Nick Baldino

“The Buffet” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #207

“What’s on the menu today, boss?” The words are a hiss on the griddle, and he turns to his fry boy, eyes hanging like bloodhounds. “Same old.” It’s all he can manage to say, when his yellowed jacket is buttoned so tight against his skin. A picture appears in his head- Houdini facing a crowd on the Harvard Bridge, iron chains strapped across his chest- and instinctively he digs for a deep breath in the dark neon of the Starship. Ramon recalls how he used to feel, staring out at the big-breasted women as they take off their bedazzled pant...

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“Pioneer Dreams” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #206

It all happened quite quickly, actually. First there was a snap from ahead. Then, screaming, loud and fierce. It woke Wyatt Slade from his trance of metal shoes and hot sun, and he made his way to the jockey box where Aaron sat attentively. “What was that?” Wyatt said. Aaron looked over. He’d grown so much in those last few years- ridges in his jawline, a speckling of brown on his upper lip- but when his eyes bugged up like blossoming Hawthorne, he knew he was seeing his little brother again. Wyatt put a hand on his shoulder, and with...

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“What Goes Around” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #203

“Come in, Mr. Leroy.” Jeff Karpinski, lead attorney at Cormac Litigation, stood from his desk and offered his hand. Harold Leroy took it with a close-lipped smile. “It’s great to meet you, Mr. Karpinski.” “Certainly, Harold. And may I add that is a lovely tie. Are those rubber ducks?” “Of course, Mr. Karpinski. I’m quite fond of them.” That wasn’t exactly true- he never really cared for the yellow creatures, but he knew Karpinski did, and so had made the purchase yesterday morning. He predicted he would never wear it again. “Me as ...

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“Death of a Boozehound” by Nick Baldino

We’re sitting in a dimly lit warehouse. There are fifteen chairs, three of them vacant, and I drape my coat over one. It’s cold outside, a real Chicago nail-biter, and yet it’s too hot for a coat. My body’s on a fever course. My head is thumping like a loose pumpkin and my hands are dancing between slimy and shaky. I pour a cup of coffee, hoping the thick steam will knock my symptoms, but it doesn’t. I take my seat as Big Joe starts to talk. “Morning, everyone. Thanks for being here. Sleet is a bitch outside- I almost pulled my C10 on two ...

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“Talking in Circles” by Nick Baldino

“Didn’t we just pass that?” “What?” “That bush with the purple berries. I remember because it was under that tree with the scratched bark.” “Maybe. I’m starting to get scared, Jason.” “You’re scared of everything, Lisa.” “Yeah, but that could be a sign of something ACTUALLY scary. Like a bear or mountain lion.” “Hey, who would win, do you think?” “What?” “If they had to fight each other. A bear and a mountain lion. I mean, they live in the same area. They’re destined to tee off at least once.” “Why do you do this, Jason?” “What?” “You bring ...

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“Lost File” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #194

[TOP SECRET] Enhancing Decision-Making Capacity through Implantable Devices: Protocols of Patient and Faculty Management during Prefrontal Craniotomy.Magnus Terkov, Joseph Frackner, Nina Lipell, Cristian NadlerAbstractSince the ascension of Chinese War in 2034, the race for true sleeper-cell agents has been steadfast among multiple government agencies. In this effort, U.S. scientists and engineers convened at Praxford Medical to create an implantable microchip for the prefrontal cortex. This device can deliver microvolt pulses in predetermin...

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“The Chetster” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #193

It was just an anatomy test. That’s all it was. Some tenth-grade, end of quarter, name-all-the-bones-in-the-axial-skeleton test. It took me 45 minutes to finish, and then I up and left for lunch. I was walking when I heard him running up behind me, his untied shoelaces slapping on the linoleum. I turned to see what freak was about to blow past me, but he didn’t. He slowed and started walking to my right. “Hey there, man!” he said in a pitch that sounded like synagogue Steve Buscemi. A dark black fedora covered his unkempt brown hair, and ...

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“8 Mississippi” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #192

Purple Texas dusk lays flat against the fluorescents, obscuring my view of anything but the brown dirt battlefield before me. Under my legs, the tan, white-spotted beast snorts and chaffs, his eyes vicious in their agitation, his horns sharp enough to do the deed. Only Barley is there to tighten my reigns, although he’s too drunk to be of any help. “It’s bulls and blood,” he sings slurredly as he pulls down on the ropes, “it’s dust and mud, it’s the roar of the Sunday crowd!” The bull croons with Barley; his animal wail is followed by a...

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“Ensnared” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #189

“I don’t want to be alone.” That was the last message Brad had texted her, and the one that bounced around her head the most. They’d been texting for seven months, and although there were many suspicious texts throughout that time, it was this one that shamed her, that she repeated over and over until its sound was no less familiar than the pop of the van lock or the cold, smooth hand of a stranger. It had been twelve days since that text, twelve excruciating days in the dark bondage of Brad’s car, and Mindy was still reeling over the bet...

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“Firestorm” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #188

“So, what’s the catch?” he said as he toyed with the RC Sailboat. It wasn’t like any he’d seen before- most were made of plastic and gears, but this one was sleek and wooden, with yellowed canvas pulled taut against the mast. The antiques dealer chuckled and smiled. “This isn’t Needful Things, sir. No curses or charms, I can assure you that. At Barton’s, we only buy and sell the best.” “Who sold you this, then?” He was now searching the bottom of the boat, feeling the flex of the miniature rudder with his fingers. As an accountant, he k...

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“The Pond” by Nick Baldino

Submitted to Contest #187

My little brother, Carter, he always had the wildest imagination. I never blamed him- in a town like Bell Buckle, you needed one- but I never got it, either. Where he saw dragons, I saw spindly oak trees. Granite overhangs became alien hideouts. He’d try to include me in these escapades, and I’d play along, wielding my stick in whatever weapon-of-the-day was necessary. Yet I knew that world was never meant for me, and I felt that’s what being an older brother was. Making the fantasy last longer by fending off the real. He believed in supe...

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