Got about three flash fictions done as well as two columns. I’m working on yet another column and another Friday Flash Fics story, the one that’s due Friday. I was lamenting that I hadn’t worked on a lot of fiction lately, but I seem to still have the knack. I need to work on a few full-length stories soon.
That’s about it for now.
Won’t You Be My Neighbor?
By Jeff Baker
Author’s Note: The draws for the May Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (thank you Jeff Ricker!) were a Science Fiction story set in an auditorium involving a tablet computer.
Third-period class was dull, especially in the auditorium.
Kennir shifted in her seat, the big old theater kind, one of a whole row of seats “joined together practically at the hip,” her girlfriend Zilthias had said. But it was the only available building in the decades old school, and the trick was not to fall asleep when the teacher was droning on.
“Okay,” Mrs. Dache said. “I see some of you are ready to fall asleep.”
Laughter from the class of about fourteen tenth-graders.
“Look around at this theater, how many of you know how old it is?”
Several students raised their hands, someone called out “Fifty.”
Someone else called out “Seventy-Five.”
“Seventy-Five years ago, right,” Mrs. Dache said. “Anybody know why? Why colonists on a strange planet would put up a theater?”
“’Cause they were building a school,” a kid in the front row said.
“That’s a good guess, but no. They didn’t build the school until later. The theater came first,” said Mrs. Dache.
She pulled a flat screen out of her bag which she’d set on the stage.
“Who knows what this is?”
A couple of the kids laughed. Somebody shouted out something obscene.
“No, it’s a revulator!” another kid called out.
“Nope! Screen’s too big. Anybody else?” Mrs. Dache asked.
Kennir raised her hand.
“That’s a third-generation tablet,” she said. “My grandmother has an old one she brought from Earth.” That was a little surprising, considering that the colonists only brought a few things, mostly practical ones. Not a telecomputer that was almost a hundred years old and probably could barely pick up the phone signals that had only been set up a decade earlier.
“Yes, it looks like one, but this is new,” Mrs. Dache said. “Watch.”
She tapped a couple of things and the screen came to life. The picture was blurry and green-tinted but she held up the tablet and the class could just see the video: construction crews working on scaffolding.
“This is video footage of the construction of this auditorium,” she said.
“Where’d they download it from?” Alix asked. He was always looking at available videos, to the extent that teachers went to him with questions sometimes. He knew all the historical footage on the planet. Not bad for a sixteen-year old.
“That’s the big news,” Mrs. Dache said smiling. “This was transmitted to us through a satellite link from an archive in a system about five light years away from us, in the opposite direction of the Earth. It’s started. The colonization of this part of the galaxy. After a century, we are no longer isolated. What this means is your futures will not be limited to this world, they will be infinite. You want to go to college or get extra technical training after high school, now you can.”
There was commotion for a few minutes as the future and all their dreams rose before them.
—end—
—–for Ashton. My nephew the Graduate.
Alexandria or Bust!
By Jeff Baker
There was nothing unusual about a lighthouse on the Carolina coast, but this one hadn’t been operational for a long time. And it wasn’t built quite like any of the others.
The hurricane had uncovered this stretch of cove. The green sea-plants somehow looked like grass that had been growing on an untouched beach, but there were hints that things were extraordinary. The two men stood there and stared at the structure.
“You’re absolutely sure about this?” Murray asked.
“Yes,” said Professor Martinez. “I’ve checked and double checked. This lighthouse is of Mediterranean construction, the style and age of the stone date it to be almost three thousand years old.”
“An ancient Greek lighthouse in North Carolina,” Murray shook his head. “But why?”
“We may never know,” Professor Martinez said. “But I would guess this was the beginning of a colonization effort.”
“From Greece?” Murray asked.
“Why not?” Professor Martinez said with a smile. “We know the Ancient Chinese made it to the West Coast. The Greeks were one of the great intellectual and seafaring civilizations of the ancient world. They might have tried to spread their empire across an ocean.”
“So, where are the ruins of the temples?” Murray asked.
“My guess is they never had the time to build them. Maybe they built the lighthouse and left. Maybe something happened.” The Professor sighed.
“We may never know,” Murray said.
The Professor was eyeing the lighthouse intently. It was the size of a four story building. They had measured it, outside and in…
“Come with me,” the Professor said suddenly. Murray followed him to the lighthouse, through the sealed door, into the interior which they had drained of water.
“I should have noticed it before,” the Professor said. “The inside of this lighthouse is not as tall as the outside. The base is bigger than it ought to be. There is something under here. He stamped his foot. There was a hollow sound.
“A chamber!” Murray breathed. “Hidden for millennia!”
“Maybe before the left they wrote an account of their visit and left it for future colonists before they returned…where? Sparta? Athens? Alexandria?”
The sunlight glistened on the lighthouse as it must have on the Lighthouse that had guarded the harbor of Alexandria for scant decades all those centuries ago.
—end—
Not a lot to report: Worked on a blog post (I’m doing three blogs counting this one!!!) And wrote a few lines on a mystery/crime story I’ve been improvising now and then since I was between jobs in the summer of 2018. Hadn’t looked at it in a while; for a bit I was at least adding a line every night. Yes, it’s set in Ancient Rome.
That’s about it for now!
Housewife of the Year
By Jeff Baker
“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.
Thank you Damon Runyon.
That’s about it for now.
Quickly Dream Away the Time
By Jeff Baker
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.
—end—
—for Felix Silla
Saint Rabbit’s Eve
(A Food Garden Court Story)
By Jeff Baker
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.
“Rabbits,” T’amec breathed. He’d gone pale. Skid felt pale.
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.
—end—
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!)
That’s it for now.
The Everything But The Kitchen Sink Incident
By Jeff Baker
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.
“Or maybe not!”
—end—
authorjeffbaker 