short stories
Short-haired selfie.
If you've seen other pages of this portfolio you've probably concluded that I have a "short little span of attention" (if you'll permit me to borrow from Paul Simon, at least that much). It's true. (Maybe I have undiagnosed ADD. Fine with me if it remains undiagnosed; my collection of diagnoses is rather too large for my preference.) What was I saying? Oh. Here you go. Snippets of short stories and microstories. (Yes, some stories are even shorter than short stories. My favorites!)
THIS IS NOT ABOUT DOGS (excerpt)
“Oh, for crying out loud, you are a grown adult!” I scold myself. “You can do this. You don’t need help.”
The dogs certainly aren’t helping. They think they are, with their running commentary, proclaiming the very wrongness of the situation, congratulating themselves on alerting me to it.
Usually, it’s not our dogs (a.k.a. absolute angels) who bark for seemingly hours on end to be let indoors. They’re quite content to be outside, where they can spy through the semi-privacy fence on the sneaky squirrels, grappling grackles, and conniving cats (the latter especially, since they’re part Rhodesian Ridgebacks, or African lion huntresses). Their main job, outside of napping, is to briefly but firmly command the parade of other dogs to “get off our lawn!” as they stroll their human companions through our normally quiet intersection ... (continued in the printed publication)
—Julie Ann Baker Brin, as published in 105 Meadowlark Reader, Issue 5: Spring, 2023. Theme: 'Animals' (true stories/memoirs)
Purchasing info: ISBN 978-1956578-39-3. Get it directly from the wonderful publishers:
https://www.meadowlarkbookstore.com/product/105animals/240?cp=true&sa=false&sbp=false&q=false&category_id=2
or support one (or all!) of these lovely local bookstores in Wichita and/or Hutchinson:
105 Meadowlark Reader, Issue #5: Spring, 2023
Theme: "Animals" (true stories)
Cover photograph by Carlton "Corky" Heller
105 Meadowlark Reader, Issue 3: Spring, 2022
Theme: 'Bicycles' (true stories/memoirs)
WHERE I LIKE (excerpt)
There were basically two avenues to freedom for a farm kid outside a small town: sunsets and bicycles.
Dreaming big under wide skies after a miles-long ride (we were allowed to go three whole miles from home!) with Jill, my Wonder Twin (powers: activate!), was the perfect way to spend a summer evening if there was still enough light and nobody was hollering our names.
Of course, we weren’t twins, or even related—just best friends by proximity, guilty of watching perhaps a few too many of the same after-school specials or Saturday morning cartoons. There were only five channels in the middle of a “Population: 23” township; take that as evidence we definitely weren’t spoiled. But somehow, miraculously, we also weren’t bored. And, of course, a few miles just happened to be the size of our “block” in rural America. But it was an entire solar system to us.
Ah, sweet freedom.
Little did we realize ... (continued in the printed publication)
—Julie Ann Baker Brin
As published in 105 Meadowlark Reader, Issue 3: Spring, 2022. Theme: 'Bicycles' (true stories/memoirs)
Purchasing info: ISBN 978-1-956578-15-7. Get it directly from the wonderful publishers:
https://www.meadowlarkbookstore.com/product/105Bicycles/95?cs=true&cst=custom
or support one (or all!) of these lovely local bookstores in Wichita and/or Hutchinson:
COGNITIVE
(published in the 2021 Kansas Authors Club Yearbook)
I trudge into Dr. Lesley’s office. Beams of afternoon sunlight filter through the open blinds of her picture windows facing Central Riverside Park, but I barely see any of it. The whole world might as well be in darkness.
“So, how are you?” she begins, as always.
I plop down on the sofa, which seems to have three times as many pillows as it did last time, and I wonder if it’s some psychological trick she’s now playing on her patients. What does it mean if I move any of pillows? Does she write that into her report? I mentally snicker at my paranoia, then do my best to hold still in the middle of the couch, feet firmly planted on the floor so as not to unintentionally communicate any non-verbal liking or disliking of her by crossing my legs in one direction or another. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me by the end of the hour.”
She looks like she’s about to give me the that’s-not-what-I-do lecture, but she knows that I know, so she skips to: “tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t seem to shake this funk.” I look over at one of the pillows, resisting the strong urge to move it, punch it, or throw it.
... (continued under "more micro" subsection) ...
—Julie Ann Baker Brin, 2nd place, 2020 Kansas Authors Club District 7 Prose contest
Kansas Authors Club 2020 convention program, photo by Clark Engbrecht, design by Carol Yoho.
NU's SER Vol. 19, back cover
PARTING GIFT
I have to snort with amusement when I see that old, two-toned grey HP Deskjet 940 printer. Well, “old” by industry standards. I’m amazed the hunk of plastic still works.
After the first move, there was a rattling bit. When it fell out (a black plastic twig of a bit, a centimeter or so in length), I Scotch-taped it to the front lid, the ink cartridge cover, thinking it might be important. I’d get it checked out someday if there was an issue.
But seven years and three moves later it remains taped to the front, like some bizarre tech fly trapped in sticky paper. A tribute to my former packrat days. And all of this coated with a fine layer of dust. (Heh. I flatter myself. It’s much more than “fine.”)
This small technological dinosaur … I remember when he gave it to me—or said I could have it. Like some sort of consolation prize. I suppose it made perfect sense to him. And in a small way to me as well. Who was I to turn away from something practical? When I was broke, and near homeless, after eight years together. Or seven, depending on how you count that last year, when we were breaking up and making up and still having emotional relationships with other people.
Yeah, that printer was new at the time. But the relationship, he said, was getting old.
—Julie Ann Baker Brin
As published in NU's Sheridan Edwards Review, Vol. 19 (2011)
(A complete microstory; yay!)
DAY LILIES
(excerpt)
“Look at all those day lilies,” Mother sighed.
I tried to talk, but “Mmm hmmm, yes,” was all that managed to depart my lips. I cleared my throat. “They’re beautiful.” I said, just to say something.
The lilies were lined up along the side of the house, like a receiving line, fading into the darkness outside the shroud of our porch light.
“You know that each bloom only comes out once, right? They bloom for one day, and that’s all,” she said with finality. “You have to be ready for each one. Or you miss it. It’s just gone.”
I tried to make an effort to help her have something other than a one-sided conversation. “I didn’t know that,” I admitted. “Well. I guess I did ... I mean, that’s why they are named that way. But I never really knew. I mean, the significance.” I stared at my hands, my wedding ring, my nails. We sat together in silence, except for the drone of slow-moving traffic, the funereal song of the cicadas, the lonesome wail of a distant nocturnal creature.
... (continued in print publication ... which is out of print ... very limited quantities may still be available by inquiring through the Newman University Dept. of English, or via Crow & Co., which is owned by NU grads) ...
—Julie Ann Baker Brin, as published in
NU's Coelacanth, Vol. 1 (2012)
Fine art is not my forte. Neither is scientific illustration. Alas, that is what the above is supposed to be. I did not "cartoonize" this, I swear—that's what this silly fish looks like. Here, google it: Monacanthus hispidus. OK, fine, so not exactly like that. But I was working from a dead specimen, so this is fairly dead on, IMHO.
A very belated special thanks to the KU Biodiversity Institute and Natural History Museum for letting me get a thorough behind-the-scenes look at their collections as part of my formal education long ago.
FACE THE MUSIC (excerpt)
... I lucked into a job as a lab assistant at a natural history museum-slash-biodiversity research center. I was assigned to the ichthyology and herpetology divisions. You know, every living creature of the sea.
Row upon tidy row of clean, clear jars containing glycerin- or alcohol-preserved skeletons stretched out before me. Fishes, frogs, toads, lizards, salamanders, snakes, turtles, alligators, crocodiles. The jars fairly sparkled under the anti-UV lighting, their intricate contents suspended in the transparent fluid. Jewels for giants’ pendants.
It was beautiful.
Occasionally I was asked to assist in other divisions: entomology, ornithology, mammalogy. As I walked through the specimens collections spanning one kingdom to the next, I watched the skeletons grow and change, morph and stretch. From the tiniest Eleutherodactylus iberia (the northern hemisphere’s smallest tree frog) to the largest Varanus komodensis (more commonly known as the Komodo dragon), each animal’s basic structure was the same. Just stretch an ilium here, shrink a calcaneus there, and you have a completely different species.
It was a visual melody. Scan your eyes along the row: arpeggio. Walk past: allegretto. Walk briskly: stretto. Take in a whole shelf at a glance: fugue.
Harmony.
“The foot bone connected to the leg bone / The leg bone connected to the knee bone / The knee bone connected to the thigh bone … Oh, hear the word of the Lord!”
That old gospel standard can’t even begin to describe it.
It was as if evolution was happening right before my eyes. There, in that single building containing millions of species of animals from all over our amazing planet, it was so obvious. Everything is connected.
Whether we like it or not.
... (continued in printed publication ... which is out of print ... very limited quantities may still be available by inquiring through the Newman University Dept. of English, or via Crow & Co., which is owned by NU grads) ...
—Julie Ann Baker Brin, as published in
NU's Sheridan Edwards Review, SER Vol. 18 (2010)
I have not written many shorts, therefore I haven't submitted many shorts for publication, therefore that's the end of my shorts page for now. (At least I'm consistent?!) To send me a short message, simply email juliebrin at gmail dot com. (Which reminds me, if you know Kevin “Dot Com” Brown of 30 Rock fame would you please get his autograph for me? And/or tell him I love him? Thanks!)
See the page menu at the top for more. And thanks for visiting my portfolio site! —Julie Ann Baker Brin
