Category: Trunk Stories

Trunk Stories

Innocent…ish

prompt: Write about a character who everyone thinks is guilty of something terrible, but isn’t….
available at Reedsy

“I’m sorry, but you’re not the right person for the position.” Her plastic smile did nothing to hide the fear in her eyes. I was used to the look. It was a look that said, “Please don’t carve me up!”

Never mind that I never did such a thing, and anyone with enough intelligence to do any research would know that. Whatever. If their HR isn’t smart enough to do that, I don’t want to work for them, anyway. I’ve told myself that lie so many times I’m starting to believe it.

If the media hadn’t gotten involved from the beginning it wouldn’t be like this. The early news cycles were full of my picture and reporting that made it sound like I carved up my girlfriend and tried to do the same to my business partner. It made for entertaining TV; experts talking about how rare it is for women to be the perpetrators of this sort of crime.

When the truth came out, and my ex-business partner was arrested and charged with murder, the news ran it as a footnote. It just didn’t have the same sort of appeal. It was all too pedestrian to grab headlines. Caroline and James had an affair. I knew about it and was okay with it. James wasn’t. He decided if he couldn’t have her to himself, no one could.

I had come home early and heard screaming. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and ran to the back where the screaming had stopped. There was so much blood. It wasn’t clear who it was straddling Caroline’s body, slashing at it with one of our own knives. I stabbed as hard and fast as I could in his back. On the third strike it sunk to the hilt and got stuck there. He screamed and whipped around, brandishing the matching knife to the one that was stuck in his back. I ran.

I flagged down the first police car I saw. They didn’t hesitate to cuff me and put me in the back. When they sent another unit to my home, they found James bleeding out on top of Caroline, one knife stuck in his back, the other in his abdomen. He had some balls to stick himself like that. Still, didn’t look good for me.

Before the investigation was even properly underway the media was reporting on it as if I was guilty. Someone leaked the story to the local news station, and it went national from there. The consultancy business, our business, folded within the week.

When I went to trial for stabbing James, the prosecutor used the fact that I had stabbed him three times in the back as proof that it wasn’t self-defense. My attorney disagreed, in that the defense of a third party is treated the same. The jury found in my favor in less than twenty minutes of deliberation.

Still, the local media played it as a minor story, as they did with James’ trial. It just wasn’t sexy enough to maintain the spotlight. Still, it all would have died down, if not for the documentary.

I was never contacted about it and knew nothing about it until Caroline’s mother called to tell me they had been interviewed for it. The producers and director made it sound like I was jealous of Caroline and James and wanted to take his half of the business away from him. James was made to look like a victim, doing life for a crime that he didn’t commit.

Key pieces of evidence were left out of the documentary. James’ skin and blood under Caroline’s fingernails and the scratches on his neck. Her defensive wounds. The fact that I had none of Caroline’s blood on me, and my fingerprints were only on the knife in James’ back. My cell phone GPS data put me on the interstate at the time the first disturbance call about Caroline and James screaming at each other was called in. In essence, they ignored the entire body of evidence that was shown to the jurors that found James guilty of first-degree murder.

The documentary used snippets of the interviews with the prosecutor and District Attorney out of context to make it look like they had a vendetta against James from the beginning. Somehow, they got hold of my medical records and used my treatment for depression ten years prior to make me look crazy. Caroline’s older brother, who hated me, was featured prominently, while her mother, sister, and younger brother were ignored except for the “I miss her” parts — probably because they liked me and said good things about me.

With careful editing, in an entire eight-hour documentary series, they made me look guilty without saying I was. So, not enough for slander or libel charges to stick. Even if I had won in court, it wouldn’t matter. I’ll continue to be “guilty” in the eyes of everyone who hasn’t got the time or inclination to research anything for themselves.

Caroline’s younger brother, Stephan, has been wanting to do a documentary that shows all the evidence, but I advised against it. It would just feed the conspiracy crazy public into thinking that he and I had some sort of affair, never mind that I’m a lesbian. He ignored me though, and he’s been scouting for a director and trying to crowd-fund the production. If it ever happens, though, I’ll be there to tell the real story.

I’ve been staying in the cheapest one-room apartment I could find and working at a fast-food joint; the only place so far that would hire me. The manager’s convinced that it’s all part of some plot to cover up something from the consulting gig James was doing for the Department of Defense. How streamlining HR processes turns into a national security issue worthy of destroying lives is beyond me, though.

I worked the counter for half a day before I was recognized. The resulting disruption meant that I’ve been relegated to doing only the drudge work in the back. I have a master’s degree in Human Resources Management, and I flip burgers and push a mop for eight hours a day for minimum wage. At least I have work for now.

I moved away for a while. No matter how far I went though, I still got the stares and dirty looks. I figured that if I was going to be treated the same everywhere, it might as well be in a place I know.

Despite how the documentary made it sound, I did not kill my girlfriend. Of that, I am innocent. As far as trying to kill my former business partner, a jury called it defense, and found me not guilty. To be fair, though, in the moment, when I thought I could still save her, I did try. It’s given me a whole new mindset when watching these documentary series. No matter how guilty they may make a person look, I always remember they may be, like me, innocent…ish.

Trunk Stories

Katherine Quartz, MSW

prompt: Write about someone telling their family they won’t be continuing the long-standing family business….
available at Reedsy

For the third time in as many minutes, Kat checked her polished tusks for stray lipstick. Her waist-length onyx hair was piled into an elaborate up-do, held by two plain silver hairpins that had been her grandmother’s. The lipstick she kept re-checking was the same deep chocolate brown as her evening gown, setting off her ochre-yellow skin and deep green eyes.

“Kat, you look beautiful, quit stressing it.” At just a shade over five feet tall, Gwen stood as high as Kat’s armpits. Where Kat was a mountain of muscle in warm, earthy tones, Gwen was a wisp of pale pink with light violet eyes and white hair. Her dress was deep blue silk, showing off her odd coloration without clashing with Kat’s.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Kat said.

“You’ll see, everything will work out.” Gwen held a diamond necklace. “Sit, I’ll put this on you.”

Kat let Gwen put the necklace on, acutely aware that she was about to step out of the house wearing eighty-thousand dollars in diamonds around her neck. If they had been in Kat’s neighborhood, she would never even consider it. She looked at the sparkle of the necklace in the mirror, feeling like a queen. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yes. They’re mine and I said so. Tonight’s going to be awesome!” Gwen tugged inefficiently at Kat’s hand trying to get her to stand up. “Let’s go, the limo’s waiting,” she said with a mock pout.

Even though she was only fifty-four, Kat often felt like the “adult” in the relationship compared to the nearly two-hundred-year-old Gwen. “Life isn’t a series of happy endings.”

“Sure it is, you just have to find them, like we just did… in the shower.”

“That’s not what, I meant and you know it.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Gwen. “Come on, Grumpy.”

Kat growled a low rumble, making Gwen giggle. “Fine, Squeaky.”

They arrived at the wrap party for the eighth and final season of Quartz Security, a reality TV show that centered around Kat’s parents and their private security business. Kat had been able to avoid the cameras by virtue of refusing to sign a release form, despite being hounded about it every year.

She didn’t want to be in the limelight, and yet here she was, stepping on to the red carpet to be with her girlfriend. The TV cameras and reporters hounded the couple as they walked hand-in-hand into the venue.

Once inside they were accosted by Gwen’s parents. Her mother was a few inches taller than Gwen, with the same pale skin but with ice-blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Her father was shorter than both of them, with dark, ash-grey skin, violet eyes, and pure white hair.

Kat offered her hand. “Good evening, Mister and Missus Blackrock.”

“Oh, please,” she said, “just Isobel and Thomas.”

Thomas looked around for a second with a puzzled expression. “Guinevere, where is this special—,“ he stopped when Isobel nudged him with her elbow.

She looked at their locked hands and said, “Well, dear, you said we’d be surprised. It seems your father is, for certain.”

“You’re dating…”

“Yes, Dad, I’m dating an orc. You’re a dark elf, mom’s a light elf, I’m a mixed-up elf and I’m dating an orc.”

“No, I mean…”

“Yes, Dad, she’s a girl, I’m a girl, we’re both girls.”

Isobel gave Kat a warm hug. “Never mind him. Welcome to the family.”

Thomas shook his head. “No! That’s not it. Orc, fine, girl, fine. You’re Katherine Quartz, right? George Quartz’s daughter?”

“I am,” Kat replied.

“You, uh…,” he paused, seeming to change gears, “you’ve worked so hard to keep away from the camera, but you’re here… and you’re dating the most well-known face in Hollywood.” His expression wasn’t a full-on flinch, but it was close. “I thought you wanted privacy?”

“First, I’m dating all of her, not just her face,” Kat said, eliciting a giggle from both Gwen and Isobel. “Second, Gwen is more important to me than my privacy. And third, I’m here because Gwen insisted.”

“I hope,” Isobel said, “that you don’t do everything Guinevere insists on.”

“God no. That would be tiring, and quite possibly dangerous!”

Gwen pouted. “Quit teasing.”

Kat pulled her in close and gave her a squeeze. “Okay, no more teasing… tonight.”

“If you see should see your mother, give her my regards,” Isobel said. “She’s a delightful woman.”

Kat noticed that Isobel said nothing about her father. She wondered what that was about but decided to let it rest.

She should have guessed the Blackrocks would be at the party. Their fading film careers were re-ignited following season four, when the Quartz Security team protected them from a stalker. After more than two centuries in show business, half of it in movies, they both had starring roles in current films. Gwen had already had some minor roles, one supporting actress role, and was in talks to play the lead in a science-fiction series.

“Well, Dad, Mother,” Gwen said, “we have someone else we need to talk to before Grumpy chickens out.”

They walked through the crowd, Gwen getting the attention of everyone they passed. Kat took her time, telling herself it was so Gwen could socialize. The real reason for the slow pace was the coming showdown. She feared it, but her best bet would be to do it now, in a very public setting.

At the other end of the room, they found George and Sarah Quartz, sitting on a sofa in front of cameras and engaged in an interview with an entertainment reporter. Kat stopped and looked around for a waiter.

“You need a drink, Grumpy?”

Kat nodded.

“I’ll be right back.” Gwen sailed through the crowd with the practiced grace that came from forty years of dance and etiquette training, and even more of attending fancy parties.

Within minutes, Kat wanted to leave; find Gwen and get out. She was planning her escape route when she was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“I’m surprised you came.” George Quartz stood seven feet and two inches; half a head taller than Kat. His brown eyes sat in a lined face, sun-darkened to a rich leather color, grey touching the edges of his signature buzz-cut he hadn’t changed since he fought in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. His right tusk was broken off an inch above his lip, while the left was a full, sharp three inches.

Sarah looked like an older version of Kat, her black hair worn in a traditional style: twin braids that went behind the shoulders then were looped back to the front and in loops outside the shoulder like aiguillettes. “Was that Guinevere Blackrock I saw you talking to?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah, her mother says hi. Gwen’s… uh…,” Kat faltered, looking around for Gwen. What a horrible time for her to leave her stranded.

“Her mother’s nice, makes a mean apple tart. But Guinevere… she’s what, dear?” Sarah asked.

Kat screwed up her courage and spoke. “Look, I know this isn’t the best time or place, but I’m quitting the security company. This is my two-week notice, along with the email I sent earlier today. I finished my MSW last year and I’m ready to find work as a social worker.” She added, in a near whisper, “and I’m dating Gwen.”

“You’re leaving?!” George bellowed, followed by a deep, rolling growl. “This business has been in our family since we guarded the Pony Express in 1860. And you quit?!”

“Please, George, she still has plenty of time to change her mind.” Sarah looked at Kat. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“No, Mom, you don’t get it. I can’t do this. No more. I’ve worked for the family business all my life, and I’ve always said I wanted to do something different, something that helps those that need it the most.”

“Our clients need help,” George said, “your mother and I need help. I want to retire in a few years. If you leave, how am I supposed to do that?”

“You just retire. Maybe it’s time to let go. Keep ownership but turn over operations to someone else. Janice could run things, same as she does when you’re on vacation, or busy doing your TV stuff.”

“I thought I specifically left you in charge when we’re gone. What’s this about Janice?”

“You left me in charge, so I left Janice in charge. She’s better at it than I am.”

“You left Janice in charge of the security business? But she’s an elf!”

“And? Why does that matter?” Pink began to creep up Kat’s cheeks and the pointed tips of her ears. “Why does that matter!? She’s worked there longer than you’ve been alive! I should’ve known my father was a racist.”

“I’m not a racist,” he said, “I just… the job is dangerous and physically demanding, not something her kind is suited to.”

Sarah sucked on her tusks. “Um, dear, I think maybe you should reconsider what you just said.”

Gwen chose that moment to approach and squeeze next to Kat. She grabbed her hand and gave it a kiss. “Can we go, sweetheart? I’m getting tired.”

“What the…?” George took a breath and stopped himself before he said anything else.

Sarah asked, “Is that what you were whispering, dear? You two are dating?”

Kat nodded and George fumed silently.

“You look cute together.” Sarah began pushing George to the back-of-house area. “I think George needs a rest after all the interviews.” She looked at Gwen as she said, “I’m so sorry, dear.”

“Now I know why your mother didn’t send her regards to my father.” Kat tried to hold her tears but failed. Tears of anger at her father’s blatant racism, anger at her mother for putting up with it and shielding him, shame for being related to him, embarrassment from his outburst; most of all, though, anger at herself for not seeing it sooner.

Kat had stopped walking so Gwen held on to her. She couldn’t see through the tears, but she felt more arms wrap around her, guiding her. She let them lead her into a powder room where she dropped to her knees and wept.

“I’m sorry, Squeaky. My dad….”

“Shh, Grumpy, you’re not your dad.” Gwen’s kisses on her forehead were light, soothing.

“I’m, uh, sorry for my earlier reaction,” Thomas said. “I fear I let my interactions with your father color my perceptions, and for that I apologize. It was wrong of me to assume the worst of you.”

Isobel’s voice was soft. “Katherine… Kat, we can get you out to our limo the back way, away from the cameras. Would you like that?”

Kat nodded and sniffled. Gwen handed her a tissue and said, “That’s good, ‘cause your makeup is a mess.”

“We can drop you at your place, or would you rather go to Gwen’s?”

“I don’t think your limo would be safe in Westgate,” Kat said, “and I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Gwen’s place it is,” Thomas said. “You should join us for dinner tomorrow.”

“Really, Dad?” Gwen asked. “Does now seem like the time to bring that up?”

“Do you love her, Guinevere?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“The simple kind,” he said. “Do you love Katherine?”

“Duh! Of course, I do.”

“From what she said earlier I’m guessing it’s mutual,” he said.

Kat nodded.

“What’s that got to do with dinner?”

“You need to bring your girlfriend over for dinner so your parents can embarrass you properly,” he said, “it’s in the parent contract. Tomorrow just happens to work with our schedule.”

“We’re not going to embarrass her, Thomas,” Isobel said, “but we would like to have you both over.”

In a softer tone he added, “It also seems like she could use some family about now.”

“Can I decide in the morning?” Kat asked.

“Of course, you can. Thomas, help the young lady up so we can get out of here.”

The limo ride was silent until Isobel spoke up. “So, you’re going to be a social worker?”

Kat nodded. “Did Gwen tell you?”

Isobel turned away. “No, we— heard the whole thing… along with every camera in the place.”

The tears started up again. “I’m so sorry.”

“No. You have nothing to apologize for.” Thomas patted Kat’s knee. “You stood up to your father and let him know his views aren’t okay.”

Isobel said, “What I wanted to say is, I think you’ll do great. You obviously care about others. That’s important for that kind of work.”

Kat sniffled. “It pays for shit, though, and I think I just screwed myself out of an inheritance.”

Gwen snuggled closer. “That’s okay, I’ll be your sugar mama.”

Kat tickled her rib making her squeal. “Thanks, Squeaky.”

Thomas smirked and said, “That’s where that nickname comes from.”

Isobel laughed a genuine, open laugh and said, “I meant what I said earlier. Welcome to the family.”

Gwen wiped away Kat’s tears. “See, I told you it would work out.”

Trunk Stories

Constant Cloud in the Land of the Midnight Sun

prompt: Start your story with the line, “It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same,” and end it with, “[…] and that was all that mattered.”…
available at Reedsy

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The short, forty-story blocks in a cluster at the head of the inlet. Below, the dock and boat launch, and even the fish farm boats seemed to have been frozen in time.

The wind on the rooftop park blew Jak’s tangled curls of dark blue hair into a halo around her mahogany face and bright brown eyes. She put an arm around Sina. “This is pretty much the same as when I left here.”

“It feels so small,” Sina said. The afternoon sun gave her olive skin a warm glow, her jet hair tied back in a braid shone like silk and her dark green eyes sparkled. “The blocks are so short, and there’s so few of them. This block is really only forty stories?”

“There’s never been a need for full, hundred-story blocks here. Welcome to Maud City, Antarctica.”

“I thought there would be snow,” Sina said. “I mean, yeah, it’s summer and all, but I thought there would be, like, mountains with snow or something.”

“Still excited for the job?”

“Oh, yeah! I don’t know much about the area, but the people I talked to in the interviews were nice, and it seems like a good position. They want me to make murals for them,” she said, barely stopping for a breath. “It’s not like I’ll be climbing up the buildings painting them, but I’m to design them and then the robots will do the painting. They’re neat little things, look kind of like bugs, but not as icky, and they climb up the building and each one paints only one color. Hundreds of them at once, and they say they can do an entire side of a block in just a week. It’s like…,” she blushed and dropped her head. “Sorry, I’m babbling again.”

Jak kissed her forehead. “It’s okay. I like seeing you excited like this.”

“But you didn’t have to come,” she said. “I mean, there’s no construction here, where will you work?” Her eyes shot wide. “I—I’m not saying I don’t want you here, not at all. I’m glad you came, but what will you do?”

Jak pointed at the boats in the harbor. “See all those boats? They go out to the fish farms every day, and there’s never enough mechanics to maintain them all.”

“Oh, you must have checked ahead.” Sina shook her head. “What am I saying? Of course, you checked ahead. And you grew up here? I mean, at first… when you were just little.”

“I didn’t check ahead, but I remember what it was like.” Jak chuckled. “Let’s go back to our flat and change. We’re going to the Cold Cod.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a bar and grill. Heritage site. Been here since before the Federation.” Jak took Sina’s hand and led her to the lift. “The original was built during the end of the water wars.”

“The original?”

“It burned down a few times. At least the insides did. The outside of the building is stone.”

“But it’s still a heritage site?”

“Yeah,” Jak said, “the current interior was built about two hundred years ago. The outside hasn’t changed in over four hundred years.”

“So, is it a museum?”

“Could be,” Jak said, “but it’s a working bar. Ever had real fish?”

“Who can afford that? Besides, fish is bland and mushy, even the lab-grown kind.”

“Promise me you will try real fish, just this once.”

“If it will make you happy.”

They stepped out of the taxi in front of a low stone building with a sign bearing a silver suit of armor with a blue crotch sporting icicles. Sina stopped and stared at the sign. “I don’t get it. Why armor? Although, that looks like it would be really uncomfortable to be cold there.”

Jak gave her moment to figure it out.

“Oh! Cod, like codpiece.” Sina laughed. “I thought it was named for the fish.”

“Yeah, when this was built there was no fishing here,” Jak said. “Just the last rush of ice mining.”

“So, what’s that little building over there with all the antennas, behind the big gates?”

“That’s the Federation Defense Force Signals Intelligence base. We always just called it ‘The Cave,’ though. Rumor has it that it’s actually really huge, but all built underground.”

“You believe that?”

“No,” Jak said, “there’s never enough soldiers around to fill anything bigger than what you see.”

The crowd inside was noisy, the holos displaying a football game between two teams from far-flung colony worlds, with some people cheering when others booed and vice-versa. Jak led Sina to a large communal table where there were a few seats left. She selected two real cod and chips meals and a pitcher of beer with two glasses from the tablet menu and scanned her ident to pay.

“Jak,” Sina said, “that’s too expensive! You should’ve gotten one and I could taste it. I’d be okay with a ham-style protein.”

“No,” Jak said, “tonight is a celebration! Your big break in the art world!”

Their food and beer were brought to the table by a small, pale, bald man, sharp blue eyes peering from beneath heavy blonde eyebrows over perpetually pink cheeks.

“Oh gods! Mister Marcus,” Jak said, “you’re still here!”

“I am,” he said. “Your mother told me you were coming today. I’d hoped you would stop in, and it seems my hopes were well-founded.”

“It’s good to see you, Mister Marcus. You haven’t aged a day.”

He shook his head. “Not true, but look at you, all grown up, a handsome woman. And you don’t need to call me Mister anymore, just Marcus. You look so much like your mother it’s unreal.”

Jak laughed. “Marcus, this is Sina.”

“Nice to meet you, Marcus.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sina. Take care of Jak now, she likes to get herself into trouble,” he said with a wink.

“A—actually, I think that’s more my thing,” Sina said.

He laughed. “I’ll leave you kids alone. Stop in any time, even if it’s just for a subsidy meal.”

“Thanks, Marcus,” Jak said. “Dig in, Sweets.”

Sina took a hesitant bite of the batter-fried fish and her eyes went wide. “This is… good. It doesn’t taste like fish, though.”

“No, this is fish. ‘Fish-style protein’ doesn’t taste like fish, and neither does the lab-grown stuff.”

They finished their meals and the pitcher of beer. “I like this place,” Sina said. “I can see why you would have fond memories of it.”

“Hey, you showed me your childhood hangouts, now I get to show you mine.”

“Yeah, but a rooftop play yard on Block 214 isn’t as cool as a 400-year-old bar.”

“But my name’s not carved in any walls here.”

Sina leaned her head on Jak’s shoulder. “I think maybe this place carves itself into you, instead.”

“Could be. Let’s get out of here.”

They stepped out into the early evening light and Jak belched, the sound echoing off the buildings.

“Why do you have to be disgusting?” Sina asked.

“At least I didn’t do it inside,” she said.

“Well, you’re learning.” Sina took her hand and led her to the taxi stand. “Maybe Marcus is right, and I’m meant to keep you out of trouble.”

Jak laughed. “Just as soon as I get you domesticated.”

“Why? I’ve got you to pick up after me.” Sina stuck her tongue out and waved her ident at the taxi door to open it up.

“Hey, this was supposed to be my treat.”

“Come on, grumpy. Let’s go spend the rest of the day laying around watching the holo.”

“You do know it’s almost 23:00, right? Your appointment is at 08:00 tomorrow.”

“But the sun…”

“Won’t set any time soon. Land of the midnight sun?”

“Oh,” Sina said, “this is going to be hard to get used to.”

“Not really, unless you get a flat with a window. If you have one, though, the summers aren’t so bad, but the winters get real dark.”

The automated taxi dropped them off in the minus one floor at the lift closest to their flat. They rode up in silence to the 30^th floor.

“Can you imagine what it would cost to get a 30^th floor flat in Bamako?” Sina asked. “It would take most of our income. I wonder if we can get a third floor flat for that here?”

“I doubt it,” Jak said. “There’s far fewer of the non-subsidy flats. Besides, I think the rent rates are set by the Fed, so they’d be the same everywhere.”

They settled into bed and the long day of travel overtook them. By the time Jak awoke, Sina was already dressed and had coffee waiting. Jak sat up and looked at Sina’s clothes from the previous day, strewn about the one-room flat. She was going to say something but thought better of it.

“Coffee for you,” Sina said. “I ordered from the grocery and had some stuff delivered.”

“You’re a goddess,” Jak said. “Messy, but a goddess.”

“Then you’re my high priestess.” Sina handed Jak her coffee and gave her a quick kiss. “Well, the goddess has a planning meeting to get to, and the high priestess needs her caffeine. I’ll call around lunch.”

“See you later.” Jak watched Sina leave, then jumped out of bed. She put Sina’s clothes in the cleaner with her own, made the bed, showered, cleaned up Sina’s mess in the bathroom, dressed, and finally, sat down to enjoy her now-tepid coffee.

She sent off a quick message to her mother, then checked the grocery situation. “Typical Sina.” The groceries she’d had delivered included instant coffee, ready-meals, chocolate, ice cream, creme cakes, and hard candies. Since she needed to register with the jobs office on floor zero, Jak decided she’d pick up some real groceries on the way home.

At the jobs office she found at least one thing had changed since she’d been here last: there were far too many mechanics for the jobs available. Still, she put her name on the list. They didn’t need the money, as the flat was a subsidy flat, and basic food, health care and clothing were guaranteed to all citizens, but she couldn’t sit around doing nothing, and she couldn’t handle living on subsidy ready-meals.

Jak strolled through the grocery, far more concerned about the remaining credits in her account than she had been just an hour earlier. She bypassed several luxuries that she would have enjoyed, focusing instead on staples and less expensive alternatives. Instead of herbs and spices she selected flavoring packets; instead of lab-grown meat she selected pork-style protein.

As she perused the produce section, looking for the lowest-cost potatoes and onions, a deep red caught her eye. Fresh raspberries; Sina would love them. They were natural raspberries, grown locally outdoors. The year-round, hydroponic variety across the aisle were cheaper, but inferior by a wide margin. With a determined huff she added a tray of the good berries to her bag. She winced internally when her comm showed how much she’d been charged for them but carried on.

Back in the flat, she put the groceries away and straightened up the kitchen. She spent the next hour wandering in circles around the flat, trying to figure out what to do to keep herself sane. Maybe I should’ve stayed in Bamako, she thought, then realized she’d miss Sina too much.

Sina called just after 13:00 and Jak put her on the holo. Sina was beaming, her normally bright smile turned up to the max. “Hey Jak! Hope your day is as good as mine!” she chirped.

Jak tried to force a smile. “Signed up at the jobs office and picked up some groceries.”

Sina’s smile dropped. “You don’t sound good. What happened?”

“There’s more mechanics than jobs.”

Sina winked. “That’s okay, you can be my stay-at-home high priestess. The goddess is making enough to keep you entertained now.”

“It’s not that,” Jak said. “I don’t really care about the money. I just don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Well, we know I’m a slob, so—”

“I had the place clean less than an hour after left,” Jak said, “and now….”

The rest of the week played out very much the same. The constant cloud hanging over Jak took all the air out of the flat. Sina tried everything she could think of to cheer her up, but it never lasted to the morning. Jak began to worry that her mood was going to force Sina to send her back to Bamako.

On her sixth straight day of work Sina called, and before Jak could say anything said, “Meet me at the Cold Cod at 17:00. My treat this time, and we’ll figure something out.” Sina looked at Jak with one of her rare, soft moods. “We’ll make it work, promise.”

“I love you, too.” They disconnected and Jak flopped onto the bed. She set an alarm for 16:30 to give herself time to get there. She checked her comm to see how much time had passed… twenty minutes. The next time she tried to wait longer and checked again; only twelve minutes had passed. Jak closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, trying to will the whirling thoughts away.

The alarm jolted her to consciousness, and she jumped up, about to get ready for work, then remembered where she was. She worked out her curls with her fingers the best she could, then headed out. Instead of taking a taxi she hopped on a bus. It would take longer to get there, and wasn’t a direct route, but at least it wasn’t costing any credits.

When she stepped off the bus at the Cod, Sina was talking with Marcus out front. He motioned her over and said, “I hear you’re having trouble keeping busy.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I never would’ve thought there’d be too many mechanics.”

“That only lasts until winter,” he said. “Then it’s more work than you can handle.”

“Can’t come soon enough.”

“In the meantime, Sina tells me you’re a good cook.”

“I’m okay, I guess. For cooking at home, that is.”

“I have an offer: you come in here, cook whatever the two of you want for dinner and it’s on the house. If I like the way you work, and you want to work here, I can give you as many hours as you want… until winter.”

Sina’s eyes were wide, expectation clear on her face. “Well?”

“Did you set this up?” Jak asked.

Sina nodded, a concerned look crossing her face.

“Stop that, you. I’ll take you up on that, Marcus.” Jak smiled. “You have steak, mushrooms, beef stock, and egg noodles?”

“Of course. Lab-grown steak, not steak-style protein.”

“How does beef stroganoff sound?”

“Only if you make three,” Sina said. “Marcus should eat with us.”

“Deal,” Marcus said. “Now, let’s get you in the kitchen and make sure you don’t burn the place down.”

Most of the kitchen was automated, including the fryers and grills. Jak moved away from those to the unoccupied manual section of the kitchen. Marcus watched from a distance as she sliced, sautéed, and made the sauce while a pot of water waited for the noodles. She added the noodles to the water and the beef to the sauce, and in just a few more minutes it was done. Thirty minutes start to finish.

She plated three large servings and looked to Marcus for approval. Cooking at home was fine, but it felt better, somehow, to be cooking in an industrial kitchen. Still, it took her a while, and she didn’t think that would be something that would be okay in a busy place like the Cod.

The three of them sat down to eat. Sina and Jak watched for Marcus’ reaction. He took the first bite and nodded. “I would’ve added a touch more garlic, but this is very good. If you want a job here, you’ve got it.”

“I don’t know the first thing about your fryers or any of that.”

“You can learn,” he said. “You have the basics, and your timing is good.”

“But it takes me so long…”

“That comes with practice. I bet you weren’t a fast mechanic when you first started.”

“No,” Jak said, still unsure about it all. “If you’re just doing this because you know my mother…”

“Hush. I’m doing this because I need help, and Sina needs help keeping you out of trouble.”

Sina grabbed her hand under the table. “Can I start tomorrow?” Jak asked. It wasn’t her first choice for work, but it would keep her busy until the winter, and she wouldn’t have to leave. She could stay here with the woman she loved, and that was all that mattered.

Trunk Stories

Insomnia

prompt: Write a thriller about someone who witnesses a murder… except there’s no evidence that a murder took place….
available at Reedsy

Unable to sleep again, Miria padded around the escort cruiser Karan barefoot. She wasn’t due on shift for another four hours, so she wandered with no fixed destination in mind. Stopping at one of the viewports, she touched the control to turn the window clear. The even, dull grey of super-c travel filled the view; changeless in all directions and so flat in color that the distance of the warp bubble wall could be just outside the window or hundreds of kilometers away.

She knew the distance to the bubble, of course. From this section of the ship, it was just over sixteen meters to the warp bubble; from her duty seat on the bridge, it was exactly four meters. Miria watched the even grey, hoping to see the occasional spark of random hydrogen atoms being split apart against the field. What she didn’t expect to see, however, was a body floating away from the ship to be disintegrated into sub-atomic particles in a chain-reaction of bright flashes.

Miria slammed the emergency alarm by the window but nothing happened. The door further ahead that led to the airlock beeped and opened. She darkened the window and ducked into the doorway to the mess. She waited until she heard booted footsteps walking away from her to peek. The person walking away was medium height and build, wearing a sterile-room uniform complete with gloves and hood.

She knew she could get their ident to show up on her comm if she got close enough but feared what might happen if she did. Instead, she slipped into the mess and called the commander, voice only, on the comm. “Colonel Shriber, it’s Captain Blake. I’m sorry to wake you.”

“What’s the emergency, Captain?”

“I just saw someone go out the airlock,” she said, “vaporized on the bubble wall.”

“Where are the alarms?”

“I tried the alarm, but it wasn’t responding.” Miria moved deeper into the mess, fearing someone in the corridor might hear her. “And when someone in a sterile-room uniform came out of the airlock passage I hid. I ducked into the mess and called you.”

“Sit tight, Blake,” the Colonel said. “I’m sending someone over.”

Miria spent the next three hours with Major Bankole, chief of security. She explained the whole story and followed along as the Major checked the door logs and swept for any evidence in the airlock itself.

“I’m sorry, Blake, but I’m not finding anything.”

“Sir, can we at least look at the corridor security logs?”

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s go to my office.”

He pulled up the corridor holo logs and they watched an empty corridor.

“That’s not right,” Miria said, “I was there, watching for–”

“This has been tampered. Six minutes are missing.” The Major scrolled the holo backward and forward slowly, the timestamp jumping back and forth. “Captain, what were you doing in the corridor?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, “so I was taking a walk. Watching the super-c bubble sometimes help me clear my mind.”

“And do you do this often?” he asked.

“A few times a week, lately. The long runs mess with my sleep.”

He fixed her with a stern gaze. “Captain, you are not to discuss this with anyone other myself and the Colonel, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” She looked at the frozen holo of the empty corridor. “Who would be able to erase the holo logs?”

“A few people.” He sighed. “First thing, though, is to figure out who, if anyone, is missing. Meanwhile, you should get ready for duty. You’re due on the bridge in forty minutes.”

She gave a crisp salute. “Yes, sir!”

Miria reported to the bridge, replacing the third-shift navigator. She went through her start of shift checklist. She checked the crew and visitor manifest and the 1,938 crew, and sixteen civilians were accounted for by their ident. There was a Member of Parliament aboard, with support and security staff, and a handful of reporters. Total deck weight, though, was 70.76 kilograms below the stated deck weight when they entered the gate out of the Sol system.

In normal circumstances, deck weight, or more formally, non-fuel mass, didn’t change. In fact, the only thing that could change deck weight was throwing something, or someone… off the ship. She checked the third watch logs for any notifications of the change in deck weight. The logs mentioned an outage in all internal sensors that lasted six minutes, but the deck weight was not among the items checked when the sensors came back online.

Miria finished her start of shift checklist, noting the changed deck weight as it impacted fuel consumption and was ready to settle into her shift when the Colonel arrived on the bridge.

“Captain Blake, my office, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Miria turned to her right and addressed the junior navigation officer. “Lieutenant Mendoza, run a re-calculation of fuel consumption based on the new deck weight, and give me an update of shield stats.”

“Yes, sir,” the young Lieutenant said.

Miria entered the ready room off the bridge. She shut the door and snapped to attention. “Sir!” While the Colonel had a larger office off the main corridor, it was mostly used for briefings and any time more than four people needed to meet.

“At ease, have a seat. Bankole told me you’ve not been sleeping?” Shriber motioned to the spot next to her on the sofa.

Miria sat. “No, sir. At least not very well.” Miria sighed. “These long jumps mess with my sleep.”

“And you’ve been wandering the ship in bare feet?”

“I, uh,” she stammered, “y—yes, sir.”

“Miria, until you walk out of this room, we’re dispensing with the formality. Call me Liza and tell me what’s going on.”

“Si—Liza, I’m sure you already heard the report I gave to Bankole. Our deck weight is down almost seventy-one kilos.”

Shriber leaned forward. “That’s… we’ll come back to that, but that’s not what I meant. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not sleeping, you’re wandering the ship barefoot in pajamas, and you panicked when you thought you witnessed a crime.” The worry line between her eyes became pronounced. “That’s not like you. You’re not one to run and hide and call for help. Why didn’t you follow?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Miria said. “I didn’t feel safe… not like I usually do.”

“You grew up on a ship,” Shriber said, “most of us didn’t. We grew up on planets, a few on stations, but you’re the most comfortable person on a ship I’ve ever met. If I wanted to, I could cite you for violating safety policy by not wearing mag boots when around the ship, but you’re the last person I’d worry about getting hurt if we lost grav.”

“Thank you.”

“When we had the fire in the grav generator last year, you were the first one there. You didn’t hesitate to turn off your mag boots to grab an extinguisher and get there faster. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone use an extinguisher as a propulsion device while putting out a fire with it at the same time.” She pointed to Miria’s chest. “Your actions earned you that commendation and, if I remember correctly, one hell of a concussion and a fractured wrist.”

“What’s your point? That I’m reckless?”

“No,” she said, putting a hand on Miria’s shoulder, “that you don’t run from trouble. You run to it. That’s how I knew something was wrong when you called me, scared.”

“I…,” Miria began.

“Listen, you’re one of the best officers I have. You don’t know this, and you didn’t hear it from me, but we’re having a rescue training drill sometime between 23:00 and 04:00. I need you all there. Our guest,” the word dripped with disdain, “will be watching.”

“Yes, si— Liza.”

“So,” Shriber said, “I want you to report to the medic; get something to help you sleep. You need it. Take the rest of the shift off and I’ll see you later.”

“What about the deck weight? And the other…?”

“Bankole is investigating. With the shift in deck weight, it certainly looks like someone tossed something out the airlock while in super-c. That’s an offense right there. But the Major tells me all persons are accounted for.”

“Yeah, I looked at that first thing, too. 1,938 crew and sixteen civilians.”

Shriber’s eyes narrowed. “You mean seventeen civilians, right?”

“No, there’s only 16 civilians on the manifest.”

“Shit. You go get some sleep. Don’t talk about this with anyone but me. That includes Bankole.” The Colonel’s tone left no doubt that she was giving a direct order.

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Miria sat on her bunk and looked at the pills from the medic. Two small, yellow pills that would put her to sleep. Breathing a heavy sigh, she swallowed the pills and lay down, still in her full uniform. As sleep overtook her, a thought rattled around in her brain; seventy-plus kilos of high energy particles on the bubble wall.

The alarms jolted her to consciousness. Her last thought before sleep slammed back into mind: Seventy-plus kilos of high energy particles…. Miria bolted for the bridge. The alarm changed, four short chirps — they would be dropping out of super-c.

She ran to the navigation station and took the unoccupied assist position and took control of navigation from there. “Captain, what are you…?”

“No time, Lieutenant Koln.” Miria was curt. “Prep for extra de-bubble shielding. Seventy-one kilograms.”

“Kilos? Don’t you mean milligrams?”

“No! Kilos!” Miria got ready to divert the energy currently used to hold the ship to the warp bubble to the shielding which would push the high-energy particles away. “We lost a comm tower,” she lied, “and I don’t want any of that blowing back on us.”

“Yes, sir! Seventy-one kilos input, calculations complete.”

Colonel Shriber called out to the bridge, “Dropping to sub-c in thirty seconds.”

“Thirty seconds, aye!” the bridge crew shouted.

The Colonel watched the time on her terminal and called, “Drop!”

Miria shut down the warp bubble containment and dragged the shield power sliders up full, while Lieutenant Koln watched. The steady grey nothing of super-c was replaced with a flash of blinding white and then the darkness of space. The shield held and Miria let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

She looked at Koln. “If you don’t mind, I’d like my seat back, please.”

“Of course, sir.” They switched chairs and Miria pulled control back to the main navigation console.

“Navigation, report.”

“Current location, sector Fox Alpha 349, bearing to Bul system gate locked in.”

“Comms, report.”

“Wormhole stable— we have interstellar; comm tower deploying, twenty seconds to local.”

The bridge sat silent, many just now noticing the interlopers standing just inside the entrance. A Member of Parliament and a handful of reporters. The parliamentary police detail was stationed outside the door of the bridge. As actual members of the Federation Defense Force, they probably had more right to be there than the civilians, but it wasn’t something anyone, including the Colonel, was likely to mention.

“Sir, distress beacon, 14,323 kilometers, heading left 64.2957, up 18.3001.”

Miria plotted a course to the indicated beacon and readied it on her console. “Course ready, sir.”

“Let’s go pick it up,” Shriber said.

Miria thumbed the command in, “Course laid in.” She switched the ship to auto. “Engaged.”

“Comms, identify beacon source.”

“Emergency escape pod, two-person, steering thrusters only.”

The Colonel entered a command on her terminal, starting a new alarm deep in the ship. “Engineering and security: prepare for pickup. Two-person pod, load through cargo lock Delta.”

The response came back a few seconds later. “Cargo lock Delta clear, ready for pickup of two-person pod. Security in place, tow-line throwers locked and loaded.”

With nothing to do but wait, Shriber spoke with the politician on her bridge. Miria decided she’d take advantage of the interstellar comms and loaded in the latest news. Just the headline stories and the latest football scores.

The civilian entourage left to watch the retrieval process and Shriber breathed a sigh of relief. “First watch, except Captain Blake, go back to bed. Captain Blake, my office.”

Miria followed her into the ready room and closed the door behind herself. Before she could speak, the Colonel did. “What was that about a comm tower?”

“Sorry, sir. I had to think of something to explain more than seventy kilos of material in the bubble.”

“Yeah, good thinking. But why the hell was Koln questioning you in the first place? You going to write him up?”

“I’ll talk with him,” she said. “In this case, though, I understand the push-back. If my superior was just rousted from sleep and told me to expect anything more than a few milligrams of material I’d be concerned it was a mistake, too.”

“Still, not the right way to raise his concern. Speaking of, how did the shields fare?”

“We did fine. Captured about a thousand times as much as a normal de-bubble, reflected the rest. If we’d stripped the bubble in a gate, the gate would have been destroyed.”

The Colonel pointed to the sofa as she crossed the room. “Join me for a coffee, Miria?”

“Yes, thank you s— Liza.”

“While we’re en route to the pod I took the liberty of updating my comm with the latest news.”

Miria laughed. “You, me, and probably half the ship.”

Shriber returned with two cups of coffee and sat. “You said sixteen civilians. I signed seventeen on. I keep an off-line copy of every manifest I sign.”

“So, we know who’s missing?”

“We do. A reporter.”

Miria checked her comm. The headlines were about the disappearance of a reporter who was logged at the gate for the Karan but never boarded and disappeared. The same reporter who had exposed a bribery scandal that had unseated two MPs and was said to be investigating another scandal. She showed the story to the Colonel.

“Motive and opportunity,” Shriber said, “but without evidence it isn’t enough.”

“Do you think we can find any?”

“I don’t know, but you and I are going to meet with the Criminal Investigation Department when we get to the Bul system. Until then, Miria, all that happened is we lost part of comm tower six.”

“I understand.”

“Which reminds me–” Shriber tapped her comm. “Comm tower six is now marked as down due to breakage.”

Miria finished her coffee and took the empty cups to the sideboard. “So, what do we do in the meantime?”

“We’ve got a pod coming in, and you’ll need to recalculate fuel usage for the new deck weight, then we need to finish our trip and get rid of the civvies. I would send you back to bed, but it seems Koln could use some direct guidance.”

“And Major Bankole?”

“As soon as the civilians are gone, he’ll be locked up, pending CID investigation,” she said. “It wouldn’t look good to do that while he’s leading his friend from parliament around on a tour.”

“Do you really think it was him?” Miria asked. “He said there were a few people that could alter the logs.”

“The logs weren’t altered; they just weren’t recorded. He is the only person on this ship that can disable all the internal sensors, override the alarms, and alter the manifest.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“I’ve been talking with him every chance I get,” Shriber said, “and I’ve got him convinced that we are sure that you were hallucinating due to lack of sleep. He also doesn’t know that I keep an off-line copy of the manifest.”

“What happens if CID can’t find anything?”

“At the very least, disabling the logs and sensors is a felony. Dishonorable discharge and six months.”

“I was going to ask how you can prove that but it’s probably better I don’t know.”

“You’re right,” Shriber said, “now, let’s get back to work and pick up the training pod so we can get home.”

Trunk Stories

Carla’s Well

prompt: Write about a contest with life or death stakes….
available at Reedsy

I’m going to die. The thought that ran through my head. No matter how hard I tried to shake it, the words echoed like a dark mantra.

The sun hung low in the sky, daylight running out on me. Force of will kept my legs moving, a long-stride lope that ate miles faster than it ate my energy. My only hope for survival was the fact that I had survived this long already.

“Carla, it’s up to you,” Micah had said, his long grey beard flapping with every word. He fixed me with his steel-grey eyes, his oil-tanned leather face craggy with years of exposure.

“What do I need to do?”

He handed me a satchel. “There’s enough explosive in here to seal up the well-head, or….”

“Or?”

“If they get there first you can at least destroy their vehicles,” he said, “give us time for the caravan to show up.”

“And if I seal the well,” I asked, “what good does that do us?”

“It’s better if you don’t know all the details,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “But you need to run, now!”

I wondered how far the caravan had come since I left this morning, and how far ahead of them the raiders were. When Jacob returned in the night, the decision was made to send a runner to “protect” the well. On foot the distance was shorter, as a runner could cross the ravine on the rope bridge. The raiders’ vehicles, like the caravan, however, would have to detour around the ravine. Even once past that obstacle, rough ground made for a slow ride.

It occurred to me, before I’d even left, that this was a one-way trip for me. If I beat the raiders there and capped the well, I’d be too exhausted to outrun them from there. If they beat me there, well, I’d take as many of them with me as I could.

As I ran, I chanted the names of the people in the caravan whose lives I was fighting for; “Caleb, Micah, Sarah, Tillie, Sam, Monique, Ty, Marisol, Denny, Donna….” Even as I remembered each of their faces, the thought that I would never see them again took over. I’m going to die.

The hills were growing in front of me. I had the thought that I might make it there before the raiders. I was still troubled by the thought of capping the well, though. Without it, our crops would die. Unlike a well that relied on a large aquifer, it was a dry well in the high summer, refilling with snowmelt off the mountains and what little rain we did see.

Despite our care in burying our pipes and planting our crops in places too inaccessible to be found accidentally, the raiders had found one of our fields. After capturing Jacob with a bag full of cabbages and beans, they tortured him until he told them where the crop was and how it was watered. They stripped the field while Jacob escaped back to the caravan. What frightened us most was that they had a water tanker. Not large enough to steal all the water at once, but it could take between a third and a half of it; enough that we would lose most of our crops.

Losing the crops would mean the loss of the small game that gathered around the fields for food and water. Meaning we would lose our main source of meat as well. I squashed the desire to run faster, knowing that it would tire me out before I could reach the well.

The rise into the foothills was on me before I knew it. From here there was only a narrow path to the well. To the left, a steep wall that often dropped boulders into the track; to the right, a drop-off that grew more treacherous as the track ascended. Nestled at the end of the track, in a natural nook of the mountains, lay our well. Six years of work blasting, digging, and moving the stone in order to catch the run-off that burbled out of the cliff wall behind it. Six years of work followed by nine of survival by careful placement of irrigation and tending to crops in areas that previously only contained harsh scrub.

Still I ran up the track, keeping my objective in mind. I’m going to die. No! Protect the well!

The track narrowed as I neared the well, a large section having broken loose on the right and fallen into the ravine. Micah said once that it had been a river and from here it was obvious where it had cut through the landscape. It hadn’t seen water in forty or fifty years, though.

I reached the well and stopped for a breath. My legs threatened to buckle under me, so I kept moving, walking around. That’s when I saw it; the cloud of dust in the distance. The raiders were close. I opened the satchel and looked at the five charges. All we had left. Together with my two magazines of 9mm ammo and a knife I was meant to stop a band of raiders with automatic weapons and trucks.

I examined the rock wall behind the well. Somehow, I needed to blast in such a way that a slab would drop over the well, without filling it with debris and forcing all the water out. I looked back out to the cloud of dust moving my direction. I was given two choices: cap the well or destroy their vehicles. I just have to give the caravan time to get here.

It would take precious time I didn’t have to place the explosives; plus, I’d have to climb, and I wasn’t sure I had it in me. The track, however…. I made up my mind. Returning to the point where the track was narrowest, where the side had collapsed, I placed the first charge in a crack near the center. I covered the charge and the wire to the detonator under the loose sand and gravel of the track.

I looked again at the dust plume, trying to gauge how many trucks they might have. If they were traveling in tight formation, there may be as many as fifteen or twenty. More likely, though, they were traveling spread out. It’s the way to keep from losing more than one vehicle at a time.

I paced off the space of seven large trucks. With the explosives I had it would be at the outside range for my plan. With my knife I dug a small pit in the middle of the track, where I set in the second charge and buried it and its wires as I did with the first. Then, spacing them evenly between the two outside charges I set the remaining three in nooks in the cliffside, about three feet above the road surface.

I packed as much gravel as I could around those three charges, hoping it would serve as shrapnel. I dropped the wires down the low side of the track. It would be safer to do this from above, but that would put them on the wrong side of the road; besides, I was pretty sure I could climb down, but not up.

I clambered partway down the wall where an overhang offered me a hide and gathered up the wires. The three center charges I wired together, with the first and last on their own. It would require touching the wires to the battery I carried; sort of a frontier detonator. The raiders started up the track as I finished setting up the wires.

The first vehicle was a military truck with a machine gun on top. Behind that was the water tanker. Then three more military trucks like the first, a bus, and a cargo hauler bringing up the rear. They stayed spread out, but picked up speed on the track, their electric motors whining. I’d seen it before when we had to drive one of the caravan vehicles up; the driver gets nervous and wants to get through it as quickly as possible.

I held one wire to the battery and the second an inch away, waiting for the lead truck to reach the charge highest up the hill. As it passed over, I touched the wire and truck bucked up in the front, a cloud of smoke and dust filling the space it had just been, even as the boom of the explosion made my vision blur and my ears ring.

I grabbed the wires for the charge lowest on the hill and held it ready. The raiders’ vehicles closed up on each other, the tanker unable to stop in time rammed into the back of the burning truck, sending it tumbling off the side of the track which was now even narrower than it had been. It missed me by just a stone’s throw. The convoy stopped at the point where the bus was two thirds over the charge I held the wires for. Touch. Boom! The bus split open, fire spreading through the entire thing in a flash. It had ignited the batteries beneath the bus, burning with a blinding white flame. I could feel the heat, even from here.

The last three charges would work best if I could get most of the raiders out of their trucks. There was no place to turn around, nowhere for them to go, except on foot. I pulled out my pistol and fired six shots into the tanker. “Get away from my well!” I screamed. I followed that with two into one of the military trucks. It wouldn’t penetrate, but the raiders knew I was on the downhill slope. They scrambled out of their trucks, taking shelter behind them, exposing themselves to the cliff wall at their rear. Touch. Boom-boom-boom! A hailstorm of gravel tore through them and rained down on me. I couldn’t see through the dust and smoke, and could barely hear, except for a high-pitched whine; a tone that I’d never heard before.

I made my way down the wall to the dry riverbed, then followed that downhill. I could see the cargo truck, still backing down the last few yards of the hill. One of the raiders was outside and behind, guiding the truck down. I slipped up onto the road in front of the truck and stood to aim at the driver. Unlike the military trucks, this one wasn’t armored. The driver was so focused on his rear-view that he didn’t see me as I pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. He slumped over the wheel and the truck dropped its rear axle over the remaining two feet of drop-off, getting stuck.

As I tried to locate the guide something got in my eye. I rubbed it away and realized my head was bleeding; probably from the gravel shower. It bled faster than I could clear it out. I stayed low, hoping he would show himself. Instead I heard a shot whiz past and the rifle’s report.

Not knowing where he was shooting from, I dropped to my back in front of the cargo truck’s tire. I tried to locate him but still couldn’t see him.

“Hah!” I heard, “Headshot, baby!”

I held my breath, willing myself not to move, not to blink, not to look anywhere but at the spot I’d just been looking at. When he nudged my ribs with his rifle, I lay slack, playing dead. He did this a couple times then laid the rifle next to me. That’s when I reacted, rolling towards him and firing point-blank at his chest. He looked at me with shock, then fell over.

I didn’t know how many others were in the truck, or how many had survived up the hill, but I’d done what I could. They still might be able to load their tanker if their hoses were long enough and none of my shots penetrated it. Even so, they’d have to wait for the bus fire to burn itself out first. I changed out my magazine and started walking, dizziness staggering my steps, expecting a bullet to tear through my back any second. I’m going to die.

With nothing left to me I continued out towards the caravan. With the time it took to ready the caravan the raiders had at least a four-hour head start, so they wouldn’t be along any time soon. The moon rose nearly full and the light gave me incentive to walk faster. I was still waiting for the bullet in the back when I passed out.

I woke to the muffled sounds of a firefight in the distance and Marisol talking as through a pillow. My ears still rang with a pitch I’d never heard before yesterday, and no other sound was entering my right ear. A hand to my face confirmed that my head was heavily bandaged.

Marisol leaned close to my left ear and said, “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and your right eardrum is perforated, but you’ll heal.”

“Will I get my hearing back?” My own voice sounded muffled and distorted.

“Some,” she said, “but we won’t know how much for a while.”

As I moved, I felt a sharp pain in my left arm. I reached for it and felt another bandage.

“Through and through,” Marisol said, “and missed the bone. You’re lucky.”

“I didn’t know I was shot.”

“Adrenaline will do that,” she said. “Rest now, and I’ll see if I can find something for the pain after we clean up the last of the raiders.”

“I thought I was going to die.”

“Not today, you won’t.” Marisol dabbed my forehead with a cool cloth. “You saved the well, Carla.”

The last thing I thought as I let unconsciousness take me again was, I’m going to live.

Trunk Stories

If You Could Live Forever

prompt: Write about a vampire or werewolf who moves into a quiet suburban neighborhood….
available at Reedsy

After the old man across the street died, his house went up for sale. The sign came down after the first day.

For three weeks landscapers made the neglected lot respectable while crews toiled inside the house. Carpeting, drywall, and fixtures were hauled off as it was stripped to the studs. A steady stream of deliveries brought electrical and plumbing fixtures, wood flooring, appliances, drywall, and lumber.

Early in the morning the day after the crews left, a moving van arrived, followed by a short, muscular African American woman in jeans and a tight t-shirt. She organized the movers, telling them what went where. The furniture and boxes were in place by the late afternoon, and the van left. The woman was still in the house, no doubt arranging things.

Being the good neighbor I am, and not because I’m inveterately nosey, I carried over a bottle of wine to welcome her to the neighborhood. Before I could ring the bell, she opened the door and invited me in. “Well hello, neighbor! I saw you walking up.”

“Hi, I’m Adrian Delacroix,” I said. “I live across the street. Just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

A thin sheen of sweat played across her broad features, her skin a warm reddish-brown, hair up in large puff at the rear. She smiled a broad grin when she saw the wine bottle. “Come in and have a seat while I get us some glasses, neighbor Adrian. I’m Ivy.”

“Thank you.” I sat on the sofa in the renovated front room. Hardwood floors, colored walls with white trim, new stairs and bannister to the second floor, granite countertops, and tasteful everything. It looked more like a magazine ad than an actual house.

She set down two wine stems and pulled the cork on the wine.

“I can’t believe how quickly you turned this old house around. The previous owner didn’t take care of anything.”

She smiled as she poured the wine. “The bones were good, so my employer thought it would be worth bringing it back to life.”

“Oh, you’re not the new owner?” I asked.

“No, I’m her caretaker,” she said. “She’s arriving next week, so I’m getting everything ready.”

“So, what does a caretaker do?” I cleared my throat. “It’s just, this isn’t exactly the sort of neighborhood where people have live-in help, and I picture a caretaker as watching over an unoccupied mansion or something.”

She laughed. “Nothing like that. She has medical… needs. I play housekeeper, gardener, and nurse.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Does she have someone else as well?”

“No,” she said, “I’m it. She’s overseas with… family right now, though.”

“Ah. So…,” I foundered, trying to get the conversation on to a more comfortable topic, “are either of you from this area?”

“Moving up from California,” Ivy said, pouring more wine. “Katherine… Ms. Boyle, can’t be out in the sun much. She got tired of the heat, so Washington seemed like a good choice.”

We finished the bottle and I got a tour of the renovated house before I left. The upstairs had been turned into two large master suites with walk-in closets and massive bathrooms sandwiching an office with a dizzying array of computer equipment. Ivy told me that Katherine worked for a stock brokerage in the U.K., but the equipment seemed far beyond what that would require. I wanted to know more but I remained the good neighbor and didn’t press her.

As I work from home myself, I saw that Ivy got into a routine right away. An hour run around the neighborhood at 7:00 a.m., rain or shine, followed by yard work, then inside at 11:00, where I imagined she showered and took care of housework. I saw her every afternoon when the mail came as all the mailboxes were on her side of the street, and we both picked up our mail as soon as it was dropped off.

“Adrian, Ms. Boyle came in last night and said she’d like to meet you,” she said. “Dinner at 6:30?”

“Sure,” I said. “Should I bring anything? Some wine?”

“Nothing so formal,” she said. “We’re having burgers, so if you brought some beer, I’m sure she’d be delighted.”

“Sure thing, see you then.”

I arrived and Ivy opened the door as I approached. She took the six-pack of local microbrew and invited me to have a seat in the front room. The smell of grilled meat wafted through the house, making me salivate. I was studying the ornately carved bannister when I felt a presence above me.

Then I saw her, Katherine Boyle. She was short and slight but had an air of authority, making her seem far larger. Her skin was ghostly pale, her hair, including eyebrows and lashes was purest white, her lips had the faintest hint of color and her eyes were a pale pink.

She smiled and I felt myself torn between being taken in by her unexpected and unconventional beauty and being terrified of the air of dominion she radiated. Some part of me felt as though she would overwhelm me, consume me, reduce me to nothing.

“Welcome to my home, Adrian,” she said, lighting on the last step. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I pushed the terror down. I told myself it was just my own unconscious biases at play. She’s a beautiful woman and she’s just said hello, speak up, dummy. “Ah, uh, hello Ms. Boyle. Thank you for having me.”

She sat in one of the wing chairs. “Katherine, please. Ivy tells me you work from home as well?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m a digital marketing strategist.”

Katherine smiled. “I don’t know what that means, but let’s not discuss work. What do you do for fun around here?”

“Except for going to concerts once a month or so I’m mostly a homebody,” I said.

“I understand that. Home is where we feel most comfortable, after all.” She rose and offered her hand. “Come, dinner should be ready any moment.”

Her hand was cold but smooth and I felt a wash of relief when I took it and stood. I held her hand in a stupor for too long, then came to my senses. “Oh, excuse me, I kind of spaced out there.”

She smiled and led me to the dining room. The table was set with white linens, fancy plates, and far too much silver cutlery. The burger and fries on the plates, along with the bottles of beer seemed wholly out of place. I looked for a bottle opener on the table but there wasn’t one. Katherine took my bottle, placed the edge of the cap against the corner of the table, and opened it with a sharp rap.

“Neat trick. Reminds me of college,” I said.

Katherine laughed and opened her own bottle.

I woke in my bed with a pounding headache, weak and woozy. It was the first hangover I’d had in over a decade. I tried to remember the previous night. We’d had dinner, then talked about music over scotch. Katherine had roused me, helping me across the street and into my house. I couldn’t remember how I got undressed and into bed, but I remembered the way her cheeks and lips were flushed, and her hands warm as she helped me up the stairs.

There was a cup of hot tea sitting on the nightstand next to my bed. In front of it was a note. “That scotch can be a little brutal, here’s something to help you through the day. — Ivy”

She’d obviously been in here in just the last few minutes. Is that what woke me? I sniffed the tea. It smelled heady and floral. I could see Ivy walking back across the street. When she reached her yard, she turned and waved. I sipped the tea, letting the warmth spread through me as I watched Ivy work in the garden. Katherine stepped out in dark sunglasses, stood in the shade of the entryway, and spoke to her. Ivy nodded and Katherine looked my way and waved. I waved back and she smiled before going back inside.

After Ivy’s miracle tea I felt much better. Still a little weak, but the headache was gone. I later thought it might be a bug rather than a simple hangover, though, as over the next few days several neighbors complained of similar symptoms. When I ran into Ivy at the mailboxes again, I apologized for my behavior, and thanked her for the tea. I asked for the recipe and she gave me a bag of it instead.

Katherine texted me, inviting me over for dinner again. I didn’t remember exchanging numbers, but hers was in my phone with a picture of her, so I must have done so while drunk. Once again, I found myself approaching Katherine’s door with Ivy opening it as soon as I was near. “Come in, she’s expecting you in the back yard.”

She sat on a blanket under a large shade umbrella, a picnic laid out. I joined her there and noticed she seem weak. Rather than bring it up I felt it better to just be there for her.

We had a quiet dinner while the sun set. After dark Katherine poured us wine. “If you could live forever, what would you do?”

“I would probably invest,” I said, “spend a few decades building up wealth, maybe real estate, so I could have something that kept me funded on its own. Then I’d want to travel — everywhere.”

“And after that?”

“Well, there’s languages to learn, instruments to learn, there’s always something to learn.”

Katherine smiled. “I think we could be friends, for a very long time.”

“I’d like that.” As soon as I said it I realized it was true. There was something compelling about her, something I couldn’t ignore.

We began to spend more evenings together, usually at her place, sometimes at mine. I made a point of getting to know Ivy as well and began running with her in the mornings before work. Every passing day more and more of my waking (and sleeping) thoughts were centered on Katherine.

I ended up getting entirely too drunk with her on more than one occasion, but the tea always made it better in the morning. Whatever bug had gone around the neighborhood seemed to pass for a couple months before starting up again. Oddly, except for the occasional hangover that was solved with Ivy’s magic tea, I didn’t catch anything. Even during flu season, when I would usually end up sick for a week or more, I stayed healthier than ever.

Indeed, I grew stronger. My runs with Ivy, difficult to finish at first, were becoming a warm-up followed by lifting weights before work. The weights that had gathered dust since the previous Christmas were, very soon, light enough that I was doing sets of sixty or more repetitions of each exercise.

I noticed that while I had built some muscle definition, the faint lines I’d been developing around my eyes began to fade. Despite the hangovers, which were milder each time, I felt better in the days following each than I ever had. Perhaps the tea was magical.

“Remember when you mentioned real estate, if you were to live forever?” Katherine asked.

“Yeah.” We were drinking beer, the TV on mute. My poorly furnished living room in the drab, off-white rental house was worlds away from her place in terms of class, but she made it feel comfortable.

“It’s a wise choice,” she said. “The house behind mine just went up for sale and I bought it immediately.”

“Income property or just because?”

“Maybe some of each.”

“What will you do with it?” I asked.

“Same as my place.” She raised her beer and an eyebrow. “Tear it out to the studs and the subfloor and rebuild the interior.”

“So, you’re loaded.” No sooner had I said it than I wished I hadn’t.

She snorted and chugged her beer. “No, but I do have a pleasant buzz.”

I laughed. “I’d like to kiss you,” I said.

She leaned towards me. “Then do it.”

Her lips were soft and cool, and my heart hammered as the kiss that started off gentle turned passionate. I pulled away reluctantly and was mesmerized by her eyes, reflecting the light of the TV.

“If I asked you to go with me to Istanbul, what would you say?”

“When do we leave?”

“And what if I said tomorrow night?”

“I need to go pack and cancel the rent on my house.” I meant it, with everything I had and somehow, she knew.

“Good. That may happen.” She grabbed another beer and opened it on my belt buckle. Katherine knew more ways of opening a beer bottle than anyone I’d ever met, and she managed to make it both elegant, and in this case, erotic.

“If you could live forever, would you want to?”

“If you’re there,” I said.

“And leave everything else behind?” She held a soft, small hand against my cheek.

“Everything but you, yes.”

“How old do you think I am?”

I realized that she wanted an honest answer. “Twenty-eight, tops.”

“I was born in 1619,” she said with absolute seriousness. “I was not always this way.” She held her pale hand in front of my face. “It came with the change.”

“The change… to what?”

“To what I am now.” Katherine held my face with both hands. “I’m going to show you something. You’re ready for it.”

My gaze was drawn to her mouth, where her canine teeth extended into fangs. I looked into her eyes and I could see concern, perhaps for how I would react. “Y—you’re a vampire?”

“Yes, and I’m sorry.” She touched my forehead and said, “Remember.”

I closed my eyes and the memories poured in; drinks, pain as her fangs sunk into my neck, a rush of euphoria that seemed to last for hours; her strength as she carried me up the stairs and tucked me into bed, her figure next to mine as I slept.

I opened my eyes and met her gaze. Her eyes stayed locked to mine. “Is this a problem?”

It took me a few seconds to admit it, but the answer was, “No, it’s not. I love you.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Will you join me?”

I nodded, unable to speak. I leaned into her and presented my neck. Her teeth sunk in; the pain far less than I remembered but the same rush of euphoria. The world spun as my vision darkened. I felt her pull away, then warm and moist on my lips, a taste of copper and iron. I latched on, drawing it in; strength flowed throughout my body. She pulled away and my heart broke, until she scooped me up and carried me to my room.

“The change will be gradual, but you’ll need to feed in the next week.” She brushed my hair back. “I’ll help you.”

The only response I was capable of was a weak nod. I felt both stronger and weaker than I ever had; like Superman encased in kryptonite. She handed me a cup of tea I didn’t recall her making.

As I sipped the tea she said, “This will pass. The weakness will wane throughout the day.” Morning light poured through my window. I’d missed half the night. “I need to rest. Ivy will check on you. When you’re feeling better come see me. Don’t knock, just come in.”

Ivy woke me again a few hours later with another cup of tea. “Here you go, Mr. Delacroix.”

“Thank you, Ivy,” I said, “and please, just call me Adrian.”

She watched as I sipped the tea. “So, she was serious.”

“How’s that?”

“I knew Ms. Boyle fancied you, but I didn’t expect she’d…”

“Turn me?” I asked.

Ivy nodded. “I suppose you’ll be around even more now?”

“How do you mean? We spend most every waking minute we can together.”

“Did you know she sneaks over here while you’re sleeping to lie next to you?”

“I do now.” It didn’t bother me; in fact, I found it endearing. “Will she be upset with you sharing her secrets?”

“If she was, I’d already know.”

I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I left it alone. “I’m feeling much better already,” I said. “Thank you again, Ivy.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “Should I set you a place for dessert?”

“Please.” I realized I smelled of sour sweat. “I’ll be over after I’ve had a chance to clean up.”

“See you then.”

I took my time in the shower, the water felt far hotter than normal, every drop traceable on my skin. My scalp tingled as I washed my hair and the smell of the shampoo was strong, as though the bottle was up my nose. I dressed up for the evening. The smells of cotton, leather, and linen mixed with the smell of lilies from the laundry detergent.

When I entered Katherine’s home, she was wearing an evening gown, and Ivy was setting desert on the table. I closed my eyes and savored the smells of coffee and chocolate, cream and cognac. She served tiramisu on silver-rimmed plates. For a change, Ivy joined us.

I took my time with it, savoring the flavors. The richness of the mascarpone and the bitter of the chocolate played off the sweet of the sugar and cognac. “This is the best tiramisu I’ve ever had.”

Katherine smiled. “It’s just the beginning,” she said.

We spent the rest of the evening lying in her back yard, watching the stars wheel through the sky. Katherine grabbed my hand, hers no longer felt cold to me. Still watching the stars, she asked, “Come with me to Istanbul?”

Trunk Stories

Legacy

prompt: Write a ghost story where there’s more going on than it first appears….
available at Reedsy

Rita and Paul walked in silence, avoiding the crowds, turning at random. At least Rita tried to keep it random, but she always ended up at the same place.

“We’re here, again.” Paul stepped aside to let her pass, and she entered the storefront, nothing more than a small sigh to signify her defeat.

They passed through the cafe in the front and entered the bookstore proper. Rita knew there was no longer any reason to deny what drew her and went straight to the new releases. The book sat before her, pompous and arrogant, the author’s face surrounded by a cloud of mathematical formulae.

“Rita, dear…” Paul placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’re here to help, but we can’t do it for you.”

“Yeah, no… I know.” She stared at the cover and time stopped. The symbols crawled over one another, shifting, turning. She knew they were wrong, somehow. “But, it’s not real… I mean….”

Paul tugged at her shoulder. “I understand, and we’re here for you.” He glanced at the darkening sky through the plate glass of the store. “It’s getting late, we should go.”

Rita nodded almost imperceptibly and deflated, her shoulders dropping and her gaze fixed on the floor. She let Paul lead her away like a child.

The morning snuck in gray and damp. Rita paced the house, waiting for Paul to wake. When she heard him stir, she stopped herself and took several deep, measured breaths. I can do this.

“Are you ready to try again?” Paul smiled, as if it were any normal day.

“I think so….”

“You went almost four hours yesterday. Maybe your avoidance idea is working.”

“How many times, now?”

His eyes softened. “Let’s not worry about counting. We’re here for you, however long it takes.”

As they walked, Rita decided a conversation might help her stop obsessing over the book. “Sure is a chilly morning for summer.”

“Yes, it would be, except it’s early fall now.” Paul bumped her shoulder. “Still, I get what you mean. More like a late fall morning.”

“When you first met me, what was I doing?”

“You were staring at the book. Motionless and unresponsive.” He looked at her. “Do you remember that day?”

“Not really…. I can’t remember anything before that day. Unless…” something tickled the back of her mind. “It’s like I can almost remember something.”

“Memories rattling in the back of the brain?” He chuckled. “We’ve all been there. That’s a good sign.” He stepped aside and motioned her in. “We’re here again.”

Rita walked through the cafe and past the new releases to the non-fiction section. The book was here now, but she didn’t have to search, it drew her.

“Rita, we’ve tried your way, but you’re still stuck.” Paul stood behind her, his hand on her shoulders. “Let’s try something different. Pick just one element on the book and focus on that until you remember that piece.”

She nodded and picked one formula. It was wrong, but she didn’t understand why yet. The numbers and symbols drew her in, swirling around until she was wading in them.

“It’s a mathematical model of… of… I can’t….”

“Shh. Take as long as you need.” Paul stepped back, and the formula drew her in.

She waded deeper, the numbers and symbols threatening to drown her, and still she pressed on. Was the formula growing or was she shrinking? Did it matter? It covered her, but instead of drowning she felt herself infusing into it. There was something intimate about it, embracing her like a mother.

“I made this. This formula describes pareidolia.” Rita turned around to see Paul smiling, standing still. “It’s a mathematical model for how our brains make patterns out of things. Mathematically it’s sound. Neurologically it’s correct. But it’s still wrong.”

“Good, Rita.” He took her hand. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Why is it wrong, though?” She had to know how something right, something she made, was so wrong.

“It’ll become clear the more you remember.” He put an arm around her shoulder to lead her out. “For now, remembering you made it is enough.”

In the days that followed she connected with more of the formulae. One was a model that described confirmation bias, another the electrical storm in the brain when oxygen starved. Processes of the mind, modeled in mathematical precision. She remembered the phrase “an astounding break-through in neuroscience.”

They stood in front of the bookstore, fresh snow drifting around their feet. Rita thought it had just been early fall a few days earlier. “Snow, already?”

Paul said nothing, but held the door while she entered. He followed her to the book. “You remembered a phrase the other day.” He pointed at the book. “Can you find it?”

She looked at the book again. Up to now, Rita had been so drawn by the author’s face and the cloud of formulae around her she hadn’t even noticed the words. “There, at the bottom. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. Instead, try to look somewhere new. What is the title of the book?”

Rita stared at the book and time stopped again. There was a title here somewhere. “Got it. ‘The Deceitful Brain: Neuroscience Explains the Supernatural.’”

“That’s good, Rita. Shall we call it a day?”

“No.” Rita focused on the words on the cover. “I’l figure this out, today.”

“Ok, I’m here when you need us.”

Rita reached out, her hand inches from the book. “I can see all the words inside… it’s like… I know this.” She took in a sharp breath. “I remember writing this. The picture on the cover is me. I was right when I wrote it, I knew. So why is it wrong now?”

“Hm. What happened after you wrote it?”

She closed her eyes and saw herself holding a copy of the book, opening it and scrawling her signature. The book signing flooded back into her memory. Scores of people waiting for an autographed copy, but only one face was in focus.

“There was a man at the signing. He didn’t want a copy or an autograph. He got right in my face and told me I was going to hell, that it was the devil, not science guiding me. And then he….” She shook as fright overtook her.

Paul embraced her. “We’re all here for you. He can’t hurt you now, but you’re close. Remember. What did he do then?”

“He pulled out a… a gun. I felt a burning flash across my face as the bullet tore through my brain.” She stepped back from Paul. “And then I was here, with you.” She looked back at the book. “That’s why it’s wrong. I’m proof that it’s wrong.”

“Do you regret writing it? Regret is powerful and difficult to shake.”

“Not… no, not regret. Just sad, I guess.” She turned away from the book. “Can we leave now?”

“Sure.” Paul smiled and led her to the door where an inviting summer day beamed in. “But we can’t go with you, you don’t need us any more.”

“Thanks, Paul.” Rita gave him a quick hug, sensing the multitude of souls gathered around him, before stepping out of the bookstore for the last time.

Trunk Stories

Coffee at the Crossroads

prompt: Set your story in a coffee shop that’s just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks….
available at Reedsy

Nexus Coffee Bar sat in a place of pride in the middle of the Nexus. Situated at the crossing point between Earth and the outer planes; between Heaven and Hell. It sat at the crossroads of reality. As such, it was frequented by customers both Celestial and Infernal, not that one could tell the difference by looking. In fact, I blended right in, and I am neither.

Long ago, I discovered I could walk out of Hell uncontested. I never made it further than the Nexus before finding myself back again, though. Each trip I could spend more and more time there, as long as I didn’t let my mind go blank. It was on one of those trips that I realized the coffee bar was free, and I became a regular.

“Did you hear the latest A/D stats?” The voice that whispered in my ear with a warm puff belonged to Azreasha, or “Rae” as she preferred. Azraesha was an inveterate flirt, which I figured out on our first meeting. She was also an Infernal, although I only found that out after we’d talked a few dozen times.

“No, I didn’t. Interesting news?” I whispered back. I learned a long time ago to just go along with the conversation and not try to fake any sort of knowledge I didn’t have, like what an “A/D stat” was, or why I should care.

“She’s just excited because we’re slipping.” The voice whispered in my other ear, although with less breath, belonged to the Celestial, Lillian.

I turned around and leaned in close to the two, who stood with an arm around each other’s waist. “Why are we whispering?”

“I don’t know,” Azraesha whispered. There was an awkward moment between the three of us. I’m not sure who started it, but we fell into a fit of the giggles. An outside observer would never guess that the slim, pale, freckle-faced, pony-tailed redhead was an Infernal, the short, dun-skinned brunette with bright green eyes and a hint of pink in her cheeks was a Celestial, or that the dark brown-skinned woman with messy black curls was a human who had walked out of Hell.

“Should I pick up our order while you two find a table?” I asked.

“You’re such a dear,” Lillian said. “I’ll have a triple anger-brew today. I’m going to need the energy.”

“Just my usual, cutie.” Azraesha brushed her hand against my cheek.

“Okay, a triple anger, a half-and-half love and lust, and a double peace for me. I’ll be right back.”

One of the unusual features of the Nexus Coffee Bar was the ordering system. Once one decided what they wanted it was started without requiring any other input. Except for times when it was super busy, it was enough to decide on entering what to order and head straight to the counter to pick it up. Our coffees were sitting in a carrier on the counter by the time I got there. Tucked between the cups was a flyer.

I found the ladies at a table in a back corner and joined them. Lillian looked at the flyer and said, “Ooh, fall tasting tomorrow. I’ll be here.” She held the flyer out. “Rae?”

Azraesha read it, a smile spreading across her face. “I love these things. I wonder if they’ll have any new flavors this time, or just the usual fall lineup. Either way, you know I’ll be here.” She passed the flyer to me. “What about you, Abby?”

“Hm, a coffee tasting? I’ve never been to one.” I smiled. “I think it might be fun.”

Lillian raised an eyebrow. “On that note, I think Rae is bursting to tell her news.”

Azraesha sat up straight, shoulders back. “The A/D rate for the last quarter, it’s… just insane! 6.4 percent ascension, which is about average, but,” her eyes widened, “descension was up from 0.3 percent to 2.4 percent!”

“Descension?” I asked. Ascension made sense to me — those who ascended, from Hell to Heaven. Did this mean it could work the other way, too?

“It’s incredibly rare… or at least it used to be,” Azraesha answered, “but sometimes souls travel from Heaven to Hell.”

“There’s been some sort of emotional sickness, a sort of memetic virus spreading there.” Lillian sighed. “We’re doing what we can to limit the spread, but it’s difficult.”

Azraesha hugged her. “Leelee, I’m here for you. You’ll get through this.”

Lillian leaned her head on Azraesha’s shoulder. “Thanks, Rae, but don’t call me Leelee.”

Lillian sat up and started in on her extra-strong coffee. “So, Abby, how much longer do you think it’ll be before you ascend?”

I was stunned. It didn’t occur to me that they might know I wasn’t one of them. “I, uh… what?”

Azraesha laughed. “Don’t be surprised. We knew you were a human all along.” She leaned in close. “You’ve already figured out that you can walk out of Hell.”

I nodded. “I can, but I keep popping back there. It’s annoying.”

Rae lifted my face with a gentle finger on my chin. “When you figure out what you’re holding on to, you’ll be out for good.”

“What I’m holding on to?” I searched her blue eyes for an answer but found none. “I just keep getting dragged back.”

Azraesha leaned forward, close to rubbing noses. “The only thing that can drag you anywhere is you.” She gave me quick kiss on the forehead. “We have to get to our jobs. See you here tomorrow!”

I wandered around the Nexus for a while, mulling over what Rae had said. According to her, something I’m holding on to is the reason I keep going back to Hell. To put it out of my mind I watched the crowds streaming through, trying to guess Celestial or Infernal. But from the way Rae and Lillian had just acted, any of them could be human as well. With that the game lost its luster and I found myself back in Hell.

It’s not like the stories. There’s no fire and brimstone, or demons with pitchforks, or anything even remotely sinister. Instead, it’s my life, but the only parts I can see are those where I made a mistake, wronged someone, or hurt someone. At first it was every single horrible moment. Over time I grew inured to most of them. Now, only one remained.

“Mom! Look, I don’t have time for this.” My exasperated sigh was exaggerated for effect. “I’m going to the mountains with some friends from work, we can talk about it when I get back.” My knuckles grew white as I gripped the cell and my mother droned on.

“Abby, I really feel like I need to see you, today.” Her voice shook. “I don’t feel… it just… something feels off, and I need you here.”

“Mom, I just spent the whole weekend with you last week, my friends want to see me now.” I rolled my eyes. “There’s nothing wrong, just watch your shows and I’ll stop by when we get back Sunday evening.”

“Abigail, please, I need to see you today.”

“Mother, I love you but you’re being selfish and more than a little of a pain in the ass. You’ll see me Sunday. Bye.” I ended the call before she could say any more.

I didn’t get to experience the trip again, as that was a good time. Sunday morning, we packed up and headed back to civilization. As we reached the pass and re-entered the connected world my phone blew up — missed calls, texts, voicemails. My friends dropped me at the hospital, and I left my bags with them.

My mother didn’t see me on Sunday. She’d had a stroke two hours after our call, fell into a coma, and never recovered. I held her hand and cried; begged for her forgiveness. She had reached out to me and I blew her off. More than anything, I hoped she knew that I loved her.

After I endured this never-changing loop several hundred times, I forced myself to turn around and walk. The Nexus was never more than a few steps away. No matter how long I spent in Hell, every time I entered the Nexus was the “next day” relative to the last time I’d been there.

Lillian and Azraesha were already seated and Lillian waved me over. “You’re just in time. They’re bringing the samples out now.”

The tables were set with small plates, scorecards and pencils, water glasses, still water and sparkling water, soda crackers, and pear slices. “What’s with the snacks?” I asked.

“These are for cleansing your palate between samples.” Azraesha placed a soda cracker and slice of pear on her plate and poured herself a glass of sparkling water. Lillian did the same, but with still water. I followed suit, and Azraesha filled my glass with sparkling water before I could decide between the two.

Wait staff brought out trays with five shot glasses on each, numbered. In the center of the table they placed five cards, face-down, numbered on the backs; the fronts held the names of the drinks. The score card listed the numbers and a place to enter a score, 0 – 10, for each one. There was room for comments on the back of the cards, but Lillian told me hardly anyone filled that part out.

We decided to go through them in order, starting at number one. Lillian and Azraesha decided we wouldn’t look at the names of any we hadn’t yet tried.

Rae sniffed the first. “They do this one every fall,” she said, “and for some reason there are a lot of folks hooked on it.”

It smelled spicy and rich. The taste was warm and complex, with a sharp tang and an earthy sweetness underneath. “It tastes a bit like cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, and is that pumpkin?” I asked. As it went down, I felt a lurch in my stomach as if I were falling. “What is that?”

I turned over the card, but before I had a chance to read it Azraesha answered, “Fright; not my favorite — hate it.” She marked a dark 0 on the scorecard. Lillian, however, shivered once and beamed.

“I take it you like it?”

“It’s the best part of fall,” she said, marking a 10 on her scorecard.

I marked it a 3, but probably should have marked it lower. The next, I hoped, would be better.

After a small bite of cracker and pear, and a couple sips of water we moved on to number two. “Oh,” Lillian said after sniffing it. “If it’s what I think it is they haven’t done this one in a few years. I missed it.”

After her 10 on the first, I was hesitant to trust her recommendation. Still, that’s what I was here for, to try new things. It smelled a bit like moist dirt. I took a sip, and Azraesha and Lillian watched closely. “There’s a sweet but sour taste to it, kind of like a berry top-note.” After swallowing the rest I felt a mild case of the blues creeping up on me. I hesitated to turn the card over, but Lillian swooped in and did it.

“Yes! They brought Melancholy back!” She marked another 10 on her scorecard, while Azraesha and I both rated it a solid 6. She looked at our cards. “You two have no taste!”

“Says the woman who slams triple-angers,” Azraesha said.

We cleansed our palates and moved on the next on the list. “The rest of these are all brand new,” Azraesha said. We could see that on the scorecards, where next to each of the remaining numbers was a little blue stamp that said, “Brand NEW!” but we didn’t bother to point that out to her.

The next one was difficult to define. Every time I thought I had a grip on the smell, I lost it. “I — I’m not sure what this smells like, besides coffee.” Lillian and Azraesha both looked confused as they smelled it. “Well, down the hatch.”

“It tastes like citrus, or — no,” Azraesha said, “not citrus, more like, uh….”

“I’m not sure what it tastes like. It’s really subtle, almost insidious.” I looked at the empty shot glass. “I didn’t feel anything, though. Wait — maybe I did. I’m not sure.”

Frustrated I grabbed the name card and turned it over — Doubt. “Considering it does exactly what it says in the name I want to rate it high, but the flavor is just so-so.” After a bit of back-and-forth, we all rated it a 5 and got ready for the next round.

“It’s got a peaty smell,” Lillian said.

We all agreed and swallowed it down. “Dark,” Azraesha said.

“Almost too dark,” I said. “Almond notes.” The possibility that it was laced with cyanide popped into my head. My stomach tied itself in knots, my heart raced. Maybe drinking coffee designed for Celestials and Infernals was a bad idea for a human.

“I love it,” Azraesha said, and marked it 10 on her score card.

Lillian marked it a 6. “It’s all right, but I don’t think it agrees with Abby.”

Azraesha handed me a cracker and a slice of pear. “Here, take this.”

I did, and as my palate cleared the feeling went away. “Let me guess, Dread, right?”

Azraesha turned the card over. “Damn! She got it! I thought maybe it was loathing.”

I marked a 0 on that one and we took a short break before the last one. Finally, we all grabbed our last sample and took a sniff. Lillian’s nose wrinkled and Azraesha turned aside in disgust. To me, it smelled like… home.

“Well, we didn’t come this far to back out now,” Azraesha said. She placed another cracker and several slices of pear on her plate and refilled her water. She took a deep breath and said, “Let’s do this.”

Azraesha swallowed, gagged, chugged her sparkling water and stuffed a cracker in her mouth. Lillian frowned. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” she said.

“It’s warm, it tastes familiar, comfortable,” I said. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste, but for some reason it tastes normal to me.” I marked it a 10 while Azraesha and Lillian both marked it a 0. Azraesha turned the card over and nodded. When she didn’t say anything else, I looked at the card myself. Guilt. Her words returned, that I needed to figure out what I was holding on to. That was it.

“Azraesha, thank you.”

“For what, Abigail?” She was casually nibbling on the remaining pear slices.

“I know what keeps dragging me back.” I lifted the shot glass. “This.”

“That’s foul,” Lillian said. “You definitely need to let go of that.”

“I used to wish we were more like humans,” Azraesha said. “I won’t say I envied you, except when they do the Envy blend in the spring, but I thought it must be nice to be able to feel emotions just… whenever.”

“It’s a bad deal, though,” Lillian said. “Who wants to feel anger when you need to focus, or contentment when you need to fight?”

“Exactly.” Azraesha grabbed my hand and held it between her own. “And who would ever want to feel… that,” she said, nodding at the shot glass in my other hand. “I’d rather be run through with a spike.”

I felt the weight lift for the first time since my mother died. Tears began to pool in my eyes.

“Oh no,” Lillian said, “we made her sad.”

“No,” I said, “not sad. Just very happy right now.”

“But you’re crying.”

“Lillian,” Azraesha asked, “are you telling me you’ve never heard of happy tears?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of it, I just thought it was a saying or something. I didn’t know it was real.”

I turned the shot glass upside down and slammed it down on the table. “Can I have a hug?”

Instead of answering they both moved around the table and held on to me. “I’ve let go of so many other things, I think it’s time to let this go, too.”

As we held on to each other I noticed that they both started tearing up. “Happy tears!” Lillian said, and she and Azraesha laughed together.

“But, how?” I asked. “I thought you couldn’t feel emotion without…” I nodded toward the empties on the table.

“That,” Azraesha said, “or if a human openly shares it with us. Thank you. This is the most precious gift ever.”

We held each other for what felt like hours, although it was likely only a minute or two. “You two probably need to get to work. Meanwhile, I think I’m ready to go home.”

They kissed me on opposite cheeks, then we untangled. The two of them hugged briefly and giggled, wiping their tears, before walking their separate ways.

I strolled around the Nexus, watching people, not trying to figure out who or what they were, but just… watching. I cleared my mind and let myself drift, and a door opened to my right. Beyond the door stood my mother, arms open, a warm smile on her face. I ascended.

Trunk Stories

Rules of Holy Procedure

prompt: Write about two characters on the verge of a life-changing event, but one has rigged the outcome….
available at Reedsy

Those defeated in battle, along with their families, lands, and properties, shall become the spoils of the victor for ten generations. All generations from the eleventh on shall be free. So demands the God of War.

— Book of War: Chapter 37, Stanza 19

The flags of the world government, red stripes top and bottom on a white background with a black skull in the center, flapped in the arid winds off the desert. Gulls called from the shore of the ocean that lapped against the city’s edge. Other than the birds, the streets of the city were silent, everyone taking their mid-afternoon break for prayers and meditation. For Berk, it was a chance to get out of the heat and rest. He wasn’t one for prayers, or meditation, or religion at all; especially not the warrior cult that had taken over the entire world.

He sat at his reloading station, powder, primers, bullets, and shells around him, the press in front. A box full of reloaded ammo sat on the floor next to him. He took a shell and seated a primer. He placed the shell in the press along with a bullet and seated it, no powder. The dummy round sat in the press where he left it.

“Hey, Armine, is it still a cult if it’s the primary religion world-wide?” Berk asked. He turned to look at the young woman, the slave he’d grown up with. Her straight black hair was pulled back into a sloppy bun, and a loose, sleeveless yellow summer dress hung on her thin frame, highlighting her dun skin. Her bright blue eyes shone with a smirk he knew well.

“It’s my opinion,” she said, “that every religion that ever existed or does exist was, and still is, a cult. Even one that runs a global theocracy.”

Berk thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think you have the right of it.”

“You know, if anyone hears us talking like this, we’ll be in the training yard.”

“I know, Armine. It’s just us here, love.” He stood and crossed the room to the small kitchen. “Would you like something cold to drink?”

“Yes, please,” she said. A small chuckle escaped her lips. “What would the priests say if they saw this?”

“Something like, ‘Treat your slave in a manner becoming her station, say ten prayers for purification and meditate on flanking tactics,’ I guess.” He set two glasses of ice-water on the low coffee table and sat on the sofa beside her.

She took a long drink then laid her head on his lap. “No, I think they’d say, ‘Into the yard with both of you!’”

His brown eyes searched her face for some hint of a joke but found none. He frowned. “You’re right, you know.”

“I usually am,” she said.

Berk stroked her hair. “We’ve got the monthly service to attend this evening. I’m sorry in advance.”

She smiled. “It’s okay. I know you don’t mean anything by it, and I’m used to it. My family has been slave to yours for eight generations. This house, and the land around it, was my great-great-however-many-times-grandfather’s when your people raided this land.”

Berk looked out on the sun-bleached skeletons of the orange grove that lay behind the house. His frown deepened. “I know, and it makes me sick. You know I only act the part to protect you — and myself, if I’m honest.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, raising a hand to stroke his cheek. “But hey, I have no offspring, you have no offspring. If we just wait it out it’s over for both of our families.”

“I know.” He continued to pet her hair. “I want my family to end, that’s why I got the operation. But yours doesn’t have to.”

“My child would be your property until your death, at which point I, and my child, will belong to the priests.”

“The Holy Court has already set a precedent. They let a slave and his family go after seven generations when the owning family died out completely.” He smiled at her. “They even awarded the properties of the former owners, as the slaves ‘defeated’ them by outliving them.”

“So, I should just kill you in your sleep?”

“I’m really not ready to die, love. I think I might fight back out of instinct.”

She grabbed his knees in an awkward hug, her head still on his lap. “I couldn’t do it, you know.”

“I know. And again,” he said, “I want to apologize in advance for this evening. It’s not going to be easy for either of us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The doctor that did the surgery last year was — questioned by the priests last week.”

“You think he told them?”

“I’m sure they tortured it out of him. I’ve been told to be in full battle dress for the service.” He took her hand. “You are to be as well.”

“Full battle dress?” Her eyes went wide. “But slaves aren’t allowed to carry weapons in the city.”

“Tonight, you are.” He helped her sit up and stood. “You’ll use one of my carbines.”

“Do they know you trained me how to use it?”

“I’m sure. It’s expected that I’d teach you how to defend your home.”

“You mean my owner’s home?”

“No, your home. It’s not really mine. Never was. I just happen to live here.” Berk gave a sad smile. “Let’s just get ready.”

Berk laid out his uniform, a pair of matching carbines, and two magazines. He loaded the ammo into both. He looked at them and pulled a round out of one. He dropped the round into the box of completed reloads and pulled the dummy from the press, loading it as the first round in the magazine. He compared the weight of them. Satisfied, he dressed and placed the magazines in a cargo pocket.

Petitioner Garret Hern, 7th generation slave to family Pritt, has been judged as defeating said family by virtue of outliving the entire family line. For what is victory in combat, but staying alive longer than your foe? For this reason, the Holy Court has adjudged Garret Hern and his family free citizens and awards all the properties and monies of the family Pritt to his name. He is cleansed in the sight of the God of War and worthy of entry into the land of the blessed.

— Holy Court Ruling: Hern v. Pritt (decedents represented in absentia by the Priesthood)

Before they left the house, Berk and Armine checked each other’s uniforms, and Berk handed Armine one of the carbines and slung the other over his shoulder. He placed a folded piece of paper in his breast pocket. She slung her rifle and reached for the paper, but Berk stopped her hand. “What is it?” she asked.

“Just a reminder for later,” he said.

She followed Berk by the prescribed three small steps behind to the church. As they entered, they were stopped by a priest, hidden in red and white robes with red gloves, who examined their weapons. “Do you have the ammo?” she asked.

Berk pulled the magazines from his cargo pocket.

The priest looked at the magazines, pushed down on the tops to ensure they were full, and handed them back to Berk. If she noticed any discrepancies, she didn’t mention it. “You may give her a magazine now. You are not to load until ordered.”

“Yes, your holiness,” they replied in unison.

He hefted the magazines for a second, one in each hand, and handed the one in his right to Armine. For her part, she kept head bowed during the entire exchange as expected of her, and accepted the magazine with a “Thank you, master.”

Berk walked to his place in the church and Armine picked up a stool from the pile in the back. She brought it, head bowed, and placed it for Berk to sit on. As he sat, she knelt on the hard stone floor behind him. Around them, others were sitting on stools either brought by their slave or, if they had none, by their own hand. There were glares and scowls on the faces that turned Berk’s way, along with pity in the eyes of those who deigned to look at the slave to his rear.

Beside the podium stood the statue of the God of War, a skeleton clad in combat armor. The priests, instead of beginning the service, motioned to a tall figure in a black robe with a long grey beard hanging almost to his waist; a Holy Court judge. The judge approached the podium.

“We will forgo the usual services this evening,” the judge said in a reedy voice, his beard moving with the words. “There is a matter of heresy in this church, and it will be dealt with tonight.”

The doctor was led out, wearing battle fatigues, a pistol holstered at his waist. One eye was swollen shut and his face was a mass of bruises. He stopped in front of the statue and knelt. The priest placed a hand on his shoulder, and he stood.

“You have performed an illegal procedure. Can you reverse it?” the judge asked.

“I can, your eminence,” the doctor replied, head bowed.

“Once Berk Garvin has been cleansed of his heresy, you will do this, and the church will appoint him a wife with which he is to produce no fewer than three children.” The judge leaned forward. “Until such time as the court has proof that Mister Gavin’s fertility has been restored you are to be considered an apostate.”

The audience cheered, stomped their feet and shouted derision at Berk and the doctor.

The judge flipped a switch on the podium and the training yard behind the church showed in holographic glory in the front of the church. “Berk Garvin has committed heresy by attempting to render himself sterile before producing offspring. In doing so, he has forsaken the sacred pact to his slave, Armine Montoya, and her future family, for whom the church has lined up a suitable mate to produce offspring to continue her family’s penance.”

Berk stood. “And what about Hern versus Pritt?” he yelled. “Did the Holy Court find Hern had been forsaken?”

“Pritt had a wife who died in childbirth, and two sons, not yet breeding age, who died in combat, as did he. Hern was there, fighting valiantly to protect the Pritts, and had a small child left behind in care at the Pritt estate. Your case is nothing like that. You sought to purposely avoid offspring in order to get out of your family’s obligation to the Montoya family. That is sacrilege of the highest order, and an affront to Armine Montoya and the desecration of her name.”

Four priests approached and led Berk and Armine out to the training field. The judge’s voice was being broadcast out here, just as everything they were doing out here was being viewed in the holograph inside. “Berk Garvin, Armine Montoya, load your weapons, and take your places. The aggrieved shall have the cover to the west, the defendant the cover to the east.”

Armine looked at Berk who smiled and nodded at her. Sadness darkened his eyes, even as his smile remained. He slammed the magazine home and put a round in the chamber. Armine did the same.

“I think this might be goodbye, love,” he whispered.

The priests led them to opposite ends of the training yard. There were barricades and small walls spread about for cover and concealment. The priests went into a dugout bunker beneath one side of the field and the large autocannon on the wall of the church swung back and forth between the two combatants.

“Begin!”

Berk stepped out from behind the wall, his carbine at his shoulder. He squinted against the setting sun. Armine stepped out and dove for cover behind the next wall. “I can’t!” she yelled. The autocannon swiveled to point at her.

“You have to!” he yelled back.

She rolled out from behind the wall into a kneeling position. They sighted on each other and pulled their triggers at the same time. One shot rang out, the other was a light pop. Berk smiled. “Good girl,” he said, as blood spread across his shirt, front and back. He was dead before he fell. A cheer could be heard in the courtyard from inside the church.

“It is done,” the judge said. “Armine Montoya has defeated Berk Garvin. The Holy Court has adjudged Armine Montoya a free citizen and awards all properties and monies of the family Garvin to her name. Furthermore, Berk Garvin, dying in fair combat, has cleansed his soul of heresy and will return to the God of War.”

The doctor ran out to the training yard. “No! No! Now I can’t fix it! I’m cursed!” He reached for his pistol and Armine fired again, dropping him. Another cheer rose up from the church.

“Armine Montoya, the family and properties of Doctor Silvas are your spoils, for ten generations.”

“I don’t want it.”

The church fell silent. “You would desecrate the Silvas name?” The judge’s voice wavered in uncertainty.

“I don’t care about the Silvas name. I won’t take any slaves, and I don’t want his property.”

“You would turn your back on the God of War? The God that brought the entire world together under one banner?”

Armine slung her rifle and put her hands on her hips. “You really think an imaginary skeleton in armor did this? If you had read more than your holy book, you’d know there was no god. It was a nihilist group that infiltrated the governments of the nuclear powers and turned their own weapons against them. It wasn’t your god that slagged the planet, it was people; and they’ll do it again someday.”

“Armine Montoya, you are hereby banished. The mention of your name or likeness is blasphemy. You are not to enter any city, town, village, hamlet or domicile in the land of the blessed. May you die alone and miserable in the wastes.”

“Suits me fine.” She walked to Berk’s body, took his carbine, and pulled the paper from his breast pocket and read it. “I’m sorry, my love. If this goes the way I think it will, I’ll be dead. Take your home back, your life. You are free.”

“Thank you. I hope you’re free too.” She kissed his forehead, then walked out the back gate of the training yard.

A victor who claims not the defeated as their own property for ten generations desecrates their own name and that of their foe and is thus cursed for all eternity. Having turned their back to God, the land of the blessed is forbidden them. The defeated so cursed must be purified by offering themselves, their families, and their properties as a sacrifice to the priests of war. So demands the God of War.

— Book of War: Chapter 37, Stanza 20

Trunk Stories

Leaving the Desert

prompt: Write a post-apocalyptic story triggered by climate change….
available at Reedsy

The boy sighting down his rifle beside me was barely fifteen. “Do you think they have any?”

“Water? Not likely.” I was looking at the defensive lines ahead of us through a sniper scope. I might have felt better about the situation if I had the rifle to go with it. “Maybe some food, probably ammo, too.”

“So why are we…” the boy began.

“Hush, Jordan.” Satisfied that nothing was happening ahead I lowered the scope and met Jordan’s eyes. “Either we take them out, or they take us out. That simple.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to join up, work together?” The innocent naivety poured off him in waves. With a little meat on his bones, and a scrub-up, he’d be one of those boys described as cherubic. Instead, his cheeks hollow, blue eyes sunk, skin darkened by sun and grime, and curly blonde hair plastered on his head with sweat, he just looked like another victim of the water wars.

“How well did that work out for your folks?” As soon as I snapped it out I felt terrible. Jordan turned away, looking back down his rifle at the quiet defensive works.

“I’m sorry, Jordan. Fuck, I… shouldn’t have said that.” I turned my attention to the horizon to hide the tears pooling and threatening to fall.

“No, you’re right.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you really think we can make it to the big lake?”

I stowed the scope in a pouch at my waist. “It’s Great Lakes. Honestly? I don’t know. But we’ll have to go through their territory to do it. Let’s get back to camp.”

We eased back down the hill behind us until we were safe to stand. We were less than an hour out from our camp if we moved fast, but the late afternoon sun made steady, conservative movement safer. The air shimmered with heat, making the sparse, dry grasses seem to swim before our eyes.

“How many gun placements did you see?”

“I counted four for sure,” Jordan said, “and maybe another one, but too far to see.” Jordan had the energy-conserving, ground-eating walk of those raised in the desert plains of Kansas. It had taken me a couple years to pick it up. “How did I do?” he asked.

“It wasn’t a test, but yeah, five.” I patted the pouch with the scope. “We’ll need to find another one of these, or maybe some binoculars if you’re going to be scouting all the time.”

“Was there anything else you saw?”

“Markers – little flags – in a row between the hills and the emplacements. Probably a mine field.”

“Shit.”

“Language.”

Jordan laughed. “As if you’re one to talk.”

“I’m more than twice your age. And I’m supposed to be teaching you how to be an adult.”

“That’s no reason to be a hypocrite. Besides, you’re not that old,” he said, a crooked smile lighting up his eyes.

“Don’t think that buttering me up gets you off the hook.” I gave him a sidelong glance, his expression taking on the sweet, puppy-eyed look. “Okay, okay. You’re old enough to decide what you say and when. Just not around Marla, she’ll tear me a new asshole.”

He laughed. “Why are you together with her? You’re way prettier than she is… and nicer too.”

“That’s not…” I stopped myself before chiding him again. “We’re together because we love each other. Nothing more, nothing less.” There was more, but I didn’t feel like talking about it. “She’s not mean, she’s just… focused — and sad.”

“A lot of people in the camp are,” he said. “Sad, that is. I don’t get it. They say they wish it was like the ‘old days’ and then talk for hours about how dirty the sky was, and how their parents and grandparents kept breaking the world.”

“You were born to this, so you don’t know anything else. They talk about the bad times, after the good times, so we don’t forget that all this,” I gestured to the arid landscape around me, “was our fault.”

“How so?”

“We, humans that is, decided we liked having limitless energy on demand and cheap plastic crap more than we liked the planet. When the oceans started rising and fresh water started running out, instead of trying to fix things, we burned more fuel harvesting the ice in the Antarctic.” I shrugged. “Even before that was all gone, we all started killing each other for whatever was left.”

“But no one in the camp could be old enough to remember that far back.”

“True, but our parents and grandparents were.”

“Huh.” He seemed to ponder this for a while as we walked.

“Gloria,” he asked, “why did you take me in? When my parents….” He trailed off.

“I think it was the sad, puppy-eyes you make.” I laughed, but it wasn’t real. It was the polite laughter that said ‘now that I’ve made a joke let’s leave this alone.’

If I had to be honest with myself, his expression was part of it. Another part was knowing that if no one claimed him, a ten-year-old boy would have been left in the wilderness on his own. Like Marla, when I claimed her. We found her starving on her own in the wilderness, maybe ten or eleven, she wasn’t sure. I was only fourteen myself, but I convinced my mother that I’d take on the extra work to make sure she had food and shelter. When my mother died of the fever four years later, I’d already managed to get my own tent and gear, and a herd of goats. Marla still wasn’t ready to face the world, so she moved in with me, and mother’s belongings were shared out among the camp. She’s never talked about what she went through, but I let her know, often, that when she’s ready to talk I’m ready to listen.

“That’s not really it,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. My sun-baked olive skin looked dark against his faded brown shirt. The copper ring Marla had made for me a few years ago was dull and left green marks on my skin, but I never took it off. “It was Marla. She wouldn’t leave you behind.”

“Really?” He had a momentary look of surprise, but covered it up with his all-too-frequently-common adolescent swagger. “I guess she can be nice. You know I would’ve survived anyway.”

“I know,” I lied. “You’re tough like that.”

“But, thanks — for saving my life.”

It was something I hadn’t heard from him in at least two years. Not just the thanks, but the sincerity of tone. As much as I wanted to hug him close I knew he was ‘too old’ for that, and settled for giving his shoulder a little squeeze.

As we neared the camp the smell of meat roasting over flame tempted us in. Twilight was just setting in and I pointed out Venus on the horizon.

“Venus,” he said. “Good luck, right?”

“I don’t really believe in luck.” I walked into our tent and shucked my gear, and Jordan did the same, taking care to put our packs and weapons in their proper places. “Thank you, Jordan. Should we eat first, or give our report?”

“Let’s give our report first. Then we can take our time with dinner.” He looked as if he wanted to ask something, but didn’t.

“Yes, after dinner you can go make googly eyes at Karina.”

“I wasn’t going to — I mean that’s not…,” he sputtered.

“That’s exactly what you’ll do if you’re smart,” Marla said. She’d snuck in so silently that neither of us heard her. She held something out to Jordan. “I found you this. You know where the tools are.”

She handed him a piece of heavy-gauge copper wire and pointed to the metal-working tools at the side of the tent. He looked at the wire in confusion. Her brown hair hung lank over her pale, freckled face, hiding one of her deep-green eyes. She wasn’t out much during the day, instead taking guard duty most nights.

“You said you wanted to learn how to make one of these,” she said, pointing at the ring on my finger. “You might as well make one for Karina.” Turning to me she said, “Captain’s waiting for your report. You take care of that and I’ll fix you some dinner.”

“You heard the lady. Let’s go Jordan.”

The “Captain”, Howard Colm, pored over maps, comparing recent, hand-drawn maps to pre-fall maps, plotting possible courses to Lake Superior. He was our camp’s de-facto leader by dint of having been a military officer in the tail-end of the water wars, and staying alive as long as he had. I’m sure he was over seventy, but still limber, agile, and strong.

“What can you add?” He spun the map around so we were looking at it right-side up and pointed to the area we had just scouted.

There was a history of our entire journey on the map, years of traveling, detours, and areas marked as too dangerous to pass. Not far to our east was Kansas City, circled in red with the words “New Nation Army” written above. To the north, where we had just scouted, the map was blank, except for the penciled-in words “Army of the East” with a large question mark.

I drew in the earthworks that formed their defilade position and added a line where the markers had been. “I think this is a mine field, but there were no markings on the flags so I can’t be sure.”

Jordan added the five machine gun positions. “They don’t seem like they’re in a hurry to leave. You think they’ll actually leave all that work behind and attack?”

“Son, if they’ve got the same sort of water shortage we do, they might do anything, sane or not.” With that, Howard sent us on our way.

“Gloria,” he asked, “does that mean we might do anything, sane or not?”

“I hope not, Jordan.” I put my arm around him and headed back toward our tent.

We were halfway there when he squirmed out from under my arm. Karina was bouncing up to meet us, her face pink, as if she’d been scrubbing it with sand like we do the dishes. Her blonde hair was hidden under a cap, and her brown eyes reflected the light of the rising moon. “Jordan, can you come have dinner with us tonight?”

He looked at me and I nodded. “Have fun,” was all I got out before the two of them bolted for her father’s tent. Marla was watching, and shook her head with a little smile.

With the current lack of water for anything other than drinking, dinner consisted of rabbit jerky and dried roots that had been pounded out into a dry not-quite-paste and warmed over the coals. Not gourmet, but filling at least. The wind shifted and the smell of cooking meat blew into the tent, making our stomachs grumble.

“The goat will be ready in another couple hours,” Marla said. “Anita and Carla took over from Sten. There’s enough for everyone to have at least a little.”

“That was our last, wasn’t it?”

Marla didn’t answer right away, but the look in her eyes told me I was right. “No water, couldn’t keep her alive.”

I moved next to her and pulled her close. “Shhh. We’ll make it through.” I don’t know if she believed me or not, but she curled up next to me and laid her head on my lap. We fell asleep on the ground there, never making it to the pile of blankets we called a bed.

When morning broke there was a slab of goat meat on a plate in the tent. Too large, if Anita and Carla were sharing it out fairly. Or then, maybe not, since it was the last, and we’d been the ones that provided the herd for the camp in the first place. At some point in the night Jordan had returned and put a blanket over us. He was still snoring away in his own pile of blankets.

The usual sounds of morning, dry coughs, moans, cooking fires being lit, drifted in. Marla had moved up during the night, her head on my chest. I brushed the hair out of her face, expecting to wake her, but she chuckled. “I’ve been awake for a while, just enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying it too.” I kissed the top of her head and started to rise.

She stopped me. “Wait. Can we go somewhere private, and talk?”

“Of course. Right now?”

“No, let’s make sure Jordan has something to keep himself occupied, then we can go.”

Karina’s voice came from outside the tent. “Are you decent?”

“Sure, Karina, come in.”

“Good morning!” She stepped into the tent and stopped short. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know Jordie was still asleep.”

“I’m not, now. Good morning, Kar.”

Marla nudged me and whispered, “pet names.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re up. If it’s okay with you,” she looked at Marla and me, “the Captain wants Jordie to go with me, my dad and couple others on another scout.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” he said. “Um, can I do that, Gloria?”

“Why don’t you ever ask me?”

“Sorry, Marla, um, can I go on the scout?”

Marla snorted. “You know I’m just giving you a hard time. Can he, Gloria?”

“Sure. You make sure to do what Jerry tells you. And stay safe.”

“I will.” He threw back his blanket and pulled on his dusty trousers and boots, faded brown shirt, and pack. Grabbing his rifle, he checked the magazine, then looked in the lockbox by his bed for more ammo. “Shit,” he muttered, “I’m running low.”

“Language!” Marla glared at me. “Are you letting him say things like that?”

“No, she’s not! Sorry Marla, sorry Gloria. I won’t do it again.”

I don’t know why he covered for me, but that was one less hurdle to jump before Marla would be willing to talk. Once he headed out to patrol in the north Marla and I went south to walk around the desert a bit.

We were far enough to just see the camp, where we could talk freely. Marla sat on the ground and I did the same. “Gloria, I… I want to tell you what happened to me, but I can’t. I don’t remember most of it — I mean, it’s there, in the back of my mind, and I see flashes in my nightmares, but….”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, or can’t. You know that I’ll love you no matter what.”

“I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’ll forget me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The goats…. I don’t think it’ll be long for the rest of us.” She grabbed my hand to keep me from interrupting. “There’s no way we’ll reach the Great Lakes. Dying is the only way anyone leaves the desert. If — if I die first, I don’t want you to forget me. But I want you to find someone else. Maybe Jerry, or Anita; they’re both lonely.”

“Why don’t you matchmake Anita and Jerry?”

“They hate each other’s guts.”

“And what about you? I could die on a scouting mission, what would you do then?”

“I wouldn’t forget you. I’d take care of Jordan until he’s on his own, then I’ll go back out to the wilderness.”

“Well, that settles it then.” I snuggled up next to her. “We’re just both going to have to keep on living and grow old together. So old, we’ll make Howard look like a child.”

Marla smiled, but it did little to dispel the constant sadness behind her eyes. We sat there a while longer, until it became too hot to stay. The walk back to camp was quiet, somber. I wished there was a way to ease her pain, but without knowing the root, all I could do was to be there for her.

We spent the day around the camp; Marla making another ring from the copper she found, while I cleaned my pistol and mended Jordan’s other pair of trousers. It was nearly nightfall when Karina returned running full tilt, tears streaking her face. She barreled straight into Howard’s tent. Curious members of the camp, ourselves included started to move closer.

Howard stepped out of his tent, waved us over, and called for Anita, the camp medic. “It’s Jordan, and it’s bad.”

“How bad?” Marla asked. I couldn’t ask, couldn’t speak.

Howard wasted no words. “Gut shot. We won’t know how bad until they get him here. They’re carrying him in.”

The world dropped out from under me and I collapsed. Marla squatted down, holding me from the back, shielding me from the world. I could barely make out the sounds of Anita getting a table ready for when he came in.

When Jerry and the others carried Jordan in, hours or maybe only minutes later, they laid him on the table and collapsed. Anita looked him over and sat down with me.

“There’s nothing we can do. His stomach is punctured. He’ll die, it’s just a question of how,” Anita said.

“What does that mean?”

“Either a slow, painful death from sepsis, or…” she held up a bottle and syringe.

“What’s that?”

“Overdose of morphine. He’ll go to sleep. Painless and quick.”

I nodded and she filled the syringe. I approached him on the table.

“Gloria, mom, I’m scared.” He’d never called me that, and my heart shattered.

“It’ll be okay. She’s going to put you to sleep and you’ll wake up all fixed up.” The tears fell down my face as I tried to keep my voice positive.

He looked at the needle. “Truth?”

I nodded and tried my best to smile as Anita pushed down the plunger.

Jordan grabbed my hand. “See you later, mom.”

evardsson.com: stuff that w0rks