Author
Will Baker
Will Baker is the author of several novels and nonfiction books, including Backward and Mountian Blood. [1991]
CONTRIBUTIONS
Fiction
Dec 01 1991
Gorepac
I’ve had a long day with the sharks, and Audrey is exhausted after a basement workout. It’s Time for Two time. Bliss out with a drink, take stock, relate. So we make the arrangements: Gabe shooed off to the neighbors, answering machine on duty, and Falafel has his kitty kibbles.
Aud puts together a tray: chips, salsa, a Miller and a Blue Mountain Spring Water, one frosty mug. My thing, to keep glass in the freezer for that extra edge.
Fiction
Jun 01 1989
Chiquita Banana Muy Bonita
Dedos and he looked at each other only once when the couple strolled out of the ruin and then along the dusy road through the market. The camera was still in its case around his shoulder. They were talking animatedly about the great stone figure they had just seen. The two young men stayed twenty yards back, apparently idling away the afternoon. Children they knew called out and muttered alongside and glared, but the two men only bowed mockingly at these old crones, who brooded all day long above the dark toadstools of their volumnious skirts, surrounded by plastic buckets or sacks of coarse-ground corn, heaps of sweaters or small replicas of the gods inside the ruin.
Nonfiction
Jun 01 1987
How Deep the Hook
My first job, green out of college, was as chief reporter for the Idaho Free Press, circulation 6,000. I handled obituaries, city hall, school board, and the sports page. In the… read more
Nonfiction
Jun 01 1987
Fly Fishing at Absolute Zero
At the bends, the creek is slow and dark. Elsewhere it breaks into rapids, and smooth stones are visible under the wobbling clearness. The stones are jade, chalk, and all shades of brown–from buffalo to eggshell.
Poetry
Jun 01 1987
How Deep the Hook
My first job out of college, was as a chief reporter for the Idaho Free Press, circulation 6,000. I handled obituaries, city hall, school board, and sports page.
Nonfiction
Jun 01 1985
The Beautician and the One-Legged Man
Weekends the sawmill shut down, and only chuffed an occasional white plume into the blue air to show the boiler was still alive. So Saturday morning, when I got up early to drive Aunt Lucille to the post office, the town was quiet, only a few farm pickups and dogs hanging around the corner store. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but as she got out to the car and stepped onto the board sidewalk, she said quickly over her shoulder, “I want to see if there’s a letter from my honey.”