"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
Doug pulled the car across the street and pointed at the house.
“Look familiar?” Doug asked.
There was a small, curved drive in front of the brick house that had stood on the side street for decades. The shiny black car was a model of twenty years earlier but looked like it had been built yesterday.
“Oh, my gosh” Scotty said. “That looks like your Mom and Dad’s old car”
Doug grinned. “The one they got when Grandpa stopped driving.”
“Yeah, I remember you telling me he told your folks not to let Hitler steal the car” Scotty said.
The two men laughed. They’d both turned twenty after the War had ended and they had met in College, sure they were going to get drafted. They weren’t. They’d moved in together after they graduated after Doug got his job at the bank and Scotty had gotten on there too.
If anybody knew, they were quiet about it.
“I saw this a few days ago,” Doug said. “I had to drive down this side street and there it was.”
“Could’ve filmed the Great Gatsby there.” Scotty said.
“Or Topper,” Doug said. The two men laughed again.
“Wow.” Scotty breathed. “Ten years since that night on the porch by the lake dancing to Spike Jones.”
“And now it’s going to be the Sixties,” Doug said. “Hey, did you hear about those protests down South?”
“Yeah,” Scotty said. “Marching at schools and lunch counters. Think our guys will get around to marching someday?”
“Someday,” Doug said.
Scotty grabbed Doug’s hand, hidden from outside view.
“When we do, I will be in the front of the line, proudly holding your hand.” Scotty said.
Doug smiled. “Let’s get home,” Doug said, starting the car up again. “I wanna listen to you snore.”
For an instant, in the rear view mirror, Scotty imagined Doug’s folks along with Gatsby and Daisy and George and Marion waving at them.
Read Robert Bloch’s “Hungarian Rhapsody.” A jawdrop moment midway through involving gold coins. Didn’t see the ending coming (but should have!)
Started reading some James Schmitz with “The Second Night Of Summer” from “The Best Of James H. Schmitz.” Space opera with impressive character work from the author. Also started his story “Novice.”
Celebrated Julian Hawthorne’s June 22nd birthday by reading a chapter in his novella “Kildhurm’s Oak.”
Read “Please Mind the Poltergeist” by Tehnuka in “We’re Here; The Best Queer Speculative Fiction of 2023.”
Can’t believe I started Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women.” Never read it before. May not finish; it’s over 555 pages!! Old fashioned of course and a bit sweet and sentimental but a cut above a lot of the Nineteenth-Century YA stuff I’ve read.
Read Wallace Wood’s 1966 Christmas Comic strip “Bucky Ruckus and the Christmas Caper.” I’d read it in Grade School in the newspaper and it still holds up. Funny for adults and kids. Woods is best remembered for his work in MAD Magazine.
Started reading John Maddox Roberts’ Ancient Roman mystery novel “Saturnalia.” A fun adventure for his sleuth Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger who also features in the short-story “Beware The Snake,” which I read on June 25, the late author’s birthday.
Read Carrie Vaughn’s “It’s Still the Same Old Story.” A Forever Knight-style tale set in Denver. Fun and sweetly sad. This and Roberts’ snake story are from anthology “Down these Strange Streets.” Edited by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois.
Of course I read the monthly story by E. H. Timms (a poem this time!) and the weekly serial by J. Scott Coatsworth as well as Kaje Harper’s weekly story which has been a serial for the last few weeks too! All these regular reads are great fun!
And I’ll brag on myself here; I re-read my story “Incorporation Of Danny Zero” which was published in LiveRealPress’ anthology “Five Seconds Of Power.”
“I’m quiet, dammit! Where is the damn thing?” Sommerfield said.
“I’m not sure,” Bax said. “All these machines look alike.”
The room was cavernous, with row after row of grey metal boxes pressed back-to-back against one another leaving only a small space for someone to walk in front of them. Each one was as big as one of their rooms in the barracks, Sommerfield thought.
Bax jumped across the walkway, landing on one of the machines, waving Sommerfield over.
“We don’t have much time.” Bax said.
“We don’t have any time.” Sommerfield said.
“I know,” Bax said, sticking his arm down between the backs of two of the machines, his cheek almost lying flat on the machine’s top.
“Use this,” Sommerfield said, turning on the flashlight on his revulator and shining the beam into the darkness.
“Turn that thrice-damned thing off!” Bax snapped.
“Remember, I outrank you,” Sommerfield said tapping the insignia patch on the sleeve of his uniform.
“Right, right!” Bax said flashing a half grin for a moment. They weren’t actually members of the Stellar Guard; they had been placed on the station with other members of the team infiltrating the Guard unit.
The unexpected part of their mission was discovering that another espionage team was active on the station and had planted what intelligence called “a destructive timed device.”
Sabotaging the Station Master’s operation was one thing. Blowing up over 450 people was another.
And doomsday was set for 2700 hundred hours. Not long.
“Not there,” Bax said standing up. “You take that side and I’ll take that side.”
But Sommerfield found the device in a matter of moments at the far end of a row of the machines, in the crack between the back and front; something in the shadows seemed darker. Sommerfield shined his light into the dark space and it revealed what looked like a wad of dirty something about the size of his fist and flattened into a slightly bulging disc.
Sommerfield pulled the object gingerly out from under the dingy curve of tubing that concealed it. Smeared with grime it blended in with the dark. Sommerfield rubbed the device with his sleeve uncovering an unlit display counting down time.
“Found it!” Sommerfield said.
Bax rushed up, Sommerfield held up a hand.
“Not an explosive, a chemical device,” Sommerfield said. “I’ve seen these before.
“Poison.” Bax said. “Spread all over the station.”
“How far is the nearest ejector portal?” Sommerfield asked.
“Not far,” Bax said as the two of them headed for the door, device in hand.
The slogans they would see in the lounge rooms of the stations ran through their heads: KNOW WHERE YOUR PORTALS ARE. KEEP OUR STATION CLEAN.
Sommerfield clicked open the ejector room door and realized he was sweating.
The portal was an unassuming box the size of a station clothes dryer at the end of the room on the far wall.
They put the device in, shut the lid and swiped the screen.
There was a click and a whoooshing sound.
“Look,” Bax said.
Through the small, round porthole to one side of the machine they could barely see the object ejected from the station, lit by the reflected sunlight off the planet beneath them. After a moment, the device seemed to blur as if someone had smeared something against the backdrop of stars. A blur that spread slightly.
“The gas,” Sommerfield said.
Bax and Sommerfield watched as the blur dissipated slowly in space, drawn towards the planet they were all orbiting.
Sommerfield and Bax sagged against the wall. They had barely made it.
“Think that was all of them?” Sommerfield asked.
Bax nodded. “One was all the message warned about.”
“If that had been a bomb, the regular station personnel would have noticed the explosion outside.” Sommerfield said.
“Certainly would have noticed it if it had gone off inside,” Bax said.
The two of them walked out into the main corridor.
“I wish we’d had time to examine that device before it went off,” Sommerfield said. “Maybe found out something about the other team that planted it.”
“Maybe it wasn’t another team,” Bax said. “Maybe it was one of ours.”
Far-right activists are screaming that Superman has become “Woke.”
Having read comics for almost sixty years I can vouch for our favorite Kryptonian.
Well, of course Superman is “woke.” He always has been. Of course, conservatives think that’s a bad thing. Back during WWII Superman fought fictional Nazis and his image was used in fundraisers geared to combatting the Axis. Today, MAGA conservatives embrace open Nazis like Elon Musk and his Hitler-praising A.I. (a thing that was fictional in Superman-related comics for decades.) During the Civil Rights era, the Man Of Steel was featured in public service ads promoting Brotherhood (You can call it “Wokeness,” if you want.) This was back when American Family Association founder Don Wildmon was crusading against letting Black people in where the White Folks are. (Schools, stores, ect.) Most of these conservatives probably don’t know that Superman has Jewish roots, right down to his creators: Jewish Cleveland boys Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster patterning his origin on the story of Moses. “Woke” is easy to say and to remember and it’s catchy. It has become a nifty substitute for the anti-Black, anti-LGBT, antisemitic, anti-immigrant rhetoric that white supremacists can’t get away with anymore. As for the Cold War era “Truth, Justice and the American Way” slogan (from the openings of Supes’ media appearances) he said “We fight for truth, justice but not necessarily our way” in a comic I read back during the Reagan Administration. In an era where some Americans are embracing our home-grown Gestapo and propaganda outlets we need good examples like our fictional hero Kal-El. Damn right he’s woke! And always has been!
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:https://www.facebook.com/groups/963484217054974
This story started out with the prompt pic of an old barn just outside town and my idea for a conversation between two guys planning to “make out” inside. Somehow the idea didn’t work as a story until I remembered the 1913 date on the front of the barn. Then the story wrote itself.
“There’s places in that barn in the corners, in the shadows, in the loft…if you want.” George said.
Henry looked at George. His eyes glancing over every fold of his clothing; the checked shirt, the way the dull buttons on his overalls still reflected light.
“If we get caught…” Henry said.
“We won’t.” George said. “This barn is on my land. Nobody will be coming here at this time of day.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.” Henry said.
“Why not?” George said. “We may not get another chance…”
Not much need for a wrap-up this time around. Thanks for reading!—-jeff
The barn stood there, looking brand-new with its coat of red paint. The bright white raised letters above the doors proclaimed the barn’s birth year: 1913.
Standing there in their overalls lit by the setting sun, George glanced at Henry.
“Gotta thank you for all your help with the barn last year.” George said.
“Aw, it wasn’t anything.” Henry said. “Just being neighborly.”
“Yeah,” George said. He remembered he and Henry being very neighborly one night.
“There’s places in that barn in the corners, in the shadows, in the loft…if you want.” George said.
Henry looked at George. His eyes glancing over every fold of his clothing; the checked shirt, the way the dull buttons on his overalls still reflected light.
“If we get caught…” Henry said.
“We won’t.” George said. “This barn is on my land. Nobody will be coming here at this time of day.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.” Henry said.
“Why not?” George said. “We may not get another chance. Have you seen the newspapers? All Hell is breaking loose in Europe. It’ll be war and we’ll be dragged into it, Mark my words.”
“My nephew Ray is itching to sign up.” Henry said. “How about you?”
“I was in the Army,” George said. “Stood guard when they took President McKinley to the Capitol for the last time. If I’m called to fight, I’ll go.”
“I never done anything Presidential when I was in service,” Henry said. “But I still have the uniform. If that mess comes over here I’ll be ready.”
The sky and the surroundings were getting darker. George and Henry watched the stars slowly emerge.
Henry looked at George in the dark.
“Let’s do something that has to do with peace,” Henry said.
The two men walked silently into the dark barn and closed the doors behind them.
Above the doors, the number 1913 seemed to be a smile in the dark.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The draws for the July 2025 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were: A Horror Story, set in a Pool Hall, involving a Rusted Knife. Here’s what I came up with…
The pool hall was dim, lit only by the lights above the tables and the red neon signs on the walls advertising brands of beer long gone from the world. The four men in slacks and pressed shirts were gathered around a pool table.
“This is weird,” Jack said. “I had a dream about the knife last night.”
“So did I,” Reggie said.
The other two men, Edward and Joey nodded their heads.
“That meant it was time for us to gather together again,” Reggie said. “As we do every few years.”
There was near-silence in the room for a few minutes.
“The most recent.” Edward said. “Pete was the first. Then Raymond. Then Reginald.”
Reggie smiled. No one else smiled.
“The other Reginald.” Edward said. “And Zachary.”
“Yeah.” Jack said. “Y’know, I saw this old movie on TV late one night. That guy who was in the Odd Couple show was in it. All about a jury. Stuck in a room talking.” He looked up at the ceiling and then down the wall. “There was a knife in that too.”
Edward bent down under the pool table and pulled out a worn case with a handle that looked like it had once held a trumpet. He set it on the table. He opened it and pulled out an object wrapped in a dark blue cloth, not silk but something else. He set the cloth down on the table and unwrapped it as one of the others set the case down on the floor.
The knife lay on the pool table. An old knife with a wooden handle and a rusted blade.
Edward picked up the cloth and tossed it on the case, laying the knife on the green fabric of the pool table.
The four men stood there, each at a side of the table.
After a moment, the knife shuddered and shot up from the table into Edward’s chest.
Edward let out a gurgle and slid down, clutching the table. He lay on the floor, the knife shuddering in his chest. After a few moments he was still.
The other three stared at each other.
“It took the Custodian.” Joey said. “It’s never taken the Custodian before.”
“Yeah. But there’s less and less of us now,” Reginald said. “Which one of us is the oldest now?”
Jack raised his hand slightly. Moving into his role as the new custodian of the knife he picked up the blue cloth and used it to pull the blade out of Edward’s chest. The cloth soaked up the spilled blood and the blood staining the knife and pool table as if it had never been there. Then Jack wrapped the knife up in the cloth and put it back in its case.
“What happens when there’s just one of us left?” Joey said as they walked out of the room and onto the street.
“I dunno.” Jack said. “Knowing why was never part of the deal.”
—end—
AUTHOR’S ADDENDA: I watched the classic “12 Angry Men” for the first time a few nights ago. It’s about a jury deliberating a case and there’s some discussion about the murder weapon; a knife. That was in my head when I wrote this story.
Here’s the draws for the July 2025 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge. Followed by my usual long-winded explanation:
A Horror Story
Involving A Rusted Knife
Set at A Pool Hall
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 (including, hopefully, one of my own!) on the blog.
As I’m no good making videos I did the drawing offstage. So, the results were the Four of Hearts (a Horror Story), the Two of Diamonds (a Pool Hall) and the Ace of Clubs (A Rusted Knife.)
So we will write a horror story, set at a pool hall involving a rusted knife.
We’ll have the results here in this same space around Monday July 4th, 2025.
So, get to writing and I’ll post the results next week! And I’m putting the 2025 Flash Draw sheet at the end of this message, again! (* indicates those have been used.)
Thanks for playing, and I’ll see you in about week!
authorjeffbaker 