"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
First off, updating what I posted the other day over the last two days I’ve worked on two mysteries and made a little headway on both! A contrast to the 90s where I would start one story, then start another, then start another while abandoning work on the previous stories. I only started making progress in the 2000s when I told myself I would only start another story when I finished the one I was working on.
And from August 15th, 2021 on, I’ve proofread and finished a poem I wrote an idea for back in 1995 or so (finally came to me!) wrote two Friday Flash stories and worked on a long fantasy story which I may have done by next weekend.
I’ll get to the regular Progress Report in a day or so, but I’m posting this to be public about my new policy. I’ve been lazy about the writing. I have a story I ought to finish for a submissions call (due Halloween) that I’m making no real progress on, maybe because I’m not working on it. I’ve had some good response for some of the mystery/crime stories I’ve written and I need to write more of them. So, I need to crank up my production in the mystery field and at least work on some of it every night, in addition to doing some of the other stuff. I can do it, I know.
Tonight (or rather, early this morning) I wrote a paragraph on one of the Ancient Roman mysteries I had half-synopsized out. Then I started another page and started one of the other Roman mysteries. If I keep at this, get in the groove and work on my mystery that’s due October 31st, I could have that one done by deadline (two months!)
My master Cato’s voice echoed through the empty halls of the old villa we had come across on an overgrown road outside of one of the small towns surrounding Rome. The front entrance had fallen in on itself, so we were exploring from the back rooms onward. It was not quite as big as the villa of Cato’s Grandfather where we had been raised and where I’d been given to him when we were both about seven. Still, if one had to be a slave, there were worse masters than Marcus Plinius Cato, aspiring poet and playwright, especially after he had inherited his grandfather’s estate. That estate was why we were traveling, inspecting a farm Cato owned that he had never seen. Ever curious, Cato decided to explore down one of the roads. Thankfully, we took his chariot. Also, thankfully, we were heading back to Rome in a meandering sort of way.
Cato had found the atrium, the courtyard in the center of the house, big and open with a stone fountain against one wall, a fountain still trickling with water. I sniffed and then cupped my hands and took a drink. “Cool and refreshing,” I said.
“Who do you think lived here, Quintus?” Cato asked, as he cupped his hands into the water. It was early evening and the sky was still blue with dusk and I could see a white half-Moon above us in the courtyard.
“I would have no idea, Master,” I said. The slaves at the farm had not discussed this with me, they looked on me as the privileged personal slave of a wealthy poet. Besides, Cato was the one whose curiosity rampaged like the bull that chased Io.
“The family who run my farm mentioned nothing of this, even when I said we were going to travel back to Rome on this back road,” Cato said.
“And you didn’t ask if there was an inn on the road,” I muttered under my breath.
“Who dares intrude?” The voice was sharp and made us jump. The dark-robed figure who stepped out of a shadowy corner was tall, female and had long dark hair. She reminded me of a Vestal Virgin I’d once heard described.
“Good woman,” Cato said. “I am Cato, the poet. We meant no harm, my slave and I were traveling through and we…”
“I know who you are,” she said. “I am no mortal woman, I am Neriea, one of the spirits of the sea exiled when Posideon deposed Nereus as Lord of the Oceans. All you have is now mine, or face the wrath of the naiads!”
Cato stood speechless. I found my voice.
“You are no more a naiad than I am,” I said. “I am not as naive as my Master. You can call on no power to stop us or take anything we have.”
The woman stared at us for a moment and then turned and walked back into the shadows.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. She may have no magic but she may have accomplices.”
We made our way out of the villa with surprising swiftness and were soon back on the road in the chariot.
“Living there without benefit of ownership,” I said, as I guided the chariot down the darkening road, hopefully with an Inn along the way.
“Look, I know you don’t believe in things like gods and naiads but how could you be certain that what we saw wasn’t real?” Cato asked. “I mean, that she wasn’t a spirit or river-goddess of some kind?”
I smiled. “I saw one of the back rooms when we were first in the villa,” I said. “Stores of food. Something that a goddess or spirit wouldn’t need.”
Cato laughed, then grew thoughtful. “How does this sound?” he said. Then began to recite:
“I came across, on a long-neglected road
A villa, its owners vanished and gone
Full now of only darkness and ghosts
A home for wayward gods…”
—end—-
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the latest of several (usually longer) mysteries about Quintus I’ve written, putting the two twenty-somethings into mystery and adventure in the last decade of the Second Century B.C. (Circa 107 B.C. or thereabouts.)
The Events at the Cathedral of Saint Dion-On-The-Prairie
By Jeff Baker
People traveling down what locals just call The Old Highway, located between Kingman and Millington in Western Kansas, will take note of a structure that is at times mistaken for a grain elevator but upon closer inspection will reveal itself as what is left of a small, but nonetheless magnificent cathedral, built approximately 1899-1911 and done as a smaller version of similar Gothic cathedrals that once dotted the landscapes of France and Germany before the Wars.
Indeed the Gothic pile is a magnificent sight and has featured in more than one travel calendar, usually silhouetted against a setting sun with a car passing by on the highway.
Upon closer inspection, visitors would find the place in remarkably good shape although abandoned. The only damage is to the wooden roof of the low cloister which was torn off by a storm which spared the sturdy stone structure. All the churchly things, relics and even gold and the like had been removed and were in Diocesan hands, but the altar was still there as was the set of sturdy wooden pews and cushioned kneelers. These visitors must be escorted, however, as the structure is sealed off by a row of barbed wire and warning signs that speak of danger and an unsafe building. Doubtless to dissuade the young and impetuous from damaging an architectural relic. But there are other stories.
Now the garrulous in the area, sill believing in wives tales, spread stories of a less-solid nature involving reasons the structure was abandoned. Some say that the “Saint Dion” who was the cathedral’s namesake was not a Saint as the Church knows saints but an entity demanding a different worship and that the building had been closed and cleansed (by Holy Rite) for that reason
The most persistent story was that part of the very floor had been constructed from headstones removed from the old churchyard when the small collection of the slumbering was moved to the site of the new cathedral and new stones were erected. This was a common practice then and as the stones had been replaced, few gave it a second thought.
The one certain story in this cacophony of myth is an account of events written down from the lips of one who saw them. The handwritten manuscript is the account of Father M—, a young and energetic priest who came to St. Dion’s in the years before what the manuscript calls “The Great War.”
Now it so happened that this young priest was well-versed in legend and superstition. He realized that if the cathedral itself was a vessel of superstition instead of the work of Heaven, there would be those who would be reluctant to enter or who would be full of doubt or thoughts of darksome things that should not be contemplated in a holy place. One of the workers responsible for the erection of the cathedral had left before it’s construction had been finished, speaking of “a whispering at dusk.” Upon investigation of the matter, Father M— found a reluctance of the remaining workers to even venture near the building as sunset approached. These were mostly big, strong men, not given to undue fears or fantasies, known to do some carousing in nearby towns after hours. Not the type to run in fear from a creaking in the night. So the young priest made it his crusade to stay in the cathedral and expose what he called “un-churchly nonsense.” He made certain to make it known that he would be staying the night in the cathedral, to alert whatever human agency he believed responsible for the supposed haunting. He set up a small bedroll in one of the rooms down the hall from the sanctuary, the room that might be used as a residence, took a small supply of dried fruit, a favorite book and a flashlight and set out to wait for whatever prankster was playing ghost.
He was convinced that the source of the sounds would be the wind whistling along the prairie, much as the moaning in old Scottish castles was credited to the wind blowing through the passageways. Indeed, his first evening there he heard wind but nothing that could be mistaken for whispering. He wondered if from his location in the structure he might have missed the sounds. So, the next night, he made certain to plant himself in the sanctuary and after a time of prayer set out to walk the length of the room, keeping alert.
He almost missed it. On the third evening, as the sun was setting, he heard a slight, muffled sound, not intelligible but somehow with the feel of a murmur and the clipped pauses which speak of whispered human speech. He began to trace the sounds, walking as softly as he could.
He believed that the source of this trickery would be either a phonograph left in the building and somehow rigged to start playing, or one of the local youths in person seeking to frighten the superstitious. Nonetheless, the young Priest was still cautious as he entered the small room just to the right of the sanctuary. It was there that the whispering was more distinct and he saw shadowy figures, half as tall as he was. From what he could see in the dim light of dusk, the skinny figures (there were about eight of them) were seated on the floor. Before he could call out, there was a reflected glint of the fading light from the high window and he saw that the figures sitting down on the stone floor were not human but skeletal. As one, they turned their sightless eyes to look at him and then began clicking their teeth together making a most disconcerting rattle as they all lay down, or seemed to as they melted into the shadows of the room.
Here, any attempts to discern more of this story have met with failure. Doubtless the young priest made it to the small village and babbled out his story to someone who either wrote it down or later told it to one who wrote it down. But this story should be thought of as a first-or-secondhand account of the events. I am not certain of the fate of the young priest, or even of his identity as this detail was omitted from the story. Doubtless he either did not stay in the area or he was one of those Fathers who grew old in the service of his small community and did not speak of those events again. On fact is certain; shortly afterward barbed wire was strung about the edifice, preventing the curious and unwary from stumbling into it at the fatal hour of dusk.
—end—
Author’s Note: As should be obvious, an homage the great ghost-story writer M. R. James, translated to the Kansas prairie of just over a hundred years ago. There are all sorts of abandoned structures on the plains, many with stories to tell. I have seen some of them, but I have not heard them whisper.—-j.s. baker
Had a nice flurry of activity over the last two and a half weeks, writing-wise. First off, I wrote three of the regular Friday Flash Fiction stories (including one for next Friday) and one extra: The original story I wrote for August 7th was too long and too good so I sent it off to a mystery market, and wrote another short-short for FFF. Just about the same time, I found out about a monthly flash fiction contest out of Australia (that actually pays!!!) working off verbal prompts. I wrote another crime story in a couple of hours and sent it off! The NEXT night, I found another submission call for a story from a word prompt (this one from Shakespeare by way of M. R. James) and couldn’t resist a chance to do a riff on one of my favorite writers. Wrote it in a few hours and sent it off. (It was a matter of editing out some of what I’d written to make it fit the wordcount and that made it really work!) I also sent off a story I wrote last Summer for its intended market which finally opened up. And I worked on a couple of the monthly columns I do and wrote up about two others (I’m on a tear hear!) And, I got something published! Always nice to be able to update the bibliography!
My latest story “Summer Skies” (as by “Mike Mayak”) is in the July/August edition of the zine “Invoking Chaos: Summer Sun” from Puppycat Press. As good a time as any to update my author bibliography!
Bibliography for Jeff Baker
As of August 15, 2021
“Oh Henry”—-The World’s Shortest Stories of Love and Death. (1999)
“Back In Time” (with John R. Bogner) —– The World’s Shortest Stories of Love and Death (1999)
“The Pilfergeist”—-The Open Casket, KMUW Radio, October 31, 2001.
“Night Game”—-Black Petals #55, Spring 2011.
“The Problem of Cell A307”—-Over My Dead Body, (online) June 8, 2011.
“HORSE”—-Over My Dead Body (online) May 2014
“Hit One Out of the Park”—Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #8, 2012.
“No, I’m making coffee,” came the voice from behind the car. “We’re out.”
“Wha?” Truman Mackelhany said between grunts as he pushed the ancient car while holding on to the wheel.
“Yeah, I’m pushing!” Skip said through grunts behind the car. “Oh, wait! Hey! Here it goes!”
With a rumbling sound, the rebuilt 1914 Maxus Racer shuddered as it pulled onto the road after having its rear end in a ditch. Skip Fowler ran behind it and hopped in the open seat beside Truman.
“Did your Great-Grandfather have to do this a lot?” Skip asked.
“Probably!” Tru said grinning as he steered the old car down the dirt road. “You still got the map?”
“Hope so!” Skip said.
The two of them had rebuilt the old Racer, open seats, cylinder body but powerful engine and an actual storage space when they heard about the offer: ten thousand dollars to race from Chicago, through Missouri to Albuquerque along older roads on a nearly 100 year-old map in hundred-year-old cars. They had actually been pretty well-prepared for the trip, they’d rigged a top for when it rained so their “cockpit” wouldn’t get flooded. All they needed to do was get goggles. And maybe their heads examined. But Tru had wanted to do it; it was in his blood. His Great-Grandfather Marcellus Truman (“No relation to the President,”) had entered the legendary Peking-to-Paris road race in 1907 but had shown up to start the race in Paris by mistake. They had clothes, cellphones and debit cards. They’d jury rigged a charger under the steering column. The cellphones were also their car radio. They were making about 40 miles a day.
“Hey, Tru?”
“Yeah, Skip?”
“How much have we spent on this trip so far?”
“About half of what we’d get if we win the race,” Tru said.
“We turn left up ahead, and we can make it to a motel, just outside Tulsa,” Skip said.
“Yeah?” Tru said.
It started to pour. The two of them tried to pull the top up. It ripped. They looked at each other.
On the plane back to Chicago, Skip ordered a beer.
“Your Great-Grandfather would have wanted it this way,” Skip said.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The prompts for this month’s Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were Historical Fiction, set in a marsh involving a necklace and/or pendant. I avoided the temptation to call this “My Favorite Marshman.” —-jeff
“You fool, Walter!” Thomas said. “First, ‘borrowing’ the Master’s jewelry to impress a woman far older and of a higher station than yourself.” (Walter was all of nineteen in that year of 1674.)
“I meant to hide it, and to claim it stolen!” Walter exclaimed.
“Stolen, yes! Now lost!” Thomas said. “Prithee, we are both lost, lest we find the ruby necklace in the marsh!”
“Nay, we are safe for the very reason the necklace is safe,” Walter said. “The reason the marsh be the perfect hiding-place! None dare venture out there and not because of loose footing! The superstitious folk of Devon fear the bogies and beasties who dwell in the marsh and mists and not just at night! Wise folk such as us know better but we are few and far between!”
“Wise, my breeches!” Thomas said. “If we were wise we would never have done like this!”
“I have hidden treasures in the marsh before and I will find this one again,” Walter said. “And our beloved master and employer is among those who would not enter the marshlands were Good King Charles II himself to offer him wine and wenches and food to party among the bogies there! But we must come up with something beyond a bogie…Aha! The Devil appeared to us…”
“Us?” Thomas said.
“Us,” said Walter. “And we used the blessed holy relic of the ruby necklace which belonged remember to the Master’s ancestress, a Holy woman who gave almost all to the Church…”
“Except the valuable ruby necklace,” Thomas said.
“And the Devil conjured the most awful beastie imaginable; a devil-dog and it gave chase, and we ran into the marsh pursued by the monstrous Hell-hound and we flung the necklace at it and the dog and necklace both vanished. The necklace now cursed, and the marsh doubly cursed.”
“Will he believe this?” Thomas said.
“He leaves money out for the elves replacing the gold miners took from them.” Walter said.
That evening, Thomas and Walter ran into the Great Hall of their Master, clothes torn and damp with marsh water, their tale ready for his credulous ears.
“Lord Harry!” they yelled. “Lord Harry Baskerville!”
Not a lot of progress on the fiction in the last two and a half weeks. Did just about a paragraph on the anthology mystery due October 31st. Started a story on the spur of the moment—wrote about half a page in a store parking lot in longhand in the spiral notebook. And I worked on the columns.
Oh, yes, the columns. I’m writing two columns now. The one on mystery short-stories (for Crippen and Landru) and the monthly column for Queer Sci fi. I’d been having trouble coming up with ideas the last few months so I brainstormed and wound up writing a bunch of columns in the last couple of weeks. About three or four for C & L are mostly done and I finished (or nearly finished) the QSF columns from August through January 2022.
Also, I proofread and tweaked a story I first started (didn’t have an ending) about six years ago. I sent that one off and also sent off a poem that I had forgotten about. I need to send off more poetry: I have a lot of it on file. And I sent off another story I’ve had around. There will be more of that next month when a market I wrote this one story for a year ago opens up—finally!
authorjeffbaker 