The Wasted Game

"The Wasted Game"

an excerpt

Gary Baker, March 2013

(proposal for a larger idea of forced time-travel castaways)

The Roman cocked his head curiously as the ranger made his way down the slope toward the fissure.

With determination set in, Keith sidled over a small ledge of oxidized ironstone and peered out into the canyon below. The drop was intense; he could have fallen over and not hit anything for several breaths.

Looking back to the others, he shook his head.

The Roman understood instantly. It was eerie, at times, just how fast the quiet man caught on. Xi could sit on a log talking about anything for long stretches without the man even letting a thought pass by unnoticed. It was clear how he had become what the ranger was slowly becoming less convinced as a gladiator and more of a war general.

Dearest Humanity,

"Dearest Humanity,"

a short story

Gary Baker, June 2013

Dearest Humanity,

Today’s been a bad day for me, which, I can guarantee none of you could ever imagine -- trust me.

I’ve had the sort of day where you’re home alone, music playing softly, and your greatest crush bursts through your door practically begging to get laid... and you refuse on account of having too much self respect. The kind where a millionare pulls over in a billion-dollar car, tosses you the keys and says “take it, it’s all yours, no strings attached”... and you pass due to being unwilling to pay the insurance.

Yeah, I’ve had that kind of day -- the day that never seems to end, except, get this, mine never did. Ever.

Ára Bátur

“Ára Bátur”

a short story

Gary Baker, June 2013

Torn hearts echoed under clouded skies, faint breaths of wind caressed cheeks with the loyalty of a weary retriever, lapping at faces encouragingly while keeping quiet enough to respect the moment. Charlie blinked as the chill air drew his eyes down tight. Saline bridged the gaps on either side and rivulets of salt were borne over pale, freckled cheek bones.

Black oblivion held him in place, a color so void of everything else possible that it had become incomprehensible to think that he might dare interrupt such graceful threads in the combined fates of a solitary human life. Not one person could claim this man was alone, yet no one seemed to know him either.

They wept for him, sure, but what was there to show his life other than a casket and a few white and pink orchids lain over his heart, others across the polished black lumber. Charlie watched them all, watching women with veils slowly coming to terms with the end, some with mascara dripping like veins of oil down the sides of their faces, and men who acted stoic as statues with impassive expressions and eyes stricken unto the horizon lest the moisture be let loose by movement.

He recognized a few here and there, not that it mattered; it helped to sit at the back at times like this.

Here the sixth grade teacher whom had cherished Charlie’s wonder for the world, there a coach for the academic decathlon where Charlie had won several awards. He tilted his neck to see a row of

(Searching for) Prophet

“(Searching for) Prophet”

a short story

Gary Baker, June 2013

(intended for use as comic idea)

Frankie dropped his hands to his knees and heaved, rustling leaves of the park shrubs scratching at his face in the midday heat. It was as though his entire day had become nothing but sheer terror laced with an eerie ecstatic sense of woe.

Nothing made sense anymore. His whole life had been turned upside down in a matter of hours starting with that fateful wave revealing a woman floating face down more than a land-based mile out to sea.

“You really should learn to cope with such things,” the woman, no longer dead and cold as a gutted fish but actively telling him what to do like an undead mother with a staff wielded like Excalibur, dusted his back absently. Her hands were rough and forceful, he noticed, with the heir of a Templar knight lost in the twenty-first century.

But coping was something he definitely could not do.

Not moments ago he’d been just an average joe living his well-to-do lifestyle like any other decently-endowed professional surfer. The other day, even, he’d won his second gold medal this

First Contact, the conclusion

"First Contact"

a short story

Gary Baker, June 2013

(the conclusive end to a 2 part sci-fi)

Acier arrived on the floor of the Tear bridge with a soft shush. His feet first hit the smooth metal alloy meant to feel more like the ground cover foliage back home. The sensation was as pleasing as reaching his home world once again with the intent to stay.

It would never happen, he knew, especially since his kind had long since expired in this desolate universe. Only the ability to preserve their remnants had saved the entirety of Acier’s race as such individuals had been slingshotted themselves into deep space using the large gravitational pull of the nearing sun. Acier had been awoken years ago, by the queen herself, sole survivor of the Elders, a lone soul in the universe dedicating the rest of her existence to seeking out others like her; others with the physical inability to expire without some severe exorbitant force that could push them from this realm.