A Baker's Half Dozen. Seven Light Fantasy Tales

By Eleanor Ingbretson

A BAKER'S HALF DOZEN is a collection of seven short, short and flash fantasy tales for all ages. They deal with everyday life somewhere, but with a slight quirkiness, a something not quite right. A fly embalmer consoling a bereaved child, a mother encountering a fish brought home from school, a daughter going through thick and thin to reclaim her mother's jewelry. Seems normal, but under the surface, no. A pre-teen rescued from a wormhole by his four year old brother is not the usual state of affairs for most families. A hay wagon ride takes you where you never wanted to visit in your head. Would you have gone had you known?
Three of the stories have won awards, four are new. Take your pick.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eleanor Ingbretson
• Release date: Nov 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370883561

Eleanor Ingbretson

I write mysteries, mostly cozies, and light fantasy. The light fantasy can be construed as cozy also. Depends on how you look at things. My home is a log house in New Hampshire but I've considered moving to Iceland for the winters because it's warmer. I have a husband, two children (grown) and a cat who will never grow up. I like gardening but am hopeless with vegetables. When not writing I can probably be found playing Mah Jongg. I blog irregularly at https://thursdaynightwrites.com.

Book preview

A BAKER'S HALF DOZEN

by Eleanor Ingbretson

SEVEN LIGHT FANTASY TALES including three prize winning stories

Copyright 2017 by Eleanor Ingbretson

Smashwords Edition

for Paul, Whittaker and Chloe

and for the Thursday Night Writers:

John, Linda, Heidi, Karen, Mike and Mike

the best encouragement is from friends

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. 1977, THE BRONX

2. ON TAKING CARE OF THE CLASS FISH FOR THE HOLIDAYS

3. SHE CLOSED THE BOOK

4. SLEEP CAME INSTEAD

5. WAGoN RIdES To NIGHT

6. STICK TO THE BYPATHINGS

7. NO MATTER

1977, THE BRONX

This was the third place winner in the 2017 Bethlehem Writers Roundtable's annual short, short story competition. It was published online.

The bus dropped me at nine A.M. in an untidy section of the Bronx ten hours after the week-long city trash collectors strike had been resolved. There was already a palpable miasma of rot and decaying what-not presenting and I sincerely hoped to conclude my unhappy business before the day grew any warmer. A passing dog lifted his leg at a nearby mound of garbage and woke a somnolent swarm of feral flies.

I found the address on busy Tremont Ave. Over the door an ancient wooden sign lolled in the fetid air. The words 'Tremont Avenue Small Embalmers to the King, est. 1774', were carved into it in Old English script. Beneath that, H. Grustatorian, Prop., by appt. only, had been added in small gold lettering. I didn't have an appointment. Would he take a walk-in? I sweated in the foul air for about five minutes and decided to try.

The door opened to the jingle of sweet chimes and I entered a tiny shop barely the size of a large walk-in closet. Mr. Grustatorian, as I assumed him to be, looked up from his desk. His pop-eyes, enlarged 10X behind his magnifying glasses, independently gave me the once-over.

Whatcha got for me, Sonny, he asked as one bulbous eye cut and darted around the shop. The other eyed me steadily.

A fly, I replied cautiously. I'm afraid I don't have an appointment, Mr. Grustatorian.

I got ten free letters with the gold. Don't worry about it. A fly, you say?

Yes, sir. Uh, would you be bonded? I asked.

He gestured to the wall where there hung a dozen certificates, including many from prestigious embalming schools. European mostly, but there were a few from the U.S. and Canada.

I guarantee my work one hundred per cent, Sonny, he said, which is why you chose to come to me. You got any references?

No sir. I found your establishment listed in the yellow pages.

No problem. Now, would I be sensing a particular need?

Maybe. I said, not willing to divulge more than that, not right off the bat. I needed assurance that he was the right man for the job.

Perhaps a special request was indicated by the departed? Whatever the need, you won't leave dissatisfied, my boy. Mr. Grustatorian cocked his brows over his shifting eyes and looked at me, the door, the wall, the clock. He was in possession of two independent oculars! I felt a sinking feeling in my chest. Perhaps he wasn't right.

Don't mind them, he said and indicated his eyes. I swallowed; I did mind them.

Was it a swatting incident? my host asked kindly, breaking into my thoughts. "It happens