The Photograph

“The Photograph”

a short story

Gary Baker, September 2013

There’s something in the way that a sandwich cut in halvsies from the corners seems to mystify the world versus leaving it whole or cutting it like a grid. It’s like taking the first swig of an unshaken gallon of milk, or the singlemost first slice of apple pie when it’s still steaming from the oven and how the world magically contorts to make these as magical as possible. Or like how taking a bite of a chocolate bar made from fairtrade chocolate from Costa Rica or the Amazon in Brazil or something like that, where it’s meant to be snapped into smaller bits and enjoyed piece-by-piece yet choosing not to follow the unspoken rules results in a far superior taste of that one, lone, first bite.

Today was like that, for Savannah. 

Admission

"Admission"

a short story

Gary Baker, July 2013

(based closely on a lucid dream)

Five consecutive years of blogging; ten works published by various degree here or there in some, admittedly triflous, public forums; two years work in freelance for tribunals ranging from Who’s That? to The Series, Quarterly; and a wonderful, dare I say it, wonderful expanse of more than seventy-two short stories all self-published and edited by oneself.” The man in the business suit across from me lifted his eyes from the off-white pages held aloft in his hand, to watch me with a glimmer of a smirk. “Not to mention, my boy, three versions of this very moment, all unique and each subliminal as Tabasco sauce in angel food cake, I might say.”

I squirmed in my seat, an overly-tall leather swivel chair meant to make a man or woman of any age feel like a child in the principal's office again. My hands gripped tighter together and I felt beads of sweat dribble down my spine to soak into the tail of my shirt tucked into my pressed slacks.

Calypso; part 1

"Calypso"

a short story

Gary baker, June 2012

(part 1 of around 12 total)

“And a five-three-four, she was walking out the door!” With a quick strum of the banjo, the lead singer slapped his band into a riotous upheaval of parade day new-age bluegrass. “She said: ‘Don’t let me go’, she jus’ wanna let you know!”

Watching from off stage, Elliot Nab smiled as the band kicked it up a notch and began rapidly fingering the banjo cords into a near-hillbilly version of improvisational street music with a gypsy vagabond twist. The man with the mic looked across the bobbing audience thoroughfare and waved at Elliot with a hat that reminded him of either the Of Mice and Men movie, or Oh, Brother Where Art Thou, and even a combination of both. The man singing, Elliot knew, was known around the area as Buzz “Barley” Benjamin, a fellow resident of Pelatama and a street music extraordinaire. He wore tight brown suspenders over a sweat-soaked white V-neck tee, and belted blue jeans with the rear right pocket worn enough to reveal where he always kept his wallet. Barley’s feet were bare, revealing black hair across his muddied feet, and the banjo in his hands looked just as dirty from the curbside view where Elliot was standing.

The Gibbons Angel

Just a quick note:

Before giving you guys my second short story for this blog, I must hereby declare my intentions for posting. This week I will have two stories posted, including Bagels with Arabica, as well as this piece, yet starting next week I will post one per week on Sundays. I haven't really gathered these in any particular order, so some may be posted later when they were actually written much, much earlier.

So without further ado, I give you a free-write I had done early this year. 

"The Gibbons Angel"

a short story

Gary Baker, February 2012

Angel inhaled deep gulps of air tasting just slightly like dust and mildew. In through the nose and out through the mouth. In, out. In, out. Angel continued this at beats of three in one direction, three in the other, all eventually circulating to the first set again until the stress began to subside.

Long, curled swaths of black strand-like fake eyelashes tipped against Angel's eyebrows, slapping the golden glitter with all the grace of wings on a butterfly. Crystalline flakes of yellow and white seemed to appear like magic before the silvery mirror strewn with tape and photos from past shows, and he found himself entranced in the shimmering light. Following the drifting glitter, Angel found his gaze resting upon the kaleidoscopic colors of dried paint, nail-polish, and make-up that lay scattered over the entire once-white counter.