"…his stories are always sharp and compact and interesting." ——Angel Martinez "(One of) the hottest authors in the independent horror scene…" —-Hellbound Books
“Me? Housewife Of the Year? Oh, my word! I mean, I never expected! Why yes, I read Suburb and Garden Magazine every month but I never expected to find your reporters right at my door! What? Verification? Oh, yes. I sent in the entry form three months ago. Yes, my husband and I have lived here for ten years. Been married fifteen years. We met because his college roommate wanted to date me and asked my future husband if I wanted to go out. Oh, but I don’t think I’m Housewife of the Year material. Oh, you want to take my picture? Now? Here? Oh, I can send you one? Oh, good. This face just doesn’t do well in the morning. What? Oh, seventeen years ago. That was when we first met when he was studying at the university; he had these ideas of transferring the brains from one living being into another. I was his test subject. No, I don’t know where he found the gorilla. What’s that? Why didn’t he put me back the way I was? Well, his roommate ran off with the gorilla that looks like me now but I guess still acts like a gorilla. Well, some men like that. Children? No, we decided against having kids. We have each other and that’s enough. And this nice little house, it’s so much better than that dank old dungeon laboratory we used to have. You want to see the garden? Oh, that’s why you brought the camera. Yes, the flowers are lovely this time of year. And now that I’m a gorilla I can carry those big bags of…where? Oh, second door on the left. Yes. And when we’re all done could I interest you in a banana?”
—end—
AUTHOR’S NOTE: There was a writer for the horror magazines in the 20s or 30s who only had one plot: Mad scientist transfers girl’s brain into body of a gorilla. I always wanted to do a riff on that one! —–jsb
Last couple of weeks, did two of the flash fiction stories (including this weeks which I finished a few minutes ago) piddled around on an idea or two and read some Damon Runyon, or rather; studied some Damon Runyon. Hopefully not to imitate but to get something out of his storytelling skill as well as how he treated his subject. And I worked on two full-length stories. Did about a page on one which I just started and a few lines on the other which I re-wrote the opening of last year. Probably have to re-write some of the one as they are both very similar.
The hospital was dark and quiet except for the occasional muffled voice over the intercom. And Eddie knew the nurse’s station and the area downstairs were lit bright as day. He rolled over in the hospital bed; he wasn’t sleepy.
He heard a noise. The door opening slowly. He knew it wasn’t one of the nurses; they usually opened the door and blew in like a confident wind.
“Pssst!” came the small voice. “Eddie, you up? It’s me, Zach.”
Zach was ten; he was in the room across the hall. Eddie was eleven.
“Yeah,” Eddie said.
“Can I stay in here with you?” Zach asked.
“Sure.”
Zach climbed onto the foot of the bed. They were both lucky to have rooms to themselves. Eddie’s roommate had gone home the day Eddie had checked into the hospital.
“What you doing?” Zach asked.
“Trying to sleep,” Eddie said.
“I can’t sleep,” Zach said. “That thing could get me.”
“That thing in that movie. That IT.” Zach said.
“That thing’s not real,” Eddie said.
“Yeah it is!” Zach insisted.
Eddie glanced over at his watch on the table.
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “But that’s not the real IT.” He grabbed the TV remote. “Watch this.”
The TV clicked on. Eddie switched it to an old black-and-white show with tinny music in the background.
“There,” Eddie said, pointing at the screen. “That’s the real ITT. He’s not scary.”
On the screen, a medium sized lump of blond hair in a derby and dark glasses twirled a cane like Charlie Chaplin. Zach laughed.
The two of them sat in the flickering gray light and laughed away the next half-hour.
Skid hated working double shifts and hated working at night, especially the Thursday before the 34th. That made it St. Rabbit’s Eve and he didn’t even like being outside then, especially at night. He glanced out at the main part of the mall; it wasn’t even the usual bunch of customers before they shut down at ten-thirty nine at night. There were more leather jackets on the stragglers, people wearing cords with chopped raw meat around their necks and a few wearing fake rabbit ears. Not a lot of those.
Skid sighed. He needed the money, and Mr. Spurgeon needed someone to cover the shift and at least T’amec had offered to work with him. That made him feel better. They hadn’t had a customer at the Food Garden Court in an hour so they were doing the closing work early so they could get out as soon as possible.
“Hey, man, you got any meat?”
Skid looked up. Guy with a leather jacket and rabbit ears was standing in front of the register. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in a few days.
“Uh, we still have some sandwiches if you want,” Skid said. “We’re all out of mushrooms, though.”
“Naw, man. I mean raw. Chunks.” The man in the leather held up his hands and rubbed his fingers together indicating the texture of raw meat.
“All our meat is cooked,” Skid said. “Sorry.”
Skid watched as the man walked off. He wished the Augury shop was open. Saint Rabbit’s Eve was their biggest day and they had shut down in the afternoon after selling out of amulets. Nobody was asking for anything else. Not that Thursday night.
“Hey, I got all the pans and dishes washed.” That was T’amec, leaning out the swinging doors into the back kitchen. “Got anything out here we can wash up?”
Skid smiled, remembering the time the fae had slapped T’amec with an enchantment that made him obey Skid.
“Let’s wrap up the food and put it in the cooler.” He started pulling the pans out of the counter. “We can shut down a little early tonight.”
You wouldn’t need an amulet or offerings of meat if you would stay inside, Skid remembered his Grandsire saying. But the Food Garden Court wasn’t technically inside, even if it was inside the building. The domed skylight and trees cancelled whatever protections the walls and roof would offer. Not that either Skid or T’amec believed in St. Rabbit.
It didn’t take long for the two of them to wrap the pans of seasoned meat and the breads and put them in storage. Skid washed off the last of the dishes and put them up while T’amec swept and wiped down the front counter and stuck the cash from the register in the sealing sphere. Skid was checking to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything when he heard T’amec calling him from the front.
“You better get out here.” T’amec’s voice sounded strained.
Skid walked through the swinging doors. T’amec was staring upward at the domed skylight.
At the edges of the skylight, they could make out small heads topped with floppy ears. Eyes glinted in the light.
Something caught Skid’s eye; the mall was getting darker. He glanced down the hall from the Food Garden Court; the lights were going off. No; there was darkness, like a rolling fog slowly moving towards them.
Saint Rabbit.
T’amec and Skid stared at each other; they weren’t kids walking around with necklaces of meat to offer Saint Rabbit if they crossed his path like in a Festival pageant or folktale, they were facing it for real.
“C’mon!” T’amec grabbed Skid’s arm and pulled him into the back room.
“Wha?” Skid asked.
“Raw meat!” T’amec said, grabbing the trash barrel and plunging his hands into the garbage.
“T’amec, we don’t have time to…oh, that! Raw meat!” Skid said, rushing over and tipping the barrel’s contents onto the floor.
“C’mon, c’mon, they prepped some more food this afternoon…” T’amec said. “Gotta be some in here…”
They found some chunks of fatty meat that had been sliced off the roast before it was put over the fire. Grabbing it and holding it like it was worth its weight in gold they rushed out to the counter and tossed the raw meat onto the ground, right by the palm trees growing out of the floor.
The darkness was at the edge of the dining area. The two of them could hear a low, guttural muttering.
“Now what?” Skid asked. “When it finishes with that, what stops him from going after us?”
“We’ll be inside!” T’amec said pulling him back into the kitchen.
“Inside?” Skid asked. “We’re inside out there and that thing, Saint…”
“The cooler is solid steel and the door seals it shut,” T’amec said. “Seals us from the outside. It should work.”
“Let’s hope.” Skid said.
They had ducked into the cooler and pulled the door shut when the light began to flicker and they heard a noise like a roaring wind and the rattling of pans in the kitchen. Skid and T’amec made sure the cooler door was secure.
“At least we have food,” T’amec whispered.
“At least we won’t be food!” Skid whispered back.
The kitchen was a mess the next morning when the morning shift found Skid and T’amec huddled together asleep in the cooler. As the shift cleaned up the kitchen they grumbled about missing the after work party Skid and T’amec must have thrown for Saint Rabbit’s Eve.
Not been posting a lot of these lately, but I have made some progress. Since about the end of March, I wrote about three of the weekly flash stories and have started another (the one due this Friday!) Finished (and posted!) the monthly Queer SciFi column, and wrote up one of the other monthly columns I’m doing, this one for Crippen and Landru. Yes, I’m doing two columns! I gotta be out of my mind! (Asimov did more than that and he had less free time!)
The prompts for the monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (thanks Jeffrey Ricker!) were an action/adventure, set in a restaurant kitchen involving a stray sock.
Earl crouched in the corner, behind the mobile bread rack, watching the dark-haired kid with the zits grab the bottle of vinegar from the shelf and rush back out. Good. Earl didn’t need company in the back kitchen right now. He’d been lucky he was able to pry the unused metal door and get into the building without anybody noticing. He glanced around: shelves full of bottles, a stove that wasn’t turned on, a walk-in freezer and a row of metal sinks against one wall. Damn! Where the hell was Kappelmeyer? No time to wait. Damn!
He got up and started looking on the shelves, under the stove, fingers brushing the box of ratkill pellets. What was it someone had told him? “Espionage is largely done in offices with paperwork?” Not here on a filthy back-kitchen floor. If he was with the health department he would be running out paper taking down notes. He stood up and brushed himself off. He sighed and pulled the lid off one of the empty pots on the stove.
Bingo! There on the bottom. One sock. But it was what was in the sock that was important. He grabbed the sock.
“Mister Margolis,” came the voice. He spun around. The man in the doorway looked a lot like the actor James Coco. He wasn’t smiling. Neither were the three bruisers lined up beside him. “You will be good enough to hand over that item. It does not belong to you.”
“In a pig’s eye!” Margolis spat out. In a flash he tossed the pot lid like a discus. The bruisers ducked and Margolis rushed for the back exit. That was when something struck the back of his head. He staggered, realizing that there was a fourth bruiser as he grabbed another pot and threw it as he fell, aiming it at the quickly-glimpsed bruiser.
As Margolis fell to the floor he simultaneously heard gunfire and an instant later the thud of the man behind him falling. He glanced up and saw the man in the doorway swearing, a literal smoking gun in one hand.
“Discretion’s the better part of valor,” Margolis muttered as he half-crawled, half-jumped towards the back door. He broke into a run as another bullet pinged behind him.
Margolis slammed the back door open and rushed through the parking lot toward his beat-up ‘74 Chevy Nova.
“If I’m lucky they’ll be looking for an Aston-Martin,” Margolis thought as he gunned the engine and roared out of the lot. Once on the highway, he pulled the sock out of his jacket pocket. He felt it. It felt like a sock.
An empty sock.
“Damn!” Margolis said. “I have to go back!”
He angrily shoved the sock back in his pocket and felt something small, square, metal and cold that had fallen out of the sock into his pocket.
(Reviewer’s Note: I was given an advance copy in exchange for an honest review.)
The times we live in are grim. In keeping with this, dystopian fiction seems to be on the rise. An anthology from Other Worlds Ink seeks to remedy this: “Fix The World,” edited by J. Scott Coatsworth, offers twelve stories, all offering hope for a future world. The idea of such an anthology sounds almost Pollyanna-ish. But that is not true of the book or the twelve stories within. Moods range from tranquil to suspenseful, with themes involving ecology, love and terrorism. The writers find an extraordinary variety of themes to work with.
Among the stories:
Ingrid Garcia’s “Juma and the Quantum Ghost” blends biological computers, soccer and kidnapping as well as a Kenyan setting. “Conference call from Juma: She only does this when the giraffe dung really hits the wind turbine.”
“In Light” by Mere Rain, tells how an “Angel” appears on Earth at a time when environmental destruction is being “remediated.” In this optimistic world of biohouses, there is a tinge of darkness.
“Rise” by J. Scott Coatsworth, is set in a future Venice where flood levels are being lowered by genetically-evolved creatures.
“At the Movies” by D. M. Rasch, brings a future version of the cinema, along with real danger for those in the audience.
Anthea Sharp’s “Ice In D Minor” takes a look at creativity in the future with a literally cool setting.
Several of the stories feature characters from across the LGBT spectrum; the main character in Alex Silver’s “Upgrade” swaps between genders of genitalia in a future where people have “ports” installed in their bodies. “I never much understood people who wrapped their identity up in what was between their legs at birth,” the narrator says.
A small village in a post-war world is the setting for Bryan Cebulski’s “From the Sun and Scorched Earth.” Leo, pilot of a “Mech,” comes to town to heal. Lukas finds himself falling for him. Leo’s initial expectations and the villager’s reactions pull this story above the ordinary.
But none of the stories are ordinary. The collection succeeds in its goal of telling of a brighter, more hopeful future.
Under the Aztec Sky a Lost Manuscript of Karl Hunsley Howard
Edited by Jeff Baker
Howard, Karl Hunsley, b. 1856, Ealing, London, England, d. 1933 Harrisonville, NJ. Occupations: Various, incl. Deckhand, Plantation foreman, Song plugger, Journalist, Ranch foreman and author. Best remembered today as a sort of American H. Rider Haggard, Howard’s fiction was among the first to replace Mayan pyramids for the Egyptian ones. He did write about Egypt though in his novel “The Trackless Sands.” Howard ceased writing fiction shortly after World War One. Several of his stories were reprinted in early issues of the pulp magazine Eerie Adventure Stories. For more details, see: “Hoofbeats and Sorcery,” K. H. Howard, Bruxley Books, 1926.—-from “Masters of Adventure” by Brophy and Klein.
(The following is an excerpt from an unpublished story by Karl Hunsley Howard, possibly meant to be part of a novel. Howard did his research during a trip to Mexico in 1894.)
Osgood Bafflemoore Under Aztec Skies
By Karl Hunsley Howard (Possibly written 1898)
“Now look here,” Bafflemoore said to the Aztec Chief. “This is the Nineteenth Century. The era of your empire is gone. In fact, the era of empires in general is over. I’m not here for anything save pure science. The acquisition of knowledge.”
“This is exactly why we cannot allow you to leave,” said the Chief. “Ours is the last outpost of the Empire, hidden here in the Ithycan Jungle. The mighty City of Unulthimal dates back nearly 700 years, as does our Pyramid of the Night. We were the first city of Empire and we remain, by the might of our Queen and the power of our Goddess, mighty Eschactolactapotel.”
“Goddess?” Bafflemoore said. “I’ve encountered several supposed gods in this region, including that snake-thing some of your people were worshipping a few hundred miles from here at another pyramid hidden by the jungle.”
“Our Queen will decide your fate,” the Chief said, his fellows pointing their spears at Bafflemoore’s party. “Come this way.
As they walked under the stars towards the great, dark pyramid, Bafflemoore tried to make out the carvings in the starlight: The side of the pyramid was surmounted by something that almost looked like a squid or octopus; tendrils extending towards the stairs. And as they approached, part of the stairs rose open like a drawbridge and the party was escorted into the torch lit, cavernous interior.
Inside, they could make out only a stone throne set in the center of the room. On that throne sat the Queen. Young, beautiful and dark.
“Who intrudes on the sanctity of the sacred chamber?” the Queen asked.
Bafflemoore was stared at by the Chief; apparently he was supposed to answer.
“I am Osgood Bafflemoore, of the University of Harrisonville, representing the Government of President McKinley in the interest of science.”
“You will not leave here,” the Queen said. “You may tell no one of us.”
Bafflemoore glanced around. The warriors were bowed down to their Queen, leaving the still open entrance unguarded. He glanced up. In the shadowy darkness he saw something silently moving.
He glanced at his party.
“Two words,” he said. “Run.”
The group had plenty of experience; they dashed for the entrance. As they rushed into the night they heard the Queen’s voice behind them.
“Eschactalactopotel! Binder of Fools! Mother of the Chrysalis! Lend your servant thy skein, NOW!”
The last word seemed to echo through the jungle. There was a rushing of air behind and above them. Bafflemoore glanced upward. He saw a slender, shadowy shape blocking the stars, thin spindly arms, white tendrils dropping down glinting in the starlight and
(Here the manuscript fragment ends.)
Compiler’s Note: This manuscript was possibly written on-site in the Yuccatan Jungle, inspiration for the fictional jungle in the story when inspiration hit the author. No explanation as to why he never finished the tale. The original ms is damaged most likely by rain and jungle insects as the edges are oddly-chewed and further damaged by what appears to be a sticky, cottony substance, doubtless from some local tree.
This evaluation of the manuscript pages in the Hunsley Howard collection was prepared April 1st, 2021 by Jeffrey Scott Baker.
The bunch of us were sitting around the dorm drinking soda and eating chips. Pretty low-key, when someone brought up the Box.
“I think one of us should go over there,” Paolo said.
“It’s the middle of the night!” Elaine said, swirling her soda in the can.
“It’s only ten-thirty,” Louis said. “But for us college kids, that’s the middle of the night. Even in Berlin.”
“I grew up with the Wall here,” Werner said. “When they tore it down I thought I’d leave. But my family stayed to build something new. My Father was the one who found the Box.”
The Box. It was found when an old building had been torn down, just a few blocks away from the University. The house dated back to the Middle Ages, and when it was knocked down it revealed the box; a crystal casket with a woman in it, a woman dressed in clothes of a bygone era.
I grinned up at Paolo and helped myself to more chips. I liked Paolo if only for the posters of hot young Football players he hung on the walls of his dorm room. He was a hot young Brazilian, I was an American. But he was straight, as far as I could tell.
“No, we should go,” Paolo said. “Tonight.”
“Is the shrine open?” Elaine asked.
“It’s always open,” Andrew said. “They take your money any time.”
I’d been to the shrine when I first got here, just to see it, but that was during the day. By the time we walked to the small enclosure it was just an hour before midnight. The guards glared at us suspiciously until we paid our admission to the high-domed room with the glass casket on the ground where it had been found. It was impossible to move from the site or to open. We stood and stared. The dark-haired woman lay there in a velvet robe that was open at the neck.
Paolo stood and stared down at the woman the press had dubbed die Schlafende Schonheit, the Sleeping Beauty.
“I still say Disney’s going to sue,” Andrew said.
“How long has she been dead?” I murmured.
“She’s not dead,” Paolo said. “She’s breathing.”
I didn’t see it, but Paolo reached down and pulled at the crystal casket. It opened just like any other box. I’d seen, we’d all seen, the news coverage of people with jackhammers trying to open the thing. Couldn’t even crack or budge it. But Paolo had opened it.
Paolo looked over and grinned at our shocked faces: “And she didn’t start out a princess, she started out a prince. But I see her. I really see her.”
He leaned over and kissed her and yes, her eyes opened, she smiled, she kissed back. Love at first sight after about eight-hundred years.
Oh, well. I guess I never stood a chance with Paolo.
—end—
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Originally I thought about doing a riff on the Circle from “That 70’s Show,” hence the song title, but someone mentioned “Sleeping Beauty” and the new story just took off. Plus, yesterday was the Transgender Day of Visibility, so that showed up in the story too. I’m writing this early Thursday morning and today I get my first vaccine. Don’t think that made it into the story! ——jsb (4/1/21)
The old man was there every day when I took my early-morning bike ride through the park. He was always sitting by the lamp that didn’t work.
The old man always looked up when I rode by, but I never stopped. The old man looked like he was in his eighties. One day as I was pedaling by I noticed a bicycle leaning against the lamppost beside the park bench with the old man. And that the old man looked familiar.
That night I realized that somehow the old man was me!
So today when I go for my bike ride, I’ll stop. I’ll talk to him. Maybe we’ll go riding together.
authorjeffbaker 