stories in anthologies. Who I am is a writer, and Darryl loved me for that among other things.
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
Josh and I had been hired to find some missing jewelry, gems that hadn’t even been reported stolen yet, the owner felt he was to embarrassed to do what he should have done and called the police.
Early Breakfast usually had more customers in the morning but that was the morning of the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade downtown. I had said something about the big rooster on top of the building being the Saint Patrick’s Day Chicken and Josh grumbled something about sticking to business.
In this case, “business” meant sipping coffee at a back corner table and keeping track of everyone in the restaurant. Including the owner.
That’s it for this week! Join us next time for an encounter in a motel. —-jeff
The draws for the April 2023 Challenge were a Hardboiled Detective Story, a Prison Work Farm and a Model T Ford. Here’s my story.
All Work and No Play
by Jeff Baker
In the two weeks I’d been at Prairie County Correctional Work Farm I’d gotten into two fights, nearly got myself thrown in solitary (they call it “The Hole”) and picked lots of potatoes. So I was fitting right in.
The blue denim shirt itched, the plastic badge with my name and picture on it kept poking me, the food sucked and I knew I really didn’t belong there. I mean, I really didn’t but it was part of the job.
The badge identified me as Jack Adamski (which I was) but omitted the fact that I was a private detective or that I was in prison because several friends I have in the legal system had sold the State on hiring me to discreetly act to prevent a killing of somebody they might need later.
They didn’t know whether he really was who they needed, they didn’t want to draw attention to him by putting him in protective custody and, oh yes; they didn’t know which of the inmates was their man.
Swell.
I wasn’t known by any of the cons here, the Pen up in Millington was another matter but we’d checked the roster of inmates before I’d been put in. Nobody but the Warden knew who I was.
Prairie County Correctional was on a few acres just off the highway in Western Kansas. A front gate and low, wooden office building and several rows of metal barracks with large fields of various vegetables which the inmates harvested to help feed the prisoners. They also were marched out to clean highway rubbish and clear fallen trees and the like.
Across the road was an overgrown lot wit junk cars including a Model T Ford and a rusted V.W. Bug.
I was lying on my cot exhausted after a work detail in the little cubicle all the inmates had in the barracks; a brick wall about waist-high when one of the old movie cliches walked in. In the movies, it’s the tall blonde walking into the P. I.’s office. This blonde was short, male with bunchy muscles and tattoos. And he knew who I really was.
“I know who you’re looking for,” the blonde said in a low whisper. “They’ve got him in the hole.”
“What did he do?” I asked, sitting up in my cot.
“Asked for protection,” the blonde said. “He knows someone’s after him.”
“He got a name?” I asked.
“It’ll cost you,” the blonde said.
I forked over a pack of cigarettes, feeling like a real cliche. I’d had friends on the outside put some money on my books for the smokes from the canteen. That got me his first name: Morty.
It took some wrangling but I got on a detail sweeping the floor in the barracks where they had Morty. Basically a row of standard prison cells and Morty’s was the only one occupied. We were able to talk and I found that while he was the guy I was looking for, he was also part of a smuggling ring inside the prison. That was the reason he had been targeted, not anything he’d done on the outside.
The “drop” was across the road in the old Model T Ford.
Morty was telling me all this when I was jumped by two big cons who had snuck up on me. Security was pretty lax in this place I thought as I brawled for my life. One of them punched me in the face,
Guards showed up.
All three of us were thrown in the hole, and yes the other two were involved in the smuggling.
I spent the night in the hole with the two yelling at me and spoke to the warden the next day. I got sprung and I got paid my fee.
I guess I was persona non grata in that prison from now on. Fine with me. I filled out my report and went back to my apartment to sleep.
All in all it was a lot safer than some of my divorce cases had been.
“Yes! Finally!” Gewe said, bending over, clutching his knees and catching his breath.
They had been running these last few yards.
The silvery dome, surmounted by a silver spire, was atop a low-roofed white building behind a low wall.
“Think there are guards?” Inole asked cautiously.
“Yeah. There’d have to be.” Gewe said.
“Let’s go.” Inole said.
Gewe nodded and they started up the hill.
The crouched and walked stealthily around the wall. Then Gewe peeked over.
“No guards,” he said.
“No guards?” Inole asked. “How come?”
“Don’t know.” Gewe said. “Maybe they’re as scared as we are.”
Inole nodded and pointed at the top of the wall. Gewe scrambled and hoisted himself over the wall. After a moment, Inole followed.
The area inside the wall was smaller than Inole had thought.
“Now what?” Inole asked.
“We use it.” Gewe said. “And maybe we get home.
“But how,” Inole said walking around the dome, “do we even get in?”
“With this.” Gewe said, holding up a small silver sphere that glowed in the dimming light.
—end—
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
This story was written early this week at the hospital when I believed my husband Darryl was going to get better and go through some physical therapy and be back home in a few months. Then we found out how really sick he was and he passed away a day or so later. So this story is for Darryl.
Mark Russell, America’s foremost political satirist, has died at the age of 90. His live comedy specials were fixtures of PBS from the Ford to G. W. Bush administrations. His live performances in Washington D.C. made him a fixture of the political scene with many of the political figures he skewered in the audience.
Several commentators, noting Russell’s fifty year career as a performer said that Russell represented an era of civility in politics that has seemingly vanished. Because Russell’s satire, while incisive, was never mean-spirited. And his satire was up-to-the-minute topical.
In his TV special following the 9/11 and anthrax attacks he told the live audience: “Welcome to the Mark Russell Comedy Special, brought to you by Cipro.”
Russell was as well-known for his topical song parodies as anything and they were masterpieces of lyric and of satiric commentary. To the tune of the famous Willie Nelson song, Russell wrote the spoof “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Consultants” that included the lines:
“Consultin’ ain’t easy
The life’s kinda sleazy
And sometimes he rides into town
He coulda gone straighter
Four martinis later
He’s shakin’ a bureaucrat down.”
I saw Russell perform live several times, and heard him deliver one of my favorite lines. Commenting that he’d been traveling through the Midwest and seen a headline that read “Supreme Court Considers Homosexuality,” Russell quipped: “All nine of them?!”
I met him once after he did a show here in Wichita and got his autograph on his book of comedic essays. I patterned my own topical comedy act during my brief performing career after his own. I was no Mark Russell.
Decades later when I’d become a writer I submitted a song I’d written “on speculation” (as we writers say.) Russell e-mailed me back, saying he had recently retired.
His e-mail compliment on the song, a compliment from one of my comedy heroes, meant more to me than anything else ever could.
To paraphrase what Russell used to tell his audiences as the show ended: “Thank you very much, Mark.”
First, here’s the prompts for the April 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge. Then my usual long-winded explanation:
A Hardboiled Detective Story
Involving a Model T. Ford
Set at a Prison Work Farm
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 April 10th, 2023.
As I’m no good making videos I did the drawing offstage and the results were the Seven of Hearts (A Hardboiled Detective Story), the Four of Clubs (A Model T Ford) and the Eight of Diamonds (A Prison Work Farm.)
So we will write a Hardboiled Detective Story, set at a Prison Work Farm involving a Model T Ford!
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/RainbowSnippets
This story (“Crisis at Pride”) comes with a built-in introduction, and I’ll talk about the whole thing after the snippets.
The strength of Poseidon, the warrior skill of Sappho, the power of Phoebus, the agility of Thelixinoe, the mystical wisdom of Tiresias, and the innocence of Ganymede!
Stu Dulare seems like an ordinary young man, but when he invokes this untold power, he transforms! Now, he and his partner Jason have been charged by these ancients to expose untruths, to battle for diversity and to protect the innocent! Join them now on their journey!
Two young men stood in the shadow of a brick building.
“You got the stuff?” Brad said.
Let’s jump right into the action! Snippet two:
“Jumping Castro Street! Somebody could get hurt!” Jason said.
“Not if I can help it!” Stu said, dashing behind a building. He looked around, checking more for security cameras than people and then he mentally invoked the Six Ancient Names. He felt a rush of power, there was a thunderous roar in his ears, and a blaze of multicolored light burst from his body like a prism as time stood momentarily still. He glanced down for an instant; he was taller, buffer, in a tight-fitting costume that glistened the way black hair sometimes shows glimpses of every color. And a cape that he imagined was like one ancient temple priests or priestesses would have worn.
Okay, one more!
Instantly his mind was filled with images; the gift of Tiresias. Two men, in their twenties, in an unlit office by an open window, a bag of fireworks spilled on the floor beside them. The men were arguing. The one grabbed the bag of fireworks; the other hit him in the face.
Stu rose into the air, calling on Phoebus’ power, which was exceptionally strong in bright sunlight. In an instant, he was hovering over the buildings, enough to see the fight through the window of the five story brick building across the street without mystical aid.
authorjeffbaker 